by Robert Greer
CJ set the first sheet of paper aside and read the second sheet, taking note of the word Gary and the list of dates in October that Antoine had jotted down. Earlier Willette had confirmed that the October dates coincided with when Antoine had been up North in Chicago in 1963. Gary, CJ reasoned, was a reference either to someone named Gary or perhaps to the bustling nearby steel town of Gary, Indiana. He couldn’t be sure. Uncertain which possibility to pursue, he decided to come back to the issue later.
What made the least sense to CJ remained Antoine’s drawings of what appeared to be a bank of row houses on the third sheet of paper and a string of strange ladder-like objects and the word Shore on the second sheet. He was also stumped by the fact that Antoine had abbreviated the word November between the ladders.
Realizing they could spend the rest of the day trying to guess the hidden meanings, CJ said, “Still don’t know what it all means, but I know somebody who might be able to tell us.”
“Who?” Willette asked, eagerly.
“My business partner’s boyfriend.”
“Your partner’s a woman?” she asked with surprise.
“Absolutely.”
“Is her boyfriend a mobster?” Willette asked.
“Nope. A long way from it. He’s former military intelligence. The marines.”
“Might as well use him,” said Sheila. “I don’t want to keep running the rest of my life.”
“This guy got any credentials besides bein’ in the military?” asked Willette.
CJ smiled. “Sure does. But I don’t think they show up on his résumé.” CJ was aware that since his retirement from the U.S. Marine Corps, Alden Grace had continued to take intelligence assignments around the world.
“Then go for it,” said Willette.
“I’ll need copies of Antoine’s drawings and notes.”
“Take the originals,” said Willette. “Might as well show your friend the real thing.”
“I’ll have to fax them to him. He lives down in Colorado Springs.”
“Fine by me,” said Willette, looking as if a long-present weight had just been lifted from her shoulders. “So whatta we do next?”
“Next I get the two of you to somewhere that’s safe. I don’t want you going back up to that bed and breakfast. You just might run into the same person I ran into last night.”
“What?” said Sheila, looking puzzled.
“It’s a long story. I’ll tell you later. Bottom line is, you need a safe house. And I’ve got one for you.”
“You got another friend who’s a marine?” asked Willette.
“Sure do. That partner I mentioned. But that’s not where you’re going. You’re going to visit a friend of mine who’s a lawyer. You’ll be safe at her place.”
“If she’ll have us,” said Sheila.
“Oh, she’ll have you.” CJ slipped his cell phone off his belt, prepared to call Julie. “And for backup, she has a very protective six-foot-five, 240-pound son.”
“Tough kid?” asked Willette, blinking back tears as her thoughts suddenly drifted back to Antoine.
CJ scooted the papers he’d laid on the table back into a pile and rose from his seat. “And getting tougher by the day,” he said with a wry smile, tapping the papers together until they were perfectly aligned.
Chapter 28
CJ stood in his office, looking at Antoine Ducane’s notes and sketches. The sheet with the ladders continued to baffle him. He’d faxed the three pages to Alden Grace an hour and a half earlier, but so far there’d been no response from the former general. Flora Jean, to whom he’d just finished telling the whole convoluted Antoine Ducane story, stood a few feet away looking nearly as baffled as CJ. “What do you expect Alden to tell you, CJ? That Oswald didn’t really shoot Kennedy?”
“No. I’m not looking for a home run, just a single. Maybe he’ll recognize something in these sketches or Antoine’s notes that’ll tell us who killed JFK, or maybe one of Alden’s intelligence cronies will see something. It’s not like I’m dropping this on Alden out of the clear blue sky; he’s been in the loop for a week.”
“You’re hopin’ for a lot, sugar. Alden ain’t no magician.”
Winking at Flora Jean, CJ said, “Damn, and you always had me believing he was.”
“Can we stay locked on serious for the moment, CJ?” said Flora Jean, trying not to snicker. “When I asked Alden to help us out last week, I didn’t know we were gonna step into shit quite this deep. I can see why you’re hot to track down Ducane’s killer, now that the woman who raised him is all of a sudden payin’ us to find out what happened to him. And I can understand your loyalty to Mario—and not wantin’ him, at his age, to get sucked under by the system. But we could find ourselves hangin’ out there, sugar, if we stick our noses too far into the Kennedy mess. We got a sayin’ in the corps—you probably had your own version of it in the navy. ‘Poke your nose in enough foxholes, and sooner or later you’re bound to run across somethin’ that’s bigger and badder than you.’”
“I understand, Flora Jean, but I’m afraid I’m in a little too far to back out now.”
“Yeah, and that’s what’s got me bothered. You’re like a dog with that proverbial bone. And it’s a bone that could end up explodin’ in your face.”
When the familiar squeak of the front door opening interrupted the conversation, CJ asked, “Expecting somebody?”
Flora Jean shrugged. “Nope.”
Before either of them could head for the front door, Gus Cavalaris stepped into CJ’s office, smiling and looking altogether pleased with himself. “Floyd, Benson. Must be my l-l-lucky day.”
“Lieutenant?” CJ forced back a frown.
“I’ve been h-h-hoping to catch up with you. H-h-how are your nerves holding up after last night?”
“Just fine,” said CJ, eyeing Flora Jean, who’d only in the past hour heard CJ’s version of his Poudre Canyon adventure.
“G-g-get your headlight repaired?”
“Sure did. But you didn’t drop by to talk about repairs to my car, Lieutenant.”
“N-n-no. Afraid I didn’t. I’m here about s-s-something else, in fact. Don’t know if you’re aware of it, b-b-but Rollie Ornasetti’s disappeared.”
“I heard.”
Feigning surprise, Cavalaris said, “Now how’d y-y-you hear that? Oh, Ms. Madrid, of course. Somehow I keep f-f-forgetting about all the connections you’ve got. Satoni, Ornasetti, Ms. Benson here, your counselor, Ms. Madrid, and, oh, almost forgot the Lucerne woman you visited last night.”
The muscles in CJ’s face stiffened as he watched Cavalaris break into a toothy grin. “I know more about Lucerne than you think. We all have our sources, Floyd. I’m sort of p-p-partial to Carl Watson, myself. Trust me, I would’ve been right there d-d-during the visit I’m sure you had with Lucerne if it hadn’t been for a flat tire that shooter of yours likely provided me. All’s well that ends w-w-well, don’t you think? Probably should’ve mentioned this all to you when we had our little chat at Ted’s Place, but I figured it c-c-could wait. At least until I g-g-got a chance to go up to the Peak to Peak and talk to Lucerne myself. So I went up there early this morning, and you know w-w-what? I ended up missing Lucerne. A young lady who works there told me she’d just left with an elderly woman named Ann Reed. You wouldn’t happen to kn-kn-know who the Reed woman is, or where she and Lucerne might be off to, would you, Floyd?”
“Afraid not, Lieutenant.”
“Ms. Benson?”
“Don’t know either of ’em,” said Flora Jean.
Looking Flora Jean and then CJ up and down, Cavalaris said, “I th-th-thought we had an understanding, Floyd. But I guess we don’t. Just remember, the n-n-next time you find yourself weaponless and in a firefight, I might not be there to save your butt.”
Unmoved, CJ reminded himself that he wasn’t the only one who’d held back information. Cavalaris, by means of his Carl Watson connection, had done the very same thing. “I appreciate you saving my bacon, Li
eutenant, and maybe I should’ve been a little more straight with you about the Lucerne woman, but since you’ve already talked to Carl Watson, you know as much about her as I do.”
“I do for a fact,” said Cavalaris, still hoping to draw CJ out. “I know she staged her own death—something you t-t-typically don’t do in my experience unless you’ve got yourself an insurance policy to cash in on, or the devil on your trail. I also know Lucerne was p-p-probably mobbed up, at least according to Watson. The obvious connection, I think we both know, was Antoine Ducane. Hope you’re not holding anything else out on me,” said Cavalaris. “Because we’re heading for a t-t-train wreck here, trust me. The kind that could grind all three of us standing here, and who knows how many other people, into the dirt. Got a heads-up for you, Floyd. Agent Else has his nose stuck into the Ducane and McPherson murders just as deep as we do. I’ve even heard tell there’re people s-s-sitting around in high places talking about taking a new look into the Kennedy assassination. Any idea where that p-p-puts you, Floyd? In the crosshairs of the kind of people who’d just as soon stick a shunt in your jugular and bleed you out as see you live.”
“I get your drift, Lieutenant.”
“I’m certain you do. L-l-let’s just hope I’ve made my point, there’s no undertow associated with that drift, and you end up sucked out to sea. C-c-call me if the water rises.” Smiling, Cavalaris turned, walked out of CJ’s office, and disappeared out the building’s front door.
“Heady advice,” said Flora Jean, hearing the front door slam shut.
“And I don’t think for a second he’s bluffing,” CJ countered.
“Then maybe you should give your investigation a break, give the Ducane woman her money back, and exit gracefully.”
“I’ll give it some thought, but for right now I’m sticking.”
“Why?”
“Guess I’m just too far along with fitting all the pieces of the puzzle together.”
“Suit yourself,” said Flora Jean.
They stared at one another for several eerily quiet seconds before CJ’s phone rang.
“Hope it’s not Else,” CJ said, shaking his head. “All we need is for that whiffle ball to come down here and add his two cents.” He picked up the phone and said gruffly, “Floyd here.”
“It’s Alden, CJ.”
“Hey, what’s up?”
“Plenty. Is Flora Jean there with you?”
“Sure is.”
“Put me on speaker phone.” The former general’s tone had the unmistakable ring of an order. “You’ll both need to hear what I have to say.”
“It’s Alden,” CJ said to Flora Jean. “He wants us on speaker phone.”
“What’s up, sugar?” said Flora Jean, pushing a button on CJ’s phone and patching everyone in.
“Serious consequences, I’m afraid, if what CJ faxed me isn’t some hoax,” said Alden.
“They’re genuine,” said CJ. “All three sheets came from the woman who raised Ducane. She always claimed to be his mother. Turns out she’s really his aunt.”
“Where’s she from?” asked Alden Grace, his tone brimming with suspicion.
“New Iberia, Louisiana.”
“Makes sense. Louisiana, and New Orleans in particular, has always been touted as the crucible for the JFK assassination plot. Problem is, half the jokers in Hollywood and every conspiracy buff on the planet have beamed up their own private take on the planning. It’s hard to put any credence in one more take on that killing.”
“So I’m off base, then, thinking Ducane was in on the plot?”
“No, to the contrary. I think you’re on to something deadly serious. I called a few of my domestic intelligence sources. Even faxed a couple of them copies of what you sent me. They were back to me chirping like sparrows within fifteen minutes.” The former general paused and cleared his throat. “You’re into something that could be real risky for you, CJ.”
“How risky?”
“Risky enough to get you permanently eliminated from the game,” Alden said, drifting into intelligence speak. “Get off the bus, CJ.”
“You’re the second person to pass on that advice in the past half hour. And believe me, I’m considering it real hard. But I’d sure like a few questions answered before I go riding off into the sunset. First off, who’s up to bat here, Alden? The CIA, the mafia, international conspirators, disgruntled Bay of Pigs Cubans? Just what the hell gives?”
“Can’t tell for sure. Maybe none of those groups you mentioned, maybe all four. I can tell you this, though. Antoine Ducane was in on the Kennedy assassination, no doubt about it.”
“You mean Ducane was in Dallas?”
“Hold on a minute, CJ. You’re getting ahead of me. Let me offer you a little intelligence insight. The plot to kill JFK didn’t just happen; it evolved. People in my line of work have known that for years. The takeout scenario involved shoring up plans to kill the president in two other cities besides Dallas: Chicago and Tampa. Conspiracy nuts, the press, and certain people in government have known this for a very long time. You could fill Dumpsters with the unclassified documents that are out there to support the fact. But let me just straighten out the wrinkles for you. I had one of my sources confirm what he knows about the details of the proposed hits in all three cities. Here’s the sequence of events according to him. You listening, Flora Jean?”
“Sure am, sugar.”
“Fine.” They heard paper rustling as Alden consulted a sheet of hastily jotted notes. “The Chicago assassination was planned for November 2,1963. No question that’s where Ducane was stationed. The October dates that Ducane jotted on the one document you sent me, and his abbreviated reference to the month of November, circumstantially at least, substantiate that.”
“So what the hell happened in Chicago a full three weeks before Dallas? And how can your source be so sure he’s right?” CJ asked.
“He’s paid to be right, CJ. Just like me. Now, here’s the filler. JFK was supposed to get into Chicago’s O’Hare Airport on Air Force One around 11 a.m. and be the centerpiece of a November 2 motorcade that would take a sixteen-mile trip from O’Hare and down what back then was called the Northwest Expressway before swinging into the city’s famous downtown Loop. My source claims that once the motorcade got to the Loop, it was to have taken the Jackson Boulevard exit off the expressway. The whole shebang would have to have slowed down to make a hard-to-negotiate left turn onto Jackson Boulevard before heading over to Soldier Field stadium, where Kennedy was supposed to hook up with Chicago Mayor Richard Daley and other dignitaries to watch the Army-Air Force football game. Now, if I were a betting man …”
“Which you ain’t,” Flora Jean chimed in.
“But if I were, I’d say that that turn onto Jackson Boulevard, which I was told was a flat-out 90 degrees, is the one place where Kennedy’s limo would’ve been forced to basically stop. And that’s one of the places where Ducane, if he’d been assigned to be an actual shooter, could’ve taken his shot at the president.”
“What about other places?” asked CJ.
“I was told the motorcade also had to pass through one of Chicago’s scores of warehouse districts. Warehouse canyons, really. Canyons of buildings that were pretty much akin to the Texas School Book Depository in Dallas in terms of their height, accessibility, and shooting access points. Bottom line is, they were mirror images of the place where Oswald supposedly took his shots.”
“Supposedly? You don’t sound real convinced that Oswald was the man, Alden, and that’s real worrisome coming from someone in the intelligence community.”
“Never have been convinced Oswald shot Kennedy,” said Grace. “Always knew somebody out there was blowing smoke.”
“So we’ve got two good locations in Chicago where Ducane could’ve been a shooter,” CJ said, sounding almost euphoric.
“No question. Problem is, somewhere around 9 a.m. on the day of the motorcade, JFK canceled. Speculation has always been that he canceled the motorc
ade because of pressing issues with Castro and Cuba and he had to get back to Washington, and there’s probably some truth to that. But there’s also more than likely a little truth to the fact that his people picked up on the assassination vibes that had worked their way around the Windy City. The FBI did in fact have reports of a carful of Cubans who were speeding around town threatening the president. Could be there actually was a car like that. Could be the bureau boys were lying. They do that, you know. Could be the story was a newspaper plant. Who knows? What we do know is that JFK was saved by the bell in Chicago.”
“What about Tampa?”
“According to my source, the Tampa assassination attempt was set for November 18, 1963.”
Astonished by the revelation, CJ exclaimed, “Damn! Where the hell are your contacts getting all this?”
Grace laughed. “Contrary to what you might think, it’s public record. Given enough time, you could’ve dug it out for yourself. That’s if you had the patience to sift through tens of thousands of unclassified CIA, Department of Justice, State Department, and Warren Commission documents. Strange you ask, though, because I asked my contact the same question. He said most of the Tampa plot info bubbled right off the pages of the House Select Committee on Assassinations’ report—a document schoolkids can access right off the Internet.”
“So why hasn’t somebody ferreted all this out before?”