by Susan Slater
“You think this is my signature?” He pointed to the top Jonathan James Reynolds.
“I know you posed as this Mr. Reynolds.”
J.J. was now chewing on his bottom lip, trying to think fast, come up with some plan, Dan thought.
“How do you know this?”
“Eyewitness.”
More chewing on the lip. “So, why would I do it? Pretend to be someone else? Another lawyer, didn’t you say?”
He’s checking on what I know, Dan decided. “Because it was safer. You probably knew then that Mr. Linden would never confront you, would somehow be ‘taken care of’ when he got out. So, the monthly calls, verifications as to how the two million was doing, would never be questioned.” Dan leaned both hands on the desk. “Eric Linden was never going to know that the two million wasn’t there—hadn’t ever been there in Midland Savings and Loan, because he was going to have a little accident before he got to town. Luckily for you guys, a flash flood took care of things.”
This last was said just inches from J.J.’s face and the lawyer nervously looked up, briefly made eye contact, then pushed back from the desk and stood.
“Get out.”
“Why? I don’t think we’re finished here, do you?” Dan sat back down. This seemed to make J.J. more nervous, one to threaten but not follow through, Dan hoped as he saw him open a desk drawer, then close it. Had Dan thought he might have a gun?
Probably, or he wouldn’t have his tucked in his belt, hidden by his jacket.
“Firearms aren’t the answer.” Dan pulled out his revolver and placed it on the desk in front of him. He saw J.J.’s eyes dart from the gun to the drawer that he’d just closed.
“I wouldn’t even think it, if I were you.”
Suddenly, as if all the starch had been removed from his body, J.J. slumped back down in his desk chair, his head in his hands. His breathing seemed labored but Dan let him take his time, collect himself. He wasn’t in a hurry.
“I was working for Mr. Eklund. I had no idea that the money wouldn’t be waiting.” He said it so low that Dan asked him to repeat himself.
“I don’t believe that. Can you prove it?”
“If you give me some time.”
“What was in it for Billy Roland?”
“The money. He hired the pilot. The pilot was well aware of what was going on. It wasn’t his first such trip.”
“You’re saying the pilot, Eric Linden, knew about the smuggling?”
“That’s what I said.”
Dan was trying to size up J.J. Did he believe him? If Eric had been so involved, he would have had the evidence, would have fingered Billy Roland up front, when he first survived the flood, instead of hanging around planting a hundred and fifty dollars’ worth of crack in an airplane to keep some feds interested until he could get something conclusive. No, Eric Linden didn’t have enough to put the squeeze on anyone.
“You’re admitting to impersonating another lawyer and promising Eric Linden two million, do I understand you correctly?” Better slow down and get some things straight. Dan waited for J.J. to nod. Affirmative. So far, so good, but the benefactor’s name was wrong. Dan was certain of that.
“I’m not sure I believe you when it comes to the mastermind behind the plan. Let’s try this scenario. Billy Roland wasn’t behind the bust. He didn’t know anything about the drugs, the promised two million, until the wire-transfer came in from the Caymans and the bank book was found.”
Was it his imagination, or had J.J. paled considerably? Dan continued, “Someone had something to gain by putting Eric Linden away. Someone who hired you to dupe him, keep him quiet, keep him believing that two million was gathering interest in his name. Who were you working for, J.J.?”
“Billy Roland Eklund.”
“No. You’ve got to do better than that. You aren’t pinning this on a dead man and walking away.”
“Why don’t you ask the wife? Eric Linden’s wife.”
Dan’s breath escaped in a rush; he was stopped. J.J. was staring at him. And somewhere behind those dark eyes was the start of a smile. Just a little game of gotcha and J.J. had won this round. Caught him off guard by saying the one thing that he dreaded to hear. The thing he hadn’t allowed himself to think. Did Elaine have a reason for having Eric put away? For having him killed?
“You worked for the wife?”
“I didn’t say that. Just said the wife has the answers.”
But maybe doesn’t know she has them? Yes. That could be it. Please, dear God, don’t let Elaine be implicated.
“I’ll need a statement.”
“Not so fast. This is between the two of us.” J.J. paused, then, “Why is someone from an insurance company so interested anyway?”
“I’m also doing a little field work for the feds.” That wasn’t a lie; he was still on their payroll.
“Or trying to clear the girlfriend.” Now, the smile was broad, ear to ear, turning into a smirk as J.J. leaned back in his chair. No wonder this man was a lawyer, recognize the Achilles heel and go for it.
The intercom buzzer interrupted. J.J. told the receptionist to ask his next appointment to wait.
“I don’t think it will be necessary to clear Elaine’s name.” And Dan didn’t, but he hated the nagging doubts, little effacing worries that tore at their relationship.
J.J. just shrugged, a cheshire-cat smile hovering around his mouth. “Give it some thought. Dead men tell no tales. Might be to your advantage to accept Billy Roland as the instigator and let things drop.”
There was truth to that. But Dan knew he couldn’t let it alone. He’d be back to see J.J. He’d gotten what he wanted, an admission of involvement. But lies about who was behind it. He had to believe that. Was he backing off now because he didn’t want to hear more about Elaine? Afraid to hear how she might be implicated?
“Maybe, I’ll take your advice.” Dan stood and tucked the revolver in his belt. J.J. made no effort to show him out.
***
Sometimes, like today, when Dan was sitting at a desk trying to put together the pieces of some puzzle, solve a mystery of who-done-it and who would benefit, a flicker of light would start in the recesses of his mind and then become brighter until a blinding revelation flooded over him. But usually one that made him feel stupid for not having thought of it before. Like now.
Berating himself with thoughts of early senility, he focused on something he’d ignored. But in fairness to himself, it probably hadn’t been important at the time. Until now. And that was the tire. The tire that could have a bullet hole through it. Put there by the person chasing Eric Linden the night of the flood. Sheriff Ray? Dan had seen him chasing the Caddy. Couldn’t the sheriff have returned in the early hours before dawn and removed the tire and rim so as not to arouse suspicion? Dan could be way off base, but when he had inspected the Caddy, it looked like someone had done just that. And, if Dan hadn’t missed his guess, probably tossed it onto the pile of tires behind Sheriff Ray’s station on Main Street in Tatum. There would have been no reason to destroy it. And if such evidence did exist, ballistics might put Ray at the scene in addition to Dan’s eyewitness account. It was worth looking into.
And it gave him another suspect to question. Dan would have the advantage, the leverage, if he found a tire with a bullet hole in it, to force the man’s hand. He doubted Sheriff Ray would try to kill someone on his own. No, Ray was the type to take orders. And maybe, this time, Dan would get the name of who was giving them.
He arrived at Ray’s station right at noon to find it locked and a “gone to lunch” sign hanging in the door. He decided to wait, spend a little time looking things over. He could always say he was going to get a soft drink on his way to the Double Horseshoe. He needed to do a little scouting first but didn’t need to arouse suspicion. He’d parked in front of the double glass and metal doors to the service bay and followed a cement walk around to the back of the building.
He almost whistled. He wasn’t disappointed; he
had remembered tires stacked behind the station. But there weren’t just a few. Stack upon stack of tires, some treadless with stitching popping out, some from tractors in a pile by themselves, others showing the cleats of all-weather wear. There had to be hundreds. The search was fast becoming a needle in the haystack attempt to find something he only thought might exist.
What was more discouraging was the seven or eight hundred square foot compound itself. Surrounded by ten feet of chain-link fence, the top laced with razor wire, it looked impregnable from the outside. And, there was no gate. Anything stored back there had to first be brought in through the service bay. There were even a couple old junkers up on blocks to the left of the stacks of tires. One man’s treasure was another man’s eyesore. How would he ever find what he was looking for? If he was in luck, no one would have taken the tire off the rim and a pink rim would stand out in that mess. The Caddy had been a powder pink, he was sure of that. But how would he get in? The honking of a horn startled him.
“You coming out to the ranch this afternoon?” Hank had pulled up in the drive.
“Yeah. Thought I would but I wanted Ray to check the alignment on the Cherokee first.” A lie, but necessary, Dan thought.
“Why don’t you leave it? I’ll give you a ride out and one of the boys can bring you back in town before Ray closes.”
“Good idea. I’ll write a note.”
Dan walked around to the right front tire shielded from Hank’s view and let out about ten pounds of air, then tucked a note under the wipers that read, “Having problems with alignment and keeping air in right front tire. Take a look if you have time. I’ll pick up later. If I’m not back by six, leave it in the drive.”
He wasn’t sure how this would work out, but it gave him an excuse to be at the station. The ever-nosey townfolks would see Ray working on the car; they’d expect Dan to be back for it. In the meantime, he’d put in a couple hours on the books at the Double Horseshoe.
***
One of the ranch hands knocked on the office door at five. Dan turned off the computer, and then the overhead lights. They would get to Tatum a little before six. Dan still wasn’t sure how he’d get into the back; he’d just look for an opportunity and hope there would be one.
Two blocks from the station, the driver offered to buy him a beer. Dan encouraged the man to pull into Jack’s; but after they were parked pretended to change his mind, and said he probably should pick up his car and go on back to Roswell. The man wanted to drive him over to Ray’s but Dan wouldn’t hear of it, just a couple blocks. He didn’t mind the walk.
Plus, it allowed him to approach the station unannounced. He wasn’t sure that would be helpful, but you never knew what might come in handy. It was five to six when he reached the back corner of the lot. Ray was working on a half-ton pickup on the rack in the service bay with music blaring from a radio somewhere inside. Dan’s Jeep Cherokee was parked out front.
The lights above the drive that illuminated the gas pumps were off, Dan noticed. Must be getting ready to leave pretty soon. Dan walked along the edge of the station and decided what he would do. If he could get by Ray without him turning around, he’d go to the restroom. The one inside. Employees only. And if he was discovered, he could always say he thought the ones outside were locked and plead a little constipation.
He opened the door to the station and glanced at Ray’s back as he slipped by the counter and down a short hallway to the inside john. So far, so good. Dan wasn’t sure constipation would cover sitting on the lid in the dark with your clothes on, but he had to hope Sheriff Ray wouldn’t check the restroom before he left. Or, worse yet, have to go himself.
The phone hanging on a wall shared by the office and the restroom rang shrilly. Dan could hear Sheriff Ray walking toward it and then in snatches, a conversation that seemed to be the report of a tractor-trailer turned over on Highway Eighteen outside Milnesand that required his being there with a tow truck. From the way Sheriff Ray hung up the phone, he wasn’t thrilled to be called out two minutes before he had planned to close up.
Dan waited until the radio was silenced and the sliding doors on the service bay had slammed shut before looking out. He heard Ray start up the tow truck parked along the south side of the station, and watched as he backed in front of the service islands and headed up the street, red and blue lights twirling on a bar above the cab. Would he come back to finish the pickup on the rack? Dan wasn’t certain how long Ray would be gone, but he knew he needed to work fast.
The glass-paned door to the yard was unlocked. Always? Or, because of Ray’s haste tonight? Dan was beginning to feel he owed a lot to that tractor-trailer. He shut the door behind him and stood a minute in the light of dusk that showed plainly the literal mountains of possibilities that had to be considered. What if the tire had been removed from the rim? He didn’t even want to think of that. But a cursory glance around him in the waning light didn’t show any rims, with or without tires. He’d have to individually check those in the stacks.
He started with a tower toward the back. Plain tires, some still showing good tread, leaned against the fence. He crawled the eight feet to the top inspecting each one and those in the stack next to it, running his hands along the outside hoping to feel the splintered hole caused by a bullet. Nothing. These tires had been rendered useless by miles, not someone’s aim.
He tried another stack, and another with the same result. He had maybe ten more minutes before he’d run out of light altogether. This time he’d look behind the stacks first. Where would you put something out here if you didn’t want it noticed?
He leaned against one of the cars on blocks, this one under a canvas tarp. He pulled a corner back. A DeSoto, early fifties. Why was that not surprising? Collector’s were hot for them, but with Ray it could just be a touch of nostalgia. That would have been his era.
Dan lifted the tarp over the trunk, only the lid was gone. Original color was salmon pink and white judging from the rim on the spare tire. Pukey color, if Dan remembered correctly. He uncovered a fender; he’d been right about the color, over the years it had faded to a pale peach.
He let the tarp fall and started back toward a stack of tires next to the station. Then he stopped. In this light, pink was pink, salmon or powder. What if Ray put the rim and tire in the trunk of the DeSoto? It’d look like it belonged, natural camouflage.
Dan tore at the tarp, uncovered the tire and rim and ran his hand along the outside of the tread. Yes. The hole was toward the inside edge. It went through the rubber on a diagonal, a clean hole roughly the size of a .38 slug, but in this case Dan was fairly certain that it had been a .357 with the velocity to pierce the tire and keep on going.
But he’d have plenty of time to go over it. Now, he had to get the whole thing to the Cherokee. He lifted the evidence, being careful to replace the tarp, and carried the tire instead of rolling it back through the door. He’d leave by the front.
The bay doors opened from the inside and Dan pulled one door up, hating the noise that seemed to grate, then shriek into the gathering darkness as it followed the dual tracks and disappeared back into the garage roof to rest overhead. He didn’t wait but walked quickly to the Cherokee and threw the tire and rim into the back, thanking someone, anyone, that Ray didn’t have an alarm system or a guard dog. He took the time to wipe his hands on a towel he kept behind the front seat then went back to pull the door down.
No one seemed to have noticed. Two carloads of teens had gone by but no one had even glanced his way. What is it that all the books say? If you look like you’re doing something you should be doing, then others will think the same thing? He hoped he looked for all the world like someone picking up a tire repair from Ray’s station.
Chapter Ten
Dan’s Roswell apartment was feeling more like home. Not a place he’d like to spend too much time in, but another month and he’d be wrapping things up. Elaine would be back. He felt a twinge of anticipation. He missed her already, and she’d
only been gone two days.
The next month was going to be important. A lot would be behind them in a month. Was he being overly optimistic that he’d have answers by then? Maybe not. Between J.J. and Sheriff Ray, he had uncovered two important pieces to the puzzle. Pieces that would interest Roger and Tom.
He switched on the coffee maker and opened the front door to pick up the morning paper, one of the apartment’s amenities, the paper delivered to the door. He slipped off the rubber band, unfolded the paper and read the headlines. The familiar face jumped out at him. “Juan Jose Rodriguez Killed in Accident on Highway 380.” Dan quickly scanned the article and skipped references to his law practice while looking for details of what had happened.
Apparently, J.J. had left the road after failing to negotiate a turn somewhere among the hilly twists in the highway outside San Patricio. The Ferrari rolled down an incline and burst into flame. It was hinted that a high rate of speed and alcohol were both involved.
Dan put down the paper. It smelled. Maybe stank was a better word. How convenient for J.J. to die. Had J.J. contacted anyone about their little chat? Probably. And action was taken. No, a life was taken. Could Dan prove it? Did gut feelings count? He needed to call Roger and Tom.
He’d reached some conclusions, the obvious being J.J.’s death wasn’t caused by Eric, Sheriff Ray, Elaine, or Billy Roland, and the less obvious, someone probably ran J.J. off the road. Someone wanted him silenced. The same someone behind the drug bust seven years ago. Someone who was dangerous, ruthless, and knew that Dan suspected. The phone rang.
“Yes?”
“Did you see the fucking papers?” Eric didn’t wait for him to respond. “Prize suspect topples down incline. With a little god-damned help, right? I’m assuming you trotted over there and put the fear of God in him, set him up for someone to take out.”
Dan winced at that. It was probably true. But being instrumental in two deaths in one week wasn’t something he wanted to dwell on.