Silent Approach

by Bobby Cole

  “Let’s roll,” Hoss said. “I need some air-conditioning. Agent Haden, leave your car here and ride with Speed Racer, and y’all can talk more. Follow me. We’ll go in the back door of the building and avoid some prying eyes.”

  Agent Haden nodded her head in agreement, and suddenly John Allen was nervous. The kind of nervous you get when you’re sixteen and picking up your prom date. He hoped his radio wasn’t tuned in to something that would embarrass him.

  Chapter 15

  That night, John Allen spent a long time turning over the events of the day in his mind.

  Once they’d slipped in the back of the admin building, he’d spent a couple of hours with Agent Haden and Hoss, trying to determine a plan. The chief had dropped by just as they were winding down to pledge the full support of her staff to take down the thieves. She’d been extremely pleased that John Allen was proving to be an asset.

  They’d spent another hour showing Agent Haden the artifact room and explaining to her the complicated laws surrounding the acquisition, retrieval, and sale of artifacts. Anyone could surface-hunt for arrowheads and other artifacts on private land, but it was strictly forbidden on federal properties and in national or state parks. It was also legal to dig on private land with the landowner’s permission, but once a bone was discovered, the diggers were required to shut down the dig and notify the proper authorities, since bones were illegal to possess.

  Agent Haden had paid close attention to everything that had been said, but it was obvious she wanted to get Winston Walker on a heavier charge than stealing artifacts, and simply viewed them as a means to that end. Once she had someone close to him facing federal charges, she hoped to get him to break and point the finger at Winston.

  John Allen kept finding himself wondering about Agent Haden in other than a professional capacity, and this bothered him. There was something about her he liked, and he felt guilty for having those feelings. He hadn’t expected to feel this way again, or at least so soon. She was smart and attractive. He found her very interesting, and she smelled good. He sat staring at the television, thinking about his situation. It had been almost two years since his wife’s accident. He missed her companionship every day, but tonight he was thinking of another woman. This was an entirely new emotion for him, and it knocked him sideways. He sipped a bottle of water and watched a rerun of American Ninja Warrior.

  Agent Emma Haden was walking at a fast pace on her treadmill. She had planned to walk two miles, which was her goal five nights a week. She was motivated to stay fit. The Bureau expected it of her, but she also enjoyed being healthy. She walked, jogged, took a paddleboard out on the local lakes, worked out with free weights, and sometimes did yoga. She’d learned to exercise during her twenty weeks of training at Quantico, Virginia. That had helped her get into the habit of exercising, and since then, she’d kept it up.

  At least once a month she went to the firing range and shot a hundred rounds. She could load each of her pistols blindfolded. There were many male agents who weren’t as proficient with their firearms as she was. She owned several guns. One agent who considered himself a wit liked to joke that she had as many pistols as purses, but the fact was, she had more pistols.

  As was her habit while she walked, she mentally reviewed the details of several ongoing investigations, but the Winston Walker case was front and center in her mind. She really wanted to take him down. When she’d interviewed him about the hunting accident, he’d shown no signs of remorse. He’d known nothing could be proven and had been very full of himself.

  Sting operations were difficult to pull off, however. They required forethought. Trying to anticipate what criminals would do or how they would react was a challenge. There was little room for mistakes. Mistakes could get people injured, or even worse, killed. The goal was to get all team members back home to their families at the end of the shift.

  Her thoughts kept turning to John Allen Harper. She needed him for this operation, but she didn’t want to put him in too much danger. The Choctaw Nation may have given him some training, but from what she could tell, he was a glorified security officer with a pistol and a really cool car. She had enjoyed meeting him, though. He was polite, soft-spoken, and handsome. She wished she could meet a man like him who wasn’t married. While driving with him, she’d confirmed that he had a gold wedding band on his left hand. That ended any further thoughts she had of the man, except wondering how he’d dealt with losing his wife and unborn child. That was a heavy burden.

  Agent Haden appreciated that John Allen genuinely wanted to help them and that he had been personally chosen by the chief of the Choctaw Nation. Hoss was a more complicated person. He was hard to read. He appeared to be a seasoned security professional, and so far he had been helpful, which was a bit unusual. Oftentimes men in his situation resented the FBI being involved or even coming into their jurisdiction. She would reserve judgment on him until she’d spent more time with him. So far, so good. But there was something about him that made her uncomfortable. Then again, she had to admit she’d misjudged men before.

  Adjusting the treadmill speed down to 3.0, she wiped the sweat from her face. The hair in her ponytail bounced slower now as she continued to walk. The sun was beginning to set on the Ross Barnett Reservoir as she wound up her exercise routine. She loved her condo’s view of the “Rez,” as everyone called it, a thirty-three-thousand-acre lake created by damming the Pearl River. Formed to provide a permanent source of drinking water for the city of Jackson, the lake now had a tremendous economic and recreational impact on the area. She lived in one of the four-thousand-plus residences on the lake’s edge and loved the water and its relaxing effect on her.

  Stopping the treadmill, she stepped off it, then went out onto the little patio to cool down and enjoy the last of the sun’s light over the Rez. Then she planned to eat something healthy and have a glass of red wine before the 10:00 p.m. call she expected from the two agents posing as the keyless-security-repair team. She hoped they’d learned something that would help the investigation.

  Chapter 16

  It was a cloudless summer morning in Philadelphia, Mississippi. Hoss sat at his desk and stared out the windows, trying to make sense of all that was happening.

  Everybody had called him Hoss since accepting his job, but his real name was Martin Appletree. His mother was Native American, and he had never known his father. His mother explained that his father was a civil-rights activist from New York City who’d come through the area in the mid-1960s. They’d met at a civil-rights rally, and while she’d thought it had been love, he’d just been passing through on a summer mission to make the South a more equitable place. They had not remained in contact.

  Hoss had been raised about as poor as one could imagine, but with all the love a mother could give. As the tribe organized and started trying to better itself by building casinos, hotels, and other businesses, he’d been hired on to do whatever he could. His good work ethic was noted, and coupled with the fact he’d grown up in the community and was known to almost everyone, he eventually worked himself into the current position of heading up security for the tribe. One outstanding characteristic that made him the perfect candidate was that he intimidated most people. He wasn’t a tribal police offer, but as the head of security for the tribal headquarters, casinos, and other associated businesses, he was allowed to operate outside of the normal protocols that often hindered police departments. He was a free spirit, and his security force and the tribal police officers revered him.

  Martin “Hoss” Appletree was not a very friendly person and was suspicious of everyone. He knew lots of secrets about people and considered that knowledge to be power. His cameras revealed almost everything, and his crew of security officers provided him with information that filled in the gaps. He knew who worked hard and who didn’t, who stole toilet paper and lightbulbs, and who put in extra work for no pay. He knew who had a gambling problem, who didn’t know when to stop drinking, and who was seeing whom on t
he side at their hotels. He had too much knowledge. Most of it didn’t help him with his daily duties; it was just a burden that made him express a visible disdain for people in general. However, occasionally knowing someone’s troubles provided a glimpse into their needs and motivations, which was proving to be quite valuable.

  When the phone had rung earlier this morning informing him that Rosco Jones had been found dead from an apparent suicide, he’d begun staring out the window. Anyone watching would have thought him to be contemplating something deep, like the circle of life. With the knowledge that Hoss had, knowledge that only a few others shared, he had much more than that to consider. This could seriously impact the FBI’s investigation. Rosco had been their only direct link from Winston Walker to the artifact room.

  Hoss had understood he would be deeply involved from the moment he received the call. He immediately alerted the chief, who generated more questions than Hoss had answers to.

  Only a few miles away from him sat the city of Philadelphia. The city that had been known for racial tensions was waking up slowly, and today would prove to be a sad one for part of the community. This time the national media wouldn’t converge on the city, like in 1964 when the three civil-rights workers went missing. Today’s event would include the Neshoba County Sheriff’s Department and the city police all moving quickly to close out an ugly situation that no one wanted to deal with.

  Rosco Jones had been found in his car, parked under a bridge that spanned the headwaters of the Pearl River. A fisherman found him and called the police immediately. Everyone considered it a suicide except a Neshoba County detective who happened to know Rosco. According to Hoss’s contact, the detective arrived just as the coroner was preparing to take the body and ranted until they agreed to come back later. The extra time allowed him to investigate the scene. Though the scene had already been contaminated, he ordered that it be taped off so that it could be studied, and he cussed several police officers for not calling him earlier.

  The suicide would complicate the FBI plans, Hoss knew. Nothing ever went as planned.

  Hoss grabbed his keys and started for the door. He wouldn’t have any jurisdiction at the site, but he had an imposing presence, and his opinion would carry some weight. The chief wanted the tribal police to be involved, and with this latest twist, she now wanted a search warrant for his house in the hopes of finding stolen artifacts.

  Chapter 17

  The shade cast from the bridge over the Pearl River was the only relief from the worsening heat. There were a half dozen law enforcement and emergency-response vehicles parked around the scene. A boat ramp with parking bordered both the river and the bridge. Hoss had been here many times. Growing up, it had been a popular teenage hangout. He parked and headed over to learn the latest information about Rosco Jones’s death. Hoss had decided he would play dumb about Rosco and not mention anything concerning the stolen artifacts unless he was forced to do so.

  The Neshoba County detective who’d taken over the scene was well thought of in the rural community and by the local law-enforcement officers. He had solved several cases that endeared himself to the locals and impressed his colleagues. He was tall and thin and looked like he might have played sports as recently as a few years ago. Hoss hated sports. The two men had seen each other at functions but had never worked together professionally. His name was Jamarius Reed, and he was intently studying what clearly still appeared to Detective Reed to be a crime scene.

  Hoss watched the man work for a few minutes before interrupting. “He worked out of our tribal offices.”

  Jamarius looked up, recognizing him. “Yeah, it was a good job for Rosco since he’d hurt his back cutting pulpwood,” Jamarius replied.

  “You knew him?”

  “He was my Sunday-school teacher. Good man. Real good man.”

  Hoss shook his head, bent over to look inside the vehicle, and saw Jones slumped in the driver’s seat. “So what happened? Why did he do it?”

  “That’s a good question. Good question.”

  “Was he depressed?”

  Jamarius stood up and wiped his forehead. “He was a janitor at night and cut grass with a push mower during the day, even with his bad back. But I never heard him complain, not one time.”

  “Something must have set him off,” Hoss insisted.

  “Not that anybody close to him can recall. It doesn’t make sense to me.”

  “He gamble? Maybe he lost big—you know, bet the farm?”

  “Not that I’m aware of. He went to the casinos to hand out flyers and invite folks to come to church on Sundays.”

  “Do you see any evidence of foul play?”

  “No, not really,” Jamarius sighed, then looked at Hoss. “The man had a daughter and a loving wife.”

  “Yeah, I read his personnel file. The tribe will probably do something to make sure there’s a college fund for the girls.”

  “That would be real nice.”

  “There a note?”

  “No note here, and they haven’t found one at home.”

  “Anything I can do to help you?”

  “Let his boss know he won’t be coming in tonight.”

  “I can do that. But I was thinking that maybe I could get the tribal police to help you check all this out. I can tell that you don’t think it’s what it appears.”

  “No, I can handle this,” Jamarius said as he stared at the body.

  It sure looked like a suicide to Hoss. He had seen a few in his career. “So, Detective,” he said, “if you don’t see any signs of foul play, what makes you think this was a not a simple suicide where a depressed man wanted to check out early?” He was considering telling Jamarius that he could have the FBI investigate if he wanted.

  “I knew him. This wasn’t something he would ever consider.”

  “Do you ever really know someone?” Hoss asked, walking to the other side of the Chevy Caprice to study the scene from a different angle.

  Jamarius pinned Hoss with a look, then pointed at the body. “That man right there had a daughter that was about to compete in the Miss Mississippi Pageant. He bought her a fancy violin, and he listened to her play every morning. He drove to somewhere in Alabama to rent a dress that he couldn’t afford to buy, and he already had a hotel room reserved in Vicksburg for two nights. He was so proud of her and wanted to see her compete. He was convinced she would win. There is no way he did this prior to the big night, and no way he would break his girl’s heart right before it.”

  “From what I’ve heard, he was headed into some debt. Deep debt, to send that girl to college.”

  Jamarius quickly shook his head. “He lived in a paid-for house and really didn’t have many bills. His kids were everything. His girl is going to get scholarships, then they’d see about funding the rest. The church did a bake sale to raise money for the family’s hotel room during the pageant.”

  Hoss made a decision. It was out of character for him to reveal information, but this situation had direct bearing on important artifacts of the Choctaw Nation. He needed answers. “I think I can explain what happened.”

  Jamarius looked at Hoss, who glanced at two other deputies searching the edge of the parking lot, presumably for anything that might make their colleague happy. They appeared to Hoss to be out of earshot.

  “I’m listening,” Jamarius said.

  Hoss lowered his voice. “You can’t talk about this, it’s an ongoing federal investigation. But we have a strong suspicion that Rosco was working with another person to steal artifacts from the Choctaw tribal office.”

  “Artifacts?” Jamarius’s brow furrowed.

  “Yes, they are quite valuable.”

  “Your suspicion? You got any evidence?”

  “We have him on video, talking to a known artifact reseller,” Hoss explained. “There are several missing boxes, and he had keys to where they were stored.”

  “The FBI?”

  “It’s a federal crime.”

  Jamarius remained s
ilent for a moment. “How would that turn him to suicide?”

  “Haven’t you ever heard the stories about people finding Indian artifacts or bones and taking them home and feeling like they’re being haunted by Indians?” Hoss asked seriously.

  Jamarius stared at him for a few seconds, then said quietly, “I once knew a guy that found some stuff and took it home, and he said a hawk perched in a tree outside his house. He had never seen the hawk before. The next morning the hawk was still there, and when he got to work, the hawk was sitting in a tree next to where he parked. He freaked out and went home and took the pieces back to where he found them and never saw the hawk again.”

  “That’s a mild case,” Hoss assured him. “I’ve heard stories all my life, hundreds of stories, and some much worse.”

  “You think Indian spirits drove him to commit suicide.”

  “Something like that.”

  Jamarius sighed. This wasn’t what he wanted to hear, but he did believe in spirits and hauntings. All his life he’d been a bit spooked about old houses, cemeteries, and funeral homes. It took all his mental strength to work investigations with bodies. “If the mind believes it, then it be real,” he said, shaking his head.

  “Can you get me into his house to look around?” Hoss asked.

  “You think something’s there?”

  “There might be. The FBI can get a search warrant, but I would like to keep this quiet within our community.”

  “Tell me this, if you take the reseller down, do you have to drag Rosco into it?”

  “Maybe not. We just want our artifacts.”

  “Is this reseller guy from around here?”

  “Nope.”

  “I see.” Jamarius exhaled loudly, his expression turning grave. “I’d like to keep Rosco’s name clear, for his daughter’s sake. I’m telling you, he was a good man.”

  “You help us and we’ll help you,” Hoss said. “Let’s go look.”