by Shirl Henke
In the dim light generated by the computer, his silhouette was very distinctive. Cocking the hammer of the .38, she said conversationally, “Hello, Elvis. How’s tricks?”
Chapter 20
Scruggs swiveled the chair around and grinned at Sam and Matt, totally ignoring the gun barrel aimed directly at his chest. “Well, now. Ain’tcha the resourceful ones?”
“Oh, I dunno, El. You’re pretty resourceful yourself. How the hell did you get in here?” Sam countered.
Matt edged around to the left and studied the monitor. “Looks like our boy’s been doing some snooping into Winchester’s private files.”
“Resourceful and chock-full of surprises, too,” Sam said dryly.
Scruggs crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back in the chair. “’Course you folks are just here to check out the view from ole Upton’s corner window.”
“Find anything interesting?” Matt asked, ignoring the jibe.
Scruggs ignored Matt now. “Ma’am, do you have any idea how much trouble you caused me?” he asked Sam. “How the hell did you get that junker van to run with a busted timing belt?”
“Ace bandages,” she replied. “How’d you find us every time we gave you the slip—use the National Reconnaissance Office’s spy satellites to search for my van?”
“A few calls to the Tennessee and Georgia highway patrols worked well enough.” He scratched his head. “Ace bandages? No shit?”
“And why would state cops help you?” she asked, wondering, not for the first time, how he’d convinced the Georgia Highway Patrol to let him go.
He moved slowly so Sam could see his hands at all times, first inserting a disk into the tower and pressing copy, then reaching inside his pocket for a thin leather wallet.
“I’ll take that when you’re done,” Sam said, eyeing the copy he was making of Winchester’s files.
He shook his head. “’Fraid not.”
“I’m the one with the gun,” she reminded him.
“Yep, you surely are, ma’am. But I’m the one with the badge.” At her blink of surprise, he grinned again and tossed her the wallet. “Since you’re an ex-cop, I figure you’ll recognize the real ticket.”
Sam caught it deftly in her left hand and moved closer to the light, examining its contents after she handed the gun to Matt, saying, “Watch him. If he blinks, shoot.”
“Don’t move, El. I’m considerably more nervous about breaking and entering than my wife is. I might do something rash.”
Scruggs shrugged and grinned again. “Well?” he asked Sam, nodding toward the badge.
“I don’t friggin’ believe it. He’s DEA.”
“That might account for those missing seven years we haven’t been able to trace,” Matt said. “What’s the DEA got to do with Upton Winchester?”
“We know he’s up to his eyebrows in a scam with Reicht, helping him hide illegal prescription income,” Sam added. “So the two of them must be working serious drug connections in addition to being involved in murder.”
All traces of illiterate diction were gone as was his good humor when Elvis replied, “You’re interfering in a federal investigation and you’re in way over your heads. Back off.”
“You sound like Ida Kleb,” Matt said.
“The formidable Ms. Kleb of the IRS. So you ran her down, too.” He tipped his chair forward. “Where’s Farley?”
“No way am I turning that boy over to a guy who was feeding him drugs. The kid’s not crazy, just doped up to look that way,” Sam replied.
“I know that. I was the one trying to get him off the junk Reicht had him pumped full of. That’s why I let his old man set me up with the Jag. Winchester has no idea who I am. He thought he could blackmail me into disappearing rather than face GTA once you got Farley back under Reicht’s tender care. Upton knows I’ve been trying to convince his son to toss the pills ever since I befriended him.”
“The reason being?” Sam prompted.
“You know too much already. Right now all I can tell you is that I’ll see the boy’s protected from his father and the bogus shrink.”
Sam shook her head. “No dice.” Leaning over the desk, she went nose to nose with the big agent. “I have Farley someplace where he’s absolutely safe and he’s staying put. The only way you’re gonna see him again is if you can convince us that you aren’t just using him to bust his old man.”
“The kid nearly wrecked the car and killed all three of us when he thought you were going to rescue him. He thinks you’re really his best friend,” Matt said, angry that an innocent boy was caught in the middle of this ugly mess.
“He witnessed Reicht abduct, maybe kill, Leila Satterwaite, who just happened to be another one of the doc’s patients,” Sam added. “You know anything about her besides her name, rank and serial number in Spacefleet?”
Before Scruggs could reply, the sound of the elevator door pinging down the hall froze all three of them. The agent muttered an oath and ejected the half copied disk from the computer. “You must’ve tripped some security. Damned amateurs. Come on, let’s get the hell out of here,” he whispered, turning the computer to rest mode and sliding out of the chair.
Sam grabbed her toolbox and Matt shoved her snub nose into his belt after uncocking it. They quickly followed Elvis to a door on the far wall. Scruggs ushered them inside just as the sound of the heavy office door clicked open. They passed an elegant private washroom and reached an exit sign. Very carefully, the agent opened the door, looking at the video cameras before stepping out into the outer hall. “We’re clear if we hurry,” he whispered, dashing for the fire stairs about a dozen yards to the left.
Once they were behind the closed door, Scruggs turned to Sam and asked, “You put something on the video camera outside the suite front door to change the sweep pattern?”
“I’ve used those devices for years. There’s no way one should bring security up here this soon,” she said defensively. His amateur crack pissed her off.
“Shouldn’t have,” Scruggs admitted, “but sometimes an extra sharp guard will notice when one of the monitors isn’t working exactly right. Come up and check it out.”
“Tommy’s about as sharp as a plastic spoon and didn’t strike me as exactly ambitious.”
“Shift changes at 3:00 a.m.,” Scruggs informed them.
Sam cursed. “I borrowed that gizmo from a friend. I have to return it.”
“Damn straight or Winchester will know somebody was inside his office and have it swept for the listening devices I planted.”
He cracked the door and looked at the camera in question. “Hold the door open,” he whispered to Matt, then dashed down the hall and made a flying jump that would have done Michael Jordan proud. The instant his hand yanked the small device on the camera free, he whirled around and headed back to the exit.
“Smooth,” Sam admitted.
“I could’ve reached it easier,” Matt said. He had a couple of inches on Scruggs but he knew damn well he wouldn’t have been able to detach the gizmo as deftly since he had no idea how Sam had attached it.
“You big guys can have a pissing contest later,” Sam hissed. “Let’s get the hell out of Dodge before that guard comes down the hall.”
“Fifteen floors,” Matt groused.
“Hey, at least it’s down, not up,” Sam whispered, leading the way. “Anyway, we have to hit the front desk and sign out, so we’ll have to hitch a ride on the ‘transponder’ in a couple of floors.”
“Nobody saw me come in,” Scruggs said, not explaining further how he’d gained access.
“Will you two keep your size twenty E clodhoppers quiet? Sound echoes like crazy in stairwells,” she said as they neared the next landing. They went down two more levels. “Okay, here’s the deal. You want Farley. We want info. Maybe we can work something out. Meet us at the Landing. You know the place?” she asked the agent.
“All-night joint just off Brickell, south side of the river.” He nodded. “Catch you ther
e in fifteen.” Like the old Elvis, he pointed his index finger at her as if it were a gun and cocked his thumb back. “Don’t be late.”
As he continued down the stairs, Sam heard him muttering, “Frickin’ Ace bandages. Unbelievable.”
The Landing had started out as a bait shack before the Brickell district became the home of commercial and high-end residential real estate. It was situated on the Miami River beneath the shadows of freeway traffic and skyscrapers. Surrounding it, hidden behind wooden walls, chunks of concrete lay victim to the wrecking ball. The old gave way to the new. Except for the Landing. “Jerry-built chic” was how one restaurant critic had described the moldy wooden structure which had numerous additions attached to the original in a concentric design totally lacking in aesthetics.
But the fresh seafood was outstanding and the yuppie crowd blended in with stubborn remnants of retired blue-collar night owls who nursed beers while they sat at the battered bar eating heaping plates of fried clams. Sam and Matt spotted Elvis Scruggs at a corner booth in the bar area. The air was blue with smoke despite a large No Smoking sign posted in both English and Spanish.
They greeted the bartender and asked for their usuals. Matt had introduced her to the place when they’d returned from their wedding in Boston. It had long been a retreat of Herald newspeople after hours.
If Barney Donovan thought their exterminator jumpsuits looked odd, he didn’t comment as he served her Scotch on the rocks and gave Matt a mug of Pacifico draft beer, then asked Scruggs if he wanted another Bud. The agent shook his head and the bartender discreetly disappeared.
Sam took a sip of her Scotch, then said, “We’re after the same thing—to put Reese Reicht and Upton Winchester in the slammer. So’s Sergeant Patowski. Don’t deny you know him. He already tried covering for you. Told me about your juvvie history, but not a peep about the army hitch or joining the DEA after. You want to fill in some blanks for us? Or do I speculate?”
“I guarantee you she won’t give up until she has every piece of the puzzle,” Matt said cheerfully, blowing the foamy head off his beer.
Scruggs leaned back in the booth and blew out a frustrated breath. “No, from what the sergeant’s told me, she won’t quit.” He looked at Sam. “I went through a rough patch as a kid. Only reason I joined the army was because it was that or jail time. They gave me some tests and told me I qualified for officer’s training after finishing my GED.” He grinned. “Made it halfway through, then figured I wasn’t cut out for spit and polish.”
“So you went back to your enlistment.”
He nodded. “I was assigned to go undercover, work on a drug ring operated by a bunch of noncoms at my base.”
“And you found your niche in life,” Sam said, understanding part of what made Scruggs tick. “You’d be a natural for DEA work. You look much younger than you are, country smart, but you can play dumb. You’re good, El.”
“Consider that a compliment,” Matt said.
“Yeah, it is. We gonna cooperate with each other or keep stumbling over each other’s feet?” she asked.
“Like to, but I can’t afford working with a Herald reporter. If this gets out before—”
“I already promised our firstborn to Ida Kleb if I write a line before the investigation’s finished. What do I have to do for you, sign in blood?” Matt asked.
Scruggs’s shrewd dark eyes studied them for a moment, then he sat up with his elbows on the scarred wooden table and said, “I guess I’ll have to trust you.”
She still wasn’t sure they could trust him, but they needed his inside info. “We really can help. Or, at least somebody who’s involved sure thinks so. They’ve been trying to kill me ever since the day Winchester phoned me about retrieving Farley from you. Why did you take the kid and skip town?” She waited expectantly.
“Farley, as I’m sure you know, is a real Spacer, has been ever since he was a little boy. He wanted to go to the big con in St. Louis and I needed to get him away from daddy and the shrink.”
“What could a drugged-up kid do for your case against either of them?” Matt asked. He felt Sam’s foot touch his beneath the table and caught her eye signal. Cops never trusted reporters, least of all him since he broke a big story several months ago exposing an FBI-Miami-Dade PD sting to uncover CIA ties to the Russian mob. He would be wise to let her take the lead, ask the questions. He gave her a look indicating that he understood.
“Farley was really out of it when I nabbed him. Had a couple of drug-related panic attacks that scared the bejesus out of me,” she explained to Scruggs.
“I hoped to buy enough time while he was having fun at the con to get him clean.” Elvis looked down at the dregs in his bottle of beer, then swallowed the last bit. “I admit, I was using the space conspiracy stuff to get him to open up. You see, Farley’s a kind of savant—not an idiot by any means. Kid’s smart as hell, just geeky and unhappy.”
“He had a rotten childhood. So did you, but you don’t strike me as either a geek or a savant,” Sam said dryly. That earned her a small tug of a smile. “What does he know?”
“Kid’s got a photographic memory. I mean damn near infinite capacity from what we’ve learned from his tutors, test results, that kind of thing. A DEA investigation into a Florida drug cartel led the agency to Reicht. Winchester’s the money manipulator who hides it for them. That part we got from the IRS. When I was assigned to the case, my job was to infiltrate Winchester’s household. Get to his home computer, tap his phones.”
“And you found out Farley was playing with daddy’s computer data while the old man wasn’t around,” Sam surmised.
“When he was lucid, the kid could recite back to me twenty-digit bank account numbers in the Caymans, amounts transferred, transaction dates. I made up a game. Told him the money was payment to Klingoff spies and he bought it. Once I convinced him I was a Spacefleet officer, he was ready to send his old man to jail. Far believes Upton Winchester’s part of a Pandorian-Klingoff takeover of Earth.
“Of course, the kid wouldn’t be a credible witness, but a few pieces of info he gave me checked out when the IRS investigated the money trail. Meanwhile, Winchester got suspicious about his son palling around with an itinerant yardman, even if I did look young enough to pass for twenty. He fired me before I could get enough info to build our case.”
“He thought you were, and I quote, ‘an illiterate cracker,’” Sam said. “Don’t feel bad. He treated me like pond scum, too.”
“But he hired you and I lost my inside access to his computers. He threatened Far. Said if the kid ever saw me again, he’d lock him up.”
“Let me guess. Far kept sneaking out to meet his good ole buddy El,” she said.
“Even before his mother died, Farley and his father didn’t get along. The old man had relied on his business associate Reicht to keep a lid on the kid’s socially unacceptable behavior for years.”
“So after Farley latched on to you, his father had Reicht really hype up the meds,” Sam said. “Reicht told me once I brought Farley back, they were going to put him in a rehab facility called Homeside.”
“I figured it was either get him away from Reicht quick or the boy might become a vegetable after he’d been locked away a few months,” Elvis replied.
Sam nodded agreement. “But Winchester would never let Reicht kill the boy. That would mean he’d be cut off from his dead wife’s fortune.”
Scruggs grinned in spite of himself. “You have been digging. Or your newshound has.” He cast a faintly hostile look at Matt.
Matt put up his hands and said, “I just do what Sammie tells me.”
She muffled a snort into her Scotch glass. “We know the terms of Susan’s will. Winchester has to keep the kid alive, but incompetent.”
“That way he controls the money for the rest of his life,” Scruggs said. “Reicht’s the one getting the lion’s share of the drug money. Winchester’s cut isn’t nearly as big.”
“So Roman Numeral doesn’t want h
is son dead. But Reicht might.” Sam looked at Scruggs, who was staring intently at her.
“You care to explain why?” Elvis asked.
“Farley told me he saw Leila Satterwaite ‘transponded’ away by Pandorians.”
“Yes, he told me that, too. So?” Scruggs prompted her.
“What he really saw took place in the Seascape Building. In the elevator, at the top floor. Reicht and Leila were struggling in the glass tube. Then she vanished, never to be seen again until she turned up in the morgue.”
Scruggs shook his head, amazed. “I just figured Far had a crush on Leila. We met her at a few local Quest meetings. But if what you say’s true, it would give Reicht a motive to kill Farley. I never could make sense out of what he said about her and the transponder thing,” he admitted. “But why would Reicht kill Leila? She was just another Spacer who felt sorry for Farley and was nice to him, far as I know. I was just playing along with his ideas about her alien abduction.”
“You had an ulterior motive for befriending the kid. Maybe she did, too,” Sam said. “She washed up in Patowski’s jurisdiction. It’s his case. Let me see what he’ll tell me about it. Then I’ll dig for the rest.”
“Works for me. Now, where have you stashed Farley?” Elvis leaned forward and grinned at Sam. “It’s a federal crime to obstruct a DEA investigation. Your friend Patowski won’t be able to bail you out if you don’t hand him over to me.”
“He’s safe and under professional care.”
“I need to put him under government protection. We have a safe house and a doc all lined up,” Scruggs said without a hint of negotiation in his voice.
Sam shook her head, just as stubborn as the agent was. “I’ve seen how safe ‘safe houses’ can be around this neck of the woods. This is a seventeen-year-old kid’s life you’re talking about. Winchester’s made you as somebody he didn’t trust. That’s why he set you up with the Jag and hired me. You admitted it.”