by Glenn Trust
Her talk with her boss had gone well. Knowing what he had in Sharon, Harvey Edwards, Pickham County District Attorney, encouraged her to keep her basement office and proposed a sort of cooperative agreement. She would be the local OSI contact and have use of the facilities; no one else would be using or want the space anyway. In return, she could continue to be a local resource to the District Attorney and Sheriff’s Department, but on the state payroll now. It had taken about ten seconds for Sharon to say, yes.
Hitting the power button on her computer, she leaned back in her chair as it cycled up. Life seemed complete...George, the little apartment over Fel Tobin’s barn, old Fel himself, and now the OSI. The missing link to her happiness had been provided unexpectedly by Bob Shaklee.
The screen lit up, and she navigated to the secure website that Bob had given her. A temporary password opened the site. Sharon set up her account profile and went to work, scanning through the files.
Her first assignment was to review GBI case reports and coordinate them with local law enforcement reports from around the state, searching for links that might make them appropriate cases for the OSI to take on. In a state with one hundred and fifty-nine counties, coordination between the various state, county and municipal law enforcement agencies was problematic at best. More often than any would like to admit, local cases reached dead ends, in part sometimes because links to other cases in other jurisdictions were unknown. Pulling those links together could provide the missing pieces of information and identify suspects. It was a concept that Sharon could sink her investigative teeth into.
Five hours later, her desk was covered with notes torn from yellow pads of ruled paper. Her printer had been at work almost nonstop, spitting out case summaries as she pondered possible relationships between investigative efforts around the state.
Intently focused, she had worked through lunch. Chirping suddenly, the phone on her desk startled her and then made her smile as she recognized the number on the call display.
“Hi, babe,” she said, pushing herself away from the desk and standing to stretch.
Babe was not a word in common usage in Sharon’s vocabulary. She was happy. “Hi, yourself. You sound cheerful.”
“I am.” Arching her back in a long stretch, she reclined in the chair. “I really am. This OSI is just what I needed. I feel alive again.”
“You didn’t feel alive?” Pleased with the contentment in her voice, George felt slightly uneasy that she had not been happy before.
“Mackey, stop.” Her voice softened. “Of course, I felt alive. You know how I feel about you, about being together. It’s just that now that other part of me is coming alive. I’m back into it, doing what I do.”
“I know, darlin’.” His voice became equally soft. “I get it. You need to do what you do best, and you are definitely the best at digging things out and putting them together.” He smiled. “It is a wonder to behold.”
“What?”
“Oh, that look in your eye, when you pull your nose out of a stack of files and the light comes on because you just figured it all out, and you’re waiting for the rest of us to catch up.” He laughed. “It’s also scary as hell sometimes.”
It was a compliment. George meant it that way, and she took it that way, grinning in the privacy of the basement office. “So, what’s up today? Any luck?”
Satisfied and content, one day on the job with the OSI and she felt part of things again, on the team, engaged. It was a good feeling. George smiled at her tone, filled with the old confidence and just a hint of ball-busting swagger.
“Actually, yes. I think we’re onto something.”
“How so?” As George had expected, Sharon was interested.
“Well, Vernon’s scared shitless, of course.”
“Of course.” Sharon remembered Taft from the ‘Predator’ case and could picture him squirming and sweating as George bored in on the information he held. The thought made her smile.
“Something big is coming. Budroe is expanding his operations.”
“Expanding how?”
“Prostitution. He wants to go state-wide and beyond. He has some deal cooking in the Caribbean on the islands. Not sure which islands, though.”
Sharon’s hands began roaming through the notes and printouts on her desk. “State-wide? How?”
“Vernon wasn’t too sure about all of the details. I believe him. He’s getting things second hand from Lonna MacIntyre.”
“They’re still together?” Sharon asked, picking up one of the case summaries and scanning it as she spoke.
“Yeah,” George said. “Who else would either of them be with? Anyway, Budroe is expanding his prostitution operations outside of Pete’s Place and Roydon. He’s picked a spot somewhere in south Georgia, some place central.”
“Meacham.”
“Meacham what?
“Meacham County.” Sharon held the GBI case report up scanning details. “Local sheriff, Beery’s his name, responded to a report of a fire at a place called Nicks Cove.”
“Where’s that?”
“Back in swamp country, little bend in the creek,” Sharon said quickly, not wanting to lose her train of thought as she put things together. “Sheriff Beery reports that the fire was arson, small frame house was completely destroyed. GBI and State Fire Marshal confirms it as a probable arson, waiting for forensics to come back, but there were plenty of accelerant indicators at the scene. They are confident the fire was set deliberately.”
George wanted to ask how that tied in to Budroe’s prostitution ring, but knew better. It was not good to interrupt Sharon when her mind had buried itself in a case, putting it all together for herself, as she spoke and explained to him.
“Two people were killed in the fire. Joseph Benton Nicks, aka Jobie Nicks, and Elma Nicks. They run, or ran, a local prostitution operation at Nicks Cove. Small time, but customers from around the south come in. Valdosta, Tifton and down below the Florida line.”
There was a pause as she shuffled through the case summary, searching for something she had read earlier. Reading the words she had noted on one of the yellow pads, she nodded. “GBI says that there is the possibility that the arson and murders were committed to eliminate the Nicks and take over their operation. The working girls at Nicks Cove are still there. They haven’t moved on…and they aren’t talking.”
George let this all sink in. It seemed almost like too much good luck, but then he had seen Sharon do this before. It was the kind of thing that would be missed if someone didn’t pull all of the pieces together. Arson. Murder. Budroe was more than capable of those crimes, especially if motivated by gain. Unlucky for good old Roy that Sharon Price was on his trail. There just might be something to this OSI thing after all.
Shuffling the reports and notes into a neat pile in front of her, Sharon placed them firmly down on the desk and said, “We need to call, Shaklee.”
“Yep.” George’s foot pressed harder on the pickup’s accelerator. “Why don’t you call Sandy Davies and have him meet us there at your office? I feel better about making the call from there. I’ve crossed into Pickham County. I’ll be there soon.”
Twenty minutes later, George and Sheriff Davies sat in chairs opposite Sharon’s desk while she made the call, the phone on speaker.
“Shaklee.” Bob’s voice sounded like a man at the end of a long day. It was about to get longer.
“Bob, Sharon, George and Sheriff Davies here. We have something.”
Bob leaned forward. He expected the call; he did not expect George and the sheriff to be participating. Something was up.
“Speak to me, Sharon. I’m listening.”
35. He Did Not Like Snakes
Driven by a young Cuban, Eduardo Rivera’s, assistant and bodyguard, the Land Rover bumped along a sand and gravel road that had been washed out more than once by Trinidad’s frequent rains. Passing through the village of Morne Diable, French for Devil’s Hill or as the locals called it ‘Hell of a Hill’ the
driver had turned the car off the main road and onto the sand track. The trail wound through dense green forest, into an occasional clearing and then plunged back into the heavy woods, ending in one last clearing.
Situated at the center of the large open area, an old two-story shed sat baking in the hot sun. Roof and sides of rusted corrugated steel made the building look hot and uncomfortable. Ramon Guzman noted that there were no signs of air conditioning and the structure’s metal skin seemed to radiate heat from the tropical sun.
The driver drove rapidly across the clearing and pulled the Land Rover beside two old pickup trucks sliding slightly in the grass as the vehicle rocked to a stop. Stepping into the hot sunshine, Guzman and Rivera stretched and looked around. Covered in grass, the open area extended a hundred yards in all directions from the shed. The grass had been mowed to a distance of fifty feet around the building; further out it was knee high. Beyond the grass, the forest encircled the clearing. Palms, balatas and sandbox trees mingled with a hundred other species to create a green wall. Standing on the west side of the building, they could see a small trail, just two tire tracks really, lead through the grass and disappear into the forest.
“A half mile,” Rivera said nodding at the trail. “Half mile through the trees and the trail leads to a small secluded beach. That will be our transfer point.”
Guzman nodded. “Good. Close so there won’t be much exposure.”
Rivera smiled. “No exposure at all. My men have had some…conversations…with the locals. They will have no curiosity about our business here. I assure you.” Another smile and he turned to the building’s large open side door. “Come they have been busy getting things ready. Let’s see.”
Walking from bright sunlight into the building, the men stood for a moment, letting their eyes adjust to the gloom. Guzman looked up. The steel roof soared forty feet above them. From the midpoint on the east side, Guzman’s engineer eye estimated the building’s dimensions at about one hundred and twenty feet, east to west, and eighty feet north to south.
“What was it used for?” Guzman breathed in deeply. The air was humid and musty.
“The United States Army and Navy, they were on Trinidad during World War II. Most have forgotten that bit of history. Trinidad was a backwater theatre of the war.”
Guzman nodded, interested. “I was unaware.”
“Yes. The Navy used it as a base for anti-submarine patrol planes spotting German U boats. The Army provided security for the Navy and watched the southern coast for intruders from South America. They were particularly interested in the Orinoco River as a possible haven for German warships. From the south side of the island, they could see across to the Orinoco and Venezuela.” He looked around the interior of the huge steel building. “This was a machine shop of some sort for the Army.”
“They ever see any? Germans?”
Rivera laughed. “Who knows? Trinidad was not exactly at the heart of the fighting. Still…” He turned his head towards the open door and the jungle outside and smiled. “Venezuela is only fifteen miles or so across the strait, as you know. Anything was possible in those days.” Another smile. “And for us, anything is possible today.”
They walked a circuit around the inside walls. Guzman noted the steel beams and construction. The Army must have been concerned about tropical humidity and rainfall, and its effect on timbers. Only steel was used in the support and structural members of the building. Rusted on the exterior, the interior was still sound. Leave it to the American military to erect a building that would be there seventy years after the last American left, and could be there another seventy years. So much the better for their plans.
“It looks good,” Guzman said with a nod. “Very sound.”
“Excellent. I am glad you approve.” Rivera walked from the building through the large bay door on the south side. “This will be our warehouse. We receive shipments here and then prepare our product for transport by boat across the straits to the Delta Amacuro at the mouth of the Orinoco. We have a small, out of the way spot there where others, also my people will meet our shipments and push the product throughout South America, and eventually Europe, Africa, Asia. It will all be part of our distribution network.”
“It is your network, Eduardo. I am simply making the arrangements.” Guzman knew that it was important to be the humble and loyal partner. Rivera was a powerful man and, in his own way, very dangerous when necessary. Besides, Guzman had to acknowledge that it was, in fact, Rivera’s distribution capabilities would make their plan profitable for both.
Placing a hand on Guzman’s shoulder, Rivera said, “I appreciate your humility, Ramon. It is a valuable trait and one that promotes long life.” He gave the shoulder a squeeze. “But our plan depends most on your ability to deal with the North Americans. It is the key to success. When our operation is moving forward, and successful, you will be a full partner in everything.” He looked the younger man in the eye. “You have my word, Ramon.”
The word of Eduardo Rivera was not to be taken lightly. Ramon Guzman knew this. He also knew that couched within Rivera’s promise of full partnership was a warning, a threat even. Guzman’s relationship with their partners on the mainland was a key to success. He would be required to deal successfully with the North Americans or he would lose more than his partnership with Rivera.
“Watch!” Rivera pulled Guzman to the side. Thundering cracks from the pistol of the bodyguard filled the air. For a moment, Guzman thought that Rivera was already disappointed with his service. “Look!”
The bodyguard bent over and picked up a long snake. The deadly bushmaster was fully six feet in length. Guzman watched as the young man tossed it into the high grass.
He wondered if Rivera had organized this little demonstration to show him, in a more graphic way, what he would do to those who did not fulfill their promises or who betrayed him. Whether he did or not, it was plain to Guzman that Eduardo Rivera did not like snakes.
36. I Have to Do This
“What did you find, Sharon?” Despite his fatigue and the presence of George and Sheriff Davies, Bob Shaklee’s voice sounded slightly bemused. Knowing that Sharon would be deeply engaged in the assignment he had given her and overwhelmingly energized, he had been expecting the call. Prepared for her initial, rapid-fire onslaught of possible cases for the OSI to consider, he had readied himself for the task of focusing Sharon’s energy into sorting out the one case, the first OSI case. It had to be significant. “I’ve been expecting your call.”
Hearing and understanding the amusement in his voice, she began bluntly. “Cut the shit, Bob. This is important.”
It took fifteen minutes to give Bob the short version. There would be time for follow-up questions later. Familiar with George and his ability to coax information from a lifetime criminal like Vernon Taft, he was completely confident that Roy Budroe, in fact, was expanding his operations. The arson murder at Nicks Cove was just the kind of thing Budroe would arrange. The scenario fit, maybe not perfectly, but it was in character for Budroe and his methods, heavy-handed and underhanded at the same time
When Sharon had finished the briefing, Bob spoke. “It’s a little thin…”
“Thin!” George and Sandy squirmed in their chairs with each rising decibel of her voice. “Have you been listening to what…”
“Sharon.” Shaklee spoke her name quietly but firmly the way he had a hundred times working with her at the GBI. “Stop talking.”
There was silence for a few seconds as Sharon brought her investigative enthusiasm down a few notches. “Sorry, Bob. It just seems so clear to us.” She stopped speaking as instructed and took a deep breath.
“Allow me to finish.” Bob paused, letting things settle for a moment. “It’s a little thin, Sharon, at least what you have to this point. I trust your instincts, and George’s, and I think you are right. The connection between Budroe and the murders of the Nicks seems likely.” Another pause, they needed clear, rational thought right now, and he
needed them to put assumptions aside and think it through. “I have another piece of information that might give this some weight. I’m going to conference in Andy Barnes, Atlanta Homicide.”
Telephone hold music filled the room as the three in Sharon’s office exchanged looks, partly curiosity at what Andy Barnes might know about Roy Budroe’s expansion of operations into Meacham County and partly acknowledging the inclusion of a man they all trusted. Barnes had been there at the cabin in the woods when Sharon had gone down.
The music ended abruptly. “Andy, you’re on with Sharon, George and Sheriff Davies in Pickham County,” Bob said. “Everyone there?”
Sharon answered for the group. “We’re here, Bob.”
“Okay. Earlier today, Andy and I spoke about a case he is working. The implications of that case are significant. Coupled with your information it might be huge. I’ll let Andy explain.”
“Worked a murder yesterday,” Andy began. “Young man dropping his girlfriend off at work. He is shot through the back and dies at the scene. The girl is abducted.”
All sat quietly listening, Sharon making notes for the group in Pickham as another thirty minutes passed. Andy reviewed the details of the murder of Bobby Sanchez and what his investigation had pieced together at the scene. When he described the execution of the two young men beside the dumpster and that they had been involved in the abduction of Juanita Lopez, Sharon stopped writing, eyes riveted on the phone as if she were in the room in Atlanta.
Reviewing the interrogation of Darren and Dale Tuxton and the involvement of Ricky Sanchez, Andy got to the description of the men who had taken Juanita from the old van and placed her in their box truck as Darren and Dale ran for their lives.
“There were four. Two appeared to be Hispanic, spoke with accents. The other two were big white boys also with accents, southern accents, like from back deep in the country, not metro Atlanta or some other big city area.”