An Element of Risk

by Don Easton

  “That’d be Johnson,” Laura stated. “I’m northbound on it now. He should be coming right at me … yup, I see him. Okay, I’ve got the plate.”

  “Perfect. Swing by and pick me up.”

  Moments later Jack got in Laura’s car and saw her grin.

  “Guess who the plate is registered to?” she said, then answered for him, “A fellow by the name of Derek Graves.”

  Graves? Zombie? Jack smiled. “Perfect!”

  “His address is listed as an apartment about a ten-minute drive away.”

  “Good. First drop me off at the van and we’ll go check it out. If he doesn’t live there, at least we know what he drives. Next time he meets I’ll borrow one of Roger’s surveillance teams and find out where he does live.”

  As Laura drove him back to where he’d left the surveillance van, he called Ferg and updated him on Zombie’s real name along with the vehicle description and plate number.

  “That’s great,” Ferg replied. “You hear from your informant as to a delivery schedule?”

  “My informant is with someone,” Jack lied. “As soon as he’s free he’ll call me and I’ll let you know.”

  “No problem. I’ll have my team stay at the border in case he’s coming our way. Let me know if anything changes.”

  Jack retrieved the surveillance van and ten minutes later he and Laura both arrived at the address. It was an older wooden apartment building in dire need of paint. Graves’s truck was parked in a stall behind.

  Laura parked beside Jack and lowered her window. “What now?”

  “We’ll watch him until we hear from our friend. I’ll take the front of the apartment in case he leaves with someone. You watch his truck.”

  “Will do.”

  Twenty minutes later Jack saw Graves and called Laura. “He came out the front door carrying two large garbage bags.”

  “The garbage bins are in the back,” Laura noted.

  “He’s walking north on the sidewalk.”

  Ten minutes later Jack and Laura watched as Graves entered a laundromat. They realized the bags probably contained laundry.

  “Okay, doesn’t look like he’s in any hurry to go anywhere,” Jack noted. “Let’s go back to the office and see what we can find out about him.”

  On his way back to the office Jack gave Ferg another update. He said he’d continue to keep his team at the border until Jack heard back from his informant.

  Once back at the office Jack and Laura learned that Graves didn’t have a criminal record, but he did have his own website. It contained racist literature along with conspiracy theories about different ethnic groups plotting to control the world. The website had a photograph posted of him.

  “Looks like we’ve got ourselves a white supremacist,” Laura noted.

  “Yes, I wonder if he’s got eyeholes in his pillowcase,” Jack replied. “Love the photo.”

  In the photograph Graves stood in front of what appeared to be a cardboard cut-out of a black swastika on a wall behind him. His shirt was open and pulled back to reveal the butts of two pistols sticking out of each side of his waistband. Assorted tattoos on his chest included an eagle clutching a swastika over his heart and SS near the base of his neck.

  “Skinny little guy,” Jack noted.

  “Explains the sneer on his face,” Laura commented. “He’s trying to show attitude and look tough. Instead he comes across as insecure.” She shook her head. “What a pathetic loser.”

  Jack gestured to the pistols. “Too bad we weren’t there when the photo was taken.”

  Laura gave Jack a sideways glance. “So we could reach over, pull the triggers, and shoot his balls off?”

  Jack chuckled. “You know me too well.”

  He felt his phone vibrate.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “The meeting went well,” Lance reported. “The four pieces are to be delivered a week from Monday and they’re to meet at the same coffee shop at ten a.m.”

  “Good. It went well for us, too. We ID’d him, but I won’t tell you his name in case you say it by mistake.”

  “Yeah, there’s no need for me to know.”

  “Today’s Friday, so that’d make the next meeting ten days from now,” Jack noted. “It doesn’t sound like the stash is close.”

  “He was bitching about not being able to do it sooner because he has to drive to Winnipeg tomorrow and won’t be back until next Thursday.”

  “For his job?”

  “Nope. Apparently he does drywall, but he’s been out of work for a while. The trip is for some family thing.”

  “Then it’d appear that he’ll be getting the guns on the weekend right before the next meet.”

  “Probably.”

  “What’s the cost?”

  “For the four, it works out to three grand each.”

  “Twelve grand seems a little pricey when you’re getting that many,” Jack stated. “I figured you’d get them for about ten.”

  “The guy seemed keen that Linquist was prospecting for us. He said that the price would come down if we did more business down the road.”

  “Makes sense,” Jack replied. “Twelve g’s is probably a lot of money for a low-life like Zombie. Especially if he’s not working. I bet he’ll have to get the guns on credit and pay his supplier after.”

  “Yeah, you might be right. If they’re being fronted to him you might be able to follow him after Linquist pays him to see who he hands the cash to.”

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  “You’ll need to watch yourselves,” Lance cautioned. “I was told that he’s super paranoid. Zombie cautioned Linquist to be careful and said that he crawls under his truck to check for trackers before doing any business and also changes phones frequently.” Lance paused. “Maybe he was trying to impress us, but that’s what he said.”

  “I suspect he’s telling the truth. He was doing heat checks before and after the meeting.”

  “Okay, so on that note, there’s another thing. He said he usually leaves his phone at home and gets the messages off it later.”

  “So his movements can’t be tracked. He probably has another one he uses for his own supplier. Either that, or he uses computer chat rooms or something.”

  “Probably.”

  “Did Linquist get a phone number?”

  “Yes, but Zombie made it clear that no business is to be discussed on the phone. All that can be talked about is when to meet for coffee. I’ve got the number if you want.”

  “How’d you get it?” Jack asked in surprise. “What reason would you need to know it?”

  “I said I wanted it for comparison to see if it matched any number we might get from the United Front or any other group later on. No worries. I look after myself.”

  Right. No worries. Jack took the phone number from Lance, then ended the conversation.

  “Do I take it that everything went well?” Laura asked when Jack put his phone away.

  Jack told her what Lance had told him.

  “Too bad Graves is such a paranoid little weasel,” Laura said. “A tracker would’ve been nice.”

  “He might be tough to follow. Hopefully we’ll be in a position to watch him search his truck and see how thorough he is when he looks for a tracker.”

  “If only they made one that looked like a swastika,” Laura said wryly. “We could send it to him and he’d probably hang it from his rear-view mirror.”

  Jack thought about the mentality of the man they were dealing with. Making that asshole look like the informant could make the world a better place.

  “Do you want me to check with Roger to see if he’s ever heard of Graves?” Laura asked.

  “Sure. Have him check the phone number we were given as well, and see if it ever came up on any of their lines. Also, let Connie know who Graves is and give her the number. Tell her to call us if he or his number shows up on her wiretap. While you do that, I’ll update the ATF so they can break off their surveillance.”

  Jack t
hen called Ferg and told him what they’d learned.

  “I find it interesting that Graves is a white supremacist type,” Ferg said. “We have a lot of white supremacists living in the northwest of the good ol’ U.S. of A. That, and assorted other racists, survivalists, conspiracy types, and those who have an absolute hatred for anyone connected to government.”

  “Have our share of kooks in B.C., as well,” Jack replied.

  “After you called me yesterday, I did some checking on the father and son who were murdered at that gun shop in Alabama. They were both black, and coincidence or not, the Coggins brothers were proud members of the Klan. Maybe they do know Graves.”

  “Possible,” Jack agreed. “Judging by Graves’s website, they seem like birds of a feather.”

  “Any chance you can wire up his phone and pull his phone records?”

  Jack saw Laura end her call with Roger. “Hang on a sec, Ferg.” He looked at Laura. “Did Roger know Graves?”

  “Nope.”

  Jack turned his attention back to Ferg. “We have wire on some of the people he sells his guns to, but there haven’t been any calls to the number we have for him.”

  “Maybe switching phones,” Ferg suggested. “The number you have could be a new one.”

  “Could be. I might get wire down the road, but with our justice system you can’t get it except in emergency situations or unless you prove that you’ve tried all other avenues of investigation first — surveillance, informants. Either that, or you have to have a damned good reason why those steps can’t be taken or are likely to fail. The courts here look at invasion of privacy as a last resort.”

  “By the sounds of it, he isn’t saying much on the phone anyways.”

  “No, from what I’ve been told he only uses it to plan face-to-face meets. My source says he’s super paranoid and routinely does heat checks and crawls under his truck to check for trackers.”

  “Try to give that evidence in court and he’ll say he was checking for oil leaks.”

  “For sure.”

  Ferg paused a moment, “My office has quite a few files and loads of pictures on people who belong to the groups I mentioned. I only live forty minutes from the border. How about we meet and I’ll give you the lists of names and photos? Maybe the Coggins brothers are hiding out in Canada. Some of the good ol’ boys from down here might show up where you are and maybe lead you to them.”

  “That would be great. Do you have any plans tomorrow? My family and I often go down to Bellis Fair on the weekend for a little cross-border shopping. Seeing as you live so close, maybe we could meet?”

  “Hell, Bellis Fair is only twenty minutes from where I live. Betty and I often go there. We usually go during the week, because on a weekend it gets busy. Actually, on weekends I think there are more Canuck plates in the parking lots than American; but sure, tomorrow would be okay. What say we meet there for lunch?”

  “Great idea.”

  “How old are your kids?”

  “Mike is eleven and Steve is ten.”

  “I’ve got two sons myself, but they’re grown up and live in California. Also have two granddaughters, aged three and five.”

  “Nice.”

  “Red Robin at twelve? I’ll be the guy carrying a file box.”

  * * *

  Jack and Natasha, along with Mike and Steve, arrived at the entrance to the restaurant at the same time as Ferg and Betty.

  Ferg appeared to be in his early fifties. He was Jack’s height, but with a huskier build, and had a horseshoe pattern of short grey hair. Ferg’s warm smile and hearty handshake told Jack that they’d likely become good friends.

  Betty was a short plump woman with curly black hair. She seemed full of life, particularly around Mike and Steve, who she joked with by telling them they were handsome and pretending to guess how many girlfriends they had. Jack saw Natasha smile and knew the two women would hit it off, too.

  They found a booth that offered privacy and took a seat. The conversation through lunch was lighthearted, but when the meal was over Betty and Natasha gave each other a look and then, as if on cue, rose from the table.

  “Time to let the men talk,” Betty said, looking at Mike and Steve. “Come on, guys, I bet you want to go to a video game store.”

  Natasha smiled as the boys’ faces lit up. “How’d you know?” she mused.

  Once Jack and Ferg were alone, Ferg reached for the file box and dug out reams of paper held together with large metal paper clips, along with manila envelopes stuffed with photos.

  “You can take the whole box when you leave,” Ferg said. “These are all copies, so you can keep ’em after, but I’ll go over some of the stuff with you.” He handed Jack one of the stacks of documents. “Take a look at these assholes. They’re all white supremacists.”

  Jack flipped through the pages and saw that they were criminal records complete with mug shots of the various individuals. Many of the convictions involved violent assaults and weapons charges. “Looks like they have anger management issues,” he said facetiously.

  “Yeah, you might say that. They’re ones to be particularly careful about. There are lots more who don’t have any records, and many who we simply don’t know.” He gestured to an overstuffed legal-sized manila envelope. “Dump that puppy out and take a look.”

  Jack did as instructed and looked through the photos.

  “We’ve got a few group shots where they posed for the photo,” Ferg said when he saw what Jack was looking at. “If you flip the photo over, you’ll see that we’ve written some names on the back, but most are unidentified. A lot of these photos are copies of ones we found in the homes of some of the people we did have run-ins with. Others, as you can see, are surveillance shots.”

  “I really appreciate this,” Jack said. He picked up one photo showing a group of about forty men in a room giving a closed-fist Nazi-style salute. There was a speaker at the front of the room, a balding man of about sixty, but it was someone in the audience who caught Jack’s attention.

  Ferg glanced at Jack’s face, then pointed to the man Jack was looking at in the audience. “Yeah, made me sick, too, when I saw it.”

  “Is it a security guard or a policeman’s uniform?” Jack asked.

  Ferg grimaced. “That’s a county sheriff.” He shook his head. “I support our First Amendment under the Constitution of free speech … but using that as an excuse to instigate violence and hatred, uh, uh. I’ve a real problem with that.”

  Jack studied the photo. “Not the usual types.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Most of the white power types we see are skinheads. Basically punks, misfits, and losers in their late teens or early twenties — but most of these aren’t kids.”

  “These groups attract those types, and as you can see, a lot of ’em are older. Some are self-proclaimed anarchists. Others are simply radicals or nut cases with a passion for violence. I really have no sympathy for those types.”

  What the hell? “You have sympathy for some of them?” Jack asked.

  “There are some who are simply ranchers or farmers who’ve fallen on bad times. Most of them haven’t had any conflict with the law, but all it takes is for someone to blame their woes on some minority group and get them all worked up. These days, with fake news stories and all the other crap on the internet that people take as gospel … well, some people aren’t smart enough to see through it.”

  “Funny, I was talking to one of our prosecutors the other day about the same thing.” Jack paused. “I find it depressing that people are so gullible.”

  “Yeah, they’re gullible, but I don’t really hold that against them.”

  “I would once they go so far as to join a white power group.”

  Ferg shrugged indifferently. “It’s easy to blame them and be judgmental, but if you look at it from their perspective they’ve worked hard all their lives. It’s hard for them to understand why everything you’ve worked for is going down the toilet because of
the economy. I’ve been fortunate and never had to walk in those shoes. I think when you do the frustration you feel makes it easier to hate.” Ferg paused, then added, “Yeah, they’re dumb and they frustrate me, but those types I do tend to feel sorry for.”

  Jack looked at Ferg for a moment as he thought about what he’d said.

  “What’re you thinking?” Ferg asked.

  “That you’re an exceptionally understanding guy.”

  “Yeah, well, not always,” he replied gruffly. “Especially not with assholes who wear a badge and do things like that,” he said, stabbing at the county sheriff’s picture with his finger.

  “They all seem so angry and full of hate,” Jack noted. “I wonder what was said to get them to do that? This isn’t Second World War Germany.”

  “I don’t know, but it’d be a load of one-sided bullshit that nobody would dare question. These meetings don’t leave much room for open discussion. Their attitude is, you’re either with ’em or you’re agin’ ’em.” He eyed Jack. “How many people in your unit do you have to help you with this case?”

  “I’ve got one partner, but she’s leaving on vacation for the first two weeks of May.”

  “That’s it? One? And she’s leaving?” Ferg looked aghast.

  “I can borrow people from another unit to help with surveillance on occasion.”

  “Man! I don’t want to tell you how to do your job up in Canada, but I can’t emphasize how dangerous these people can be. Some are super paranoid … heavy into conspiracy theories and hostile when it comes to anyone representing the government or law enforcement.”

  “They do look crazy,” Jack admitted as he glanced at the photo again.

  “Yeah, but keep in mind that being crazy doesn’t necessarily mean they’re stupid,” Ferg stated. “These guys can be deadly.”

  Jack nodded, then, in an effort to ease the mood, he tapped the photo with his finger and said, “Ah, maybe they just need to hear a good joke to get them to lighten up.”

  Ferg cast Jack a serious look. “What some of these boys would laugh at would turn your stomach.”