The Devils Punchbowl pc-3

by Greg Iles

  “I don'’t think this is a password,” she murmurs to herself. “It’s too long, plus it’s counterintuitive. Have you gone to this URL, www.thief.com?”

  “Yes. I don'’t see how the site could be related to any of this. And there’s no dot-com in the text message. We’re just assuming that one follows.”

  “Right, right. What

  is

  in the backpack?”

  “A gun and a satellite phone.”

  She looks up, checking to see if I'm joking. When she sees I'm not, her gaze drops back to the message. “I suppose there could be more to the Web address, and Tim knew Linda would know what the rest

  of it was. But if that’s the case, we’re not going to find that without Linda. Not easily, anyway.”

  “Obviously it could be a code of some kind, but it’s not simple enough for me to break it.”

  “Maybe,” Caitlin concedes. “But the words that follow don'’t appear to be random. ‘Kill mommy. Squirt too.’ But they don'’t actually say that, do they? Are these letters exactly what you saw in the police station?”

  “I think so, yes.”

  “And you don'’t believe Tim would have tried to get rid of his wife and kid to run off with this Linda woman?”

  “No way in hell. He lived for that kid. I'’ll be surprised if it turns out he was even having an affair with Linda.”

  “I won'’t.”

  Caitlin makes another tight circuit of the room, then stops with her forefinger on the paper. “You know what?” she says, her voice suddenly bright with excitement.

  “What?”

  “I think this message is just what it looks like!”

  “Which is what?”

  “A text message.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just a second.” She rummages through her purse, then pulls out a small flat pen and a business card. Setting them aside, she taps at the keys of her cell phone for half a minute. Then, after scrawling on the back of the card for a few seconds, she drops the pen back in her purse and shoves the card at me with a look of triumph. “There you go. There’s your message.”

  I look down and read aloud what she’s written: “

  They know. Run.

  Is that it?”

  “That'’s it.”

  “So he was warning her to get off the boat?”

  “Yep.”

  “How did you get that?”

  “The cell phone Tim used to send this message was in predictive text mode. Either he didn't know that or he forgot, and he typed the message without looking at the screen. Otherwise he would have

  seen what was happening to his intended message. Was this sent from his personal phone?”

  “I don'’t yes. This actually makes sense. He was being chased in his car. He couldn'’t take time to try to use his extra phones, or even to look down at his own phone.”

  “A lot of girls I know can do that,” Caitlin muses. “Not so many guys.”

  “Tim probably could.”

  “But he didn't warn her in time. Did he?”

  “I don'’t think so. I think Linda Church is dead. Or worse.”

  “What’s worse?” I actually see the memory of my describing Tim’s tortured body come back to Caitlin. “Oh. Never mind.”

  I turn over the card she gave me.

  Zeitgeist Films HD.

  “Ah. Your friend.” She gives me a look like

  Give me a break,

  but I don'’t. “What’s the deal with that guy? What did you tell him?”

  “He had interviews to do in New Orleans. I didn't.”

  “Does he expect you down there?”

  “Not so much. Look, he was starting to get on my nerves, if you want to know the truth.”

  “And this little adventure gives you a good excuse to blow him off.”

  “You don'’t want me to blow him off?”

  “I just need to know I can count on you being here for three or four days. Without interference.”

  “The answer is yes. And don'’t forget, I'm already paying my way. I just broke your code for you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Should we tell anyone else?”

  “No.”

  “Then can we get out of here and get some food?”

  “Not if you want to keep talking about the case.”

  She gives me a crafty smile, says, “Give me forty seconds,” then leaves the supply room. She returns in less time than that, a set of keys with a Chrysler ring in her hand.

  “This van is a mess, but there’s no way it’s bugged. No one would even get into it without a hazmat suit. Come on. We can talk in there.”

  Walking out to the van, I scan the parking lot and the street. I don'’t see anyone watching, but that doesn’'t mean anything.

  As predicted, the van is a wreck, but I do feel more secure in it. The best way to beat surveillance—or even terrorists—is to abandon all patterns, to make random decisions. This is a good one.

  Caitlin drives us over to Franklin Street, where a recent arrival has opened a Greek fast-food joint in an old fried-chicken restaurant. He still serves fried chicken and catfish, but now the black section of town—where this restaurant is—is getting a taste of pita and souvlaki. So far, the place is still open, and it has a drive-through window.

  “So what about your high school girl?” Caitlin asks, after ordering gyro plates to go for both of us. “You two still talk?”

  “Give me a break. You know nothing happened.”

  Her eyebrows arch for a split second. “So you say. Still at Harvard?”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought she might flunk out, pining away for you and all.”

  I shake my head and look away, pressing back thoughts of Mia Burke and what she might be doing tonight. She has e-mailed me several times, and I have responded twice. But I have kept her at a remove.

  “So, what are you

  doing

  about Tim’s death?” Caitlin asks. “I still haven'’t heard a plan of action.”

  “Daniel Kelly’s on his way here from Afghanistan. He should be here early tomorrow morning. Like six a.m.”

  “That'’s a good first step. Rambo with a blond ponytail.”

  “Sometimes that’s what you need.”

  “Oh, I know. I was kidding. What about the local cops? You don'’t think you can trust Chief Logan?”

  “I think it’s more a matter of him not knowing who he can trust.”

  “Will he work Tim’s murder, at least?”

  “I don'’t think it matters much, unless he finds a smoking gun. Which he won'’t. Even if he did, Shad Johnson could still make it difficult to prosecute the people involved.”

  “And of course the FBI hates your guts.”

  “There are still a couple of people there I think I could talk to. I’'ve thought about calling Peter Lutjens, just to have him troll through the computers for what can turn up on Jonathan Sands.” Lutjens is

  an agent who works in the Puzzle Palace—FBI headquarters—and has access to almost everything in their digital data banks.

  “You nearly got him fired last time,” Caitlin reminds me.

  “Not ‘nearly.’ He was fired.”

  “They reinstated him.”

  “The point is, Peter might be able to help, but I'm reluctant to put him in the same position again. I also worry that any query on Sands might trigger some kind of automatic response.”

  “Okay, there’s my problem with this. How could a guy working in a casino in Natchez, Mississippi, be that important?”

  “If we knew that, our problems would be over.”

  The window attendant hands Caitlin a white bag, and she pays with a credit card. As we pull away, she plucks a triangle of pita bread from the bag and eats it in a bite. “Food of the gods,” she says. “What about the Chinese angle? In the post-9/11 world, surely foreign investors in American casinos must be investigated by the CIA, even if the gaming commission gives them a pass because they have a nominally small share.”

  “I agree. That part doesn’'t make sense. If one of these Chinese investors has a criminal record, or is dirty in some way, I
don'’t see the government allowing him to purchase part of a casino company.”

  “And you never thought Tim’s theory of Sands ripping off the town by shorting taxes made sense. So what is he really up to?”

  “When I was in Houston, I heard about some cases where casinos had been used for money laundering. An Indian casino in particular, I remember, with links to organized crime on the East Coast. But if that’s what they'’re up to, why risk the operation with side action like dogfighting and prostitution? I mean, maybe a guy like Sands would risk it, but not some Chinese billionaire. At least I don'’t think he would.”

  “Superrich freaks exist,” Caitlin says. She laughs, then digs out a strip of meat to eat with another piece of pita. “In fact, they'’re probably the rule, not the exception. Plenty of rich Japanese freaks, when it comes to sex and violence. China, I don'’t know. I’'ve been there twice, but only as a tourist.”

  “You mean you didn't sleep with any natives?”

  “No, I still like older white guys, for some unfathomable reason. What do you expect out of Kelly?”

  “Security, for one thing.”

  She looks up with utter seriousness in her eyes.

  Annie?

  she mouths.

  “Safe. That'’s all that matters. But Kelly won'’t show up empty-handed. He’ll have whatever Blackhawk finds on Sands, Quinn, and Golden Parachute. Those guys don'’t miss much.”

  Caitlin gives a skeptical little

  hmph.

  “What’s that for?”

  “They do a lot of work in Iraq, right? That hasn’'t turned out so well, in case you haven'’t noticed.”

  “Yeah, well, Kelly’s on the first team. And he’ll push to get a thorough job on this.”

  “I agree. Besides, I miss having a guy around who can handle a mob attack or home invasion, if I get into that kind of situation.”

  I know she’s keeping up this patter to try to keep me from sinking into depression, but just bringing her up to speed has exhausted me. Two bites of food is like taking a shot of Demerol.

  “I wasn'’t kidding when I said you look terrible,” Caitlin says. “What were you going to do next? Like right this minute?”

  “Tonight I'm going to fly the river with Danny McDavitt and try to see where the VIP boat goes.”

  “The VIP boat?”

  “The excursion boat owned by Golden Parachute. I forgot to tell you, Tim said they usually take the excursion boat to these dogfights.”

  “When was the last time you slept?”

  “I got a few hours last night.”

  “Bullshit. Your eyes look like they'’re bleeding.”

  I flip down the visor and look in the vanity mirror. She’s not exaggerating by much. If I don'’t recharge my batteries soon, I'm going to be no use to anybody. “Actually I guess the last time I slept was in my office yesterday. Couple of hours on a cot. And I only got four hours the night before that.”

  “What were you going to do if you found the VIP boat?”

  “Nothing. Stand off and find out where it anchors. Then go home and wait for Kelly.”

  “I think your pilot could handle that job on his own. Don’t you?”

  “Yeah, I think he could. But—”

  “You’re in no condition to make decisions. You’ve done well up to now, but you need sleep. You’re coming back to my house and crashing until an hour before Kelly arrives. Tell McDavitt to call me if there’s a problem. I'’ll man the satellite phone, whatever.”

  “That'’s a tempting offer.”

  “It’s not an offer. It’s an order.”

  “Okay. Let me speak to Danny. I need to check on something anyway.”

  As Caitlin drives along Homochitto Street, I roll down the window and call Danny McDavitt on the satellite phone. His usually laconic voice sounds worried from the first syllable.

  “Carl’s not back yet,” he says.

  “From the Devil’s Punchbowl?”

  “Right.”

  “How long has he been gone?”

  “I don'’t know exactly what time he went in, but he’s almost three hours past due now.”

  “You think he got stuck down there in the dark?”

  “He may have. He’d probably spend the night down there rather than try to climb out in the dark.”

  “I hope that’s it.”

  “How are you doing?” McDavitt asks.

  “I'm pretty whipped. Haven’t slept for two days. Do you think you could make tonight’s flight without me?”

  “Just do what we talked about earlier?”

  “Yeah. And stay far enough away so that they don'’t hear the chopper.”

  “I might have to make one pass at an audible level to get a good fix. FLIR has its limitations, especially when you can’t afford the top of the line.”

  “Just be careful.”

  “Always. Hey, I heard from Hans Necker. He examined the wrecked balloon, and he’s pretty sure the shots came from the levee road. So most likely they were fired from a parked vehicle, or from the trees near one. And definitely from a silenced rifle.”

  “Okay. Tell him thanks if you talk to him again, but we already know who ordered those shots fired. I was just hoping they’d been

  fired from private property, and we could get the name of the landowner. How are Necker’s legs?”

  “One bad sprain, one fracture. He’s a tough bird though. I also heard from our blond friend. He’s landing in Baton Rouge about three this morning. I'm going to fly down and get him, if you’ll pay for the fuel.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “We can be at the rendezvous by four thirty a.m., if you want to wake up that early.”

  When Danny dropped me off at my car, we decided that as soon as Kelly arrived, we’d meet on a piece of private property owned by one of my father’s two partners. “That'’s great. The sooner the better.”

  “Do you want a report before then?”

  “Only if Carl turns up.”

  “Right. I'm out.”

  “Thanks, Danny.”

  “Everything okay?” Caitlin asks.

  “I don'’t know. The guy who’s checking out Tim’s car hasn’'t come out of the Devil’s Punchbowl.”

  “You think he’s in trouble?”

  “I just hope he’s not down with a snakebite or something.”

  “You said he was a marine, right? He’ll be okay.”

  “I guess. That food is really hitting me now. Jesus. I can hardly keep my eyes open.”

  “Close them. I'’ll wake you when we get to my house.”

  “If my cell rings, ignore it. If the satellite phone rings, answer it. But be very careful what you say, once we’re in your house.”

  She reaches out and brushes my hair away from my eyes. “Just let go, okay? We’ll be home soon. You did the right thing telling me.”

  “Did I?” I ask, but my mind is already sliding into blankness.

  “Penn, wake up.”

  “What?” I jerk to a half-alert state of panic. We’re still in the car, parked against a vanilla brick wall. “What’s happening?”

  “Chief Logan just called.”

  “What time is it?”

  “You were only asleep for a couple of minutes. We were almost home and your phone rang.”

  More panic. “The satellite phone?”

  “No, no, your regular cell. I wouldn'’t have answered, but I recognized his number.”

  “You what?”

  “I don'’t forget numbers, you know that.”

  I look out the window and see the Entergy building. “We’re at the police station?”

  “Logan said he needs to talk to you face-to-face.”

  “What else did he say? Sands’s people can listen to my regular cell.”

  “He said the problem was Soren Jensen and Shad Johnson. I think you’re okay. Apparently the boy hasn’'t been arraigned yet, and your old girlfriend has been raising hell. That'’s good cover, right?”

  “Best we’re going to get. Is Libby here now?”

  “No. Wasn’t she a lawyer before she ran that bookstore?”

  “A corporate lawyer. And she’s not licensed to practice in Mississipp
i. Look, do you mind waiting in the car?”

  Caitlin gives me a disappointed look. “You don'’t trust me?”

  “It’s not that. Logan’s not going to speak freely in front of you.”

  “Okay.”

  “Do you think anybody followed us here?”

  “I don'’t think so. But what do I know? I haven'’t been stalked since college.”

  “Even so, we can’t use this car anymore. If Sands’s people heard that call, they’ll cruise by just to see what vehicle I'm in.”

  “I can get more cars,” Caitlin says. “Get going. You know I hate waiting.”

  Chief Logan looks five years older than he did yesterday.

  “What’s up, Don?”

  “I’'ve got the autopsy report.”

  “Looks like you don'’t like what’s in it. How long have you had it?”

  “A few hours.”

  “What does it say?”

  His eyes meet mine. “I have a feeling you already know.”

  “I knew last night what it was going to say. Murder. You knew it too.”

  “Yeah. I guess I was hoping this really was a drug murder. Or just a straight killing. Over a debt, a woman something.”

  “There’s nothing straight about this, Don. What did Shad say about the autopsy?”

  “Our illustrious district attorney claims this

  is

  a drug murder. Drugs and adultery.”

  “So why did they torture him?”

  “That'’s easy to explain, if you’re trying.”

  “What about Linda Church? Any word on her?”

  “Nothing. It’s like she fell off the face of the earth.”

  “I think she has. She knew way too much to keep breathing.”

  Logan sighs heavily.

  “What are you going to do now, Chief?”

  “Same thing I always do. Work the case.”

  “How?”

  “That'’s what I’'ve been down here thinking about. What would you do, if you were in my place?”

  “I’d get a warrant for the security tapes on the

  Magnolia Queen

  for the twelve hours prior to Tim’s death.”

  Logan’s mouth falls open. “You’re kidding, right? What would they show?”