We’d just entered Asheville on I-240 when I had a call from a number I didn’t recognize. I started to let it go to voicemail, but with all the actions swirling around us, I decided I’d better take it.
“Barry, it’s Luther Brookshire.”
“Yes, Luther. I’m kind of tied up right now.”
“I understand. I’m watching the news. Are you okay?”
“Yes. Thanks. Tommy Lee said you came by the department.”
“So you know I had nothing to do with this.”
“I do.”
“Did she kill Rufus and Sonny?”
“That’s what Crockett said. He was in it with her.”
“That’s the FNS investigator, right?”
“Yes. We think they were in it together from the very start. And they were lovers.”
Brookshire’s voice choked. “She played me for a fool. And I made a fool out of the marshals.”
I didn’t say anything. My unspoken thought was that Brookshire was correct. She had played him for a fool, she’d played Robert Sinclair for a fool, and I felt certain she was planning to ditch Crockett and take all the money. La femme fatale.
“Don’t worry, Luther. We’ll get her. I’ve got to go.” I hung up before he could say anything else.
I parked the jeep in a ten-minute loading zone at the hotel. “On second thought, Archie, don’t leave the forms at the front desk. Ask that they deliver them to room 302. We don’t want her coming down where she might see a newscast in the bar.”
“Got it.” He grinned. “This time I’ll listen to you.”
He was back in five minutes. “Now what?”
“Now I take you to Weaverville and your wife and girls.”
After Archie was reunited with his family, I phoned Tommy Lee. It was nearly eleven, but he was still with Lindsay at the FBI office.
“What’s the plan?” I asked.
“Why don’t you head home and get some rest?” Tommy Lee said.
“Oh, no. You made me your lead investigator on this thing and I’m seeing it through.”
“Okay. I’m staying at the Aloft. I’ll book you a room. Lindsay and her agents will take Janet into custody in the morning. We’ll be observers.”
“Did you send Janet the text?”
“Yes.” Tommy Lee chuckled. “My niece is quite devious. She wrote, ‘trouble with the wire transfer. Need to see you! Over Easy Café. 8AM.’”
The Over Easy Café was a popular breakfast spot a few blocks’ walk from Janet’s hotel.
“Good,” I said. “She might not come for Crockett but she’ll come if she thinks there’s a snag with the money. Are you going to make it easy for her to slip out?”
“Yes. Lindsay has one female agent with Janet. She’ll just happen to take a shower around twenty to eight.”
“And we’ll be where?”
“Lindsay’s sending a van for us at seven-fifteen. We’ll be watching through its tinted windows from across the street.”
“All right. I’ll see you in the lobby of the Aloft at seven-fifteen.”
The room was available when I arrived. I was afraid I’d have trouble falling asleep, the way my mind was racing. I stripped, tried to shake the dust from my clothes, and then took a hot shower. I set my phone alarm for six forty-five and put my head on the pillow. The next thing I knew the alarm was chirping.
The van was in position by seven-thirty. Lindsay had brought two thermoses of hot coffee and some sweet rolls. The plan was to take Janet at the front door. But the concern was that as vicious as she’d proven to be, we didn’t want any altercation to break out that could injure an innocent bystander. The Over Easy Café was so popular that a line usually formed about fifteen minutes before opening time.
Around ten till eight, an Asheville police car, siren blaring and lights flashing came speeding past us. We didn’t think much of it until two minutes later when a second cruiser raced by.
“Uh, oh,” Lindsay muttered. “I don’t like this.” She turned to an agent in the front passenger’s seat. “Henry, walk back toward the hotel along the route Janet should be taking.”
Five minutes later, his voice crackled over the comm set. “A woman’s body’s been found behind the hotel. I believe she’s our target.”
“Copy that.” Lindsay slid open the side door. “Gentlemen. Shall we?”
We showed our IDs to the police officers who were setting up a perimeter around the body. They were very curious how the FBI had showed up so quickly, but Lindsay offered no explanation other than the victim was a federal witness.
Janet lay on her back along the single-lane road that ran between the hotel and the historic Thomas Wolfe House. Blood splotched the front of her light-blue coat. An oozing wound marred the center of her forehead. Even in death, her face held an expression of total surprise.
Beside her head lay a single white rose.
“How could the Santonas find her?” Lindsay asked.
“Check her phone,” I suggested.
Lindsay borrowed a pair of latex gloves from one of the officers and rummaged through the purse beside Janet’s waist. She found the phone.
“What am I looking for?” she asked.
“Any text containing the hotel information. Like what we found on Crockett’s phone.”
Lindsay thumbed through the texts as Tommy Lee and I huddled around her. “Here’s the one to Crockett,” she said. “I recognize the number.” She continued to scroll. “Here’s another.”
“That’s Archie’s phone,” I said.
“And here’s a third.”
I pulled my own phone from my belt and checked my messages. The number matched. “That belongs to Luther Brookshire.”
“How will we prove it?” Lindsay asked.
“You won’t,” I said. “You can canvas every flower vendor in the area to see who bought a white rose, but I suspect he might have just paid someone to buy it for him. What’s the time on that message?”
“The night before last. When we first booked her into the hotel.”
“Or maybe he tipped off the Santona family,” Tommy Lee said.
“Maybe,” I conceded. “Ironic that the marshals never lost a witness in WITSEC and here’s the second within three days. And possibly shot by the marshal handling her.”
“No,” Tommy Lee said. “The marshals will claim they voided their protection the day Robert Sinclair went to that New Jersey funeral. Their record’s intact.”
Lindsay nodded. “So, what now?”
I looked down at the body. “Now I call a cemetery in Paterson, New Jersey.”
Chapter Twenty-nine
“Then on Friday afternoon, Commissioner of Agriculture Graham James announced the formation of a task force involving his department, the SBI, the FBI, and FNS to track down and prosecute all who might be part of the fraud ring Collier Crockett and Janet Sinclair created.” I picked up the wineglass by the leg of my chair and took a sip. “And now you’re up to date.”
Melissa Bigham leaned over and turned off the digital audio recorder on the low table between us. She, Susan, and I sat on our back deck. Democrat lay at Melissa’s feet. It was late Sunday afternoon. Janet Sinclair had been shot the previous Wednesday, and Melissa had returned from her vacation in the Caribbean yesterday to find one of the biggest stories in Gainesboro’s history happened while she was gone. To say she was as angry as a wet hornet doesn’t begin to describe her wrath.
As an attempt to pacify her and the Gainesboro Vista, Tommy Lee had authorized an exclusive interview with me. I’d suggested drinks and dinner at the cabin. I was counting on Susan to prevent any bodily harm. Bodily harm to me.
“Okay,” Melissa said flatly, “so, off the record, who do you think killed Joan Santona, aka Janet Sinclair?”
The sheriff and I had agreed there woul
d be no speculation on Luther Brookshire’s guilt while the FBI investigated Janet’s murder. And I’d kept Brookshire out of my story because his affair had no bearing on the key events.
“All I can say is we found a white rose beside her body. Whether it was a Santona hit or someone else casting that suspicion, I don’t know. Anyway, that case is out of our jurisdiction.”
She frowned. “Come on, Barry. Surely you have an opinion.”
“Well, I will say that we’ve learned Collier Crockett had investigated food stamp fraud in New Jersey when the Santonas were suspected of being involved. My speculation is that Crockett and Joan Santona met then. She was already skimming from the family, and that’s why she turned over evidence that got her and Robert into WITSEC. Robert was so infatuated with her that she could manipulate him to do anything. As far as we know, he was happy repping his sportswear lines and playing golf. His signature that the FBI found on checks and deposit slips appears to have been consistently forged by Janet. I believe Robert really didn’t have much of a clue as to what was going on.”
“And you think Janet and Crockett planned to leave the country?”
“I think Janet did. Crockett could have wound up someone she used and discarded along the way.”
“Any update on Buddy Smith and his daughter?” Melissa asked.
“He’s turning state’s evidence. I expect he’ll get a light sentence and probation. His store was barely making ends meet and when his wife got cancer, he got involved with Crockett, only Crockett called himself Callahan. Lindsay Boyce believes Crockett used a false name with every store owner as another layer of protection. In his investigations, he’d find ones who were taking cash out of customers’ EBT cards and threaten to report them if they didn’t start splitting the take. Staples Sources was the shell company and the corrupt store owners wouldn’t be audited since Crockett was the lead investigator.”
“Did he kill the little girl’s cat?”
“Yes. After Buddy Smith’s wife died, the medical bills ceased. Buddy wanted out. The dead cat was a message. I think a judge will be sympathetic to what the poor man went through.”
“And it sounds like at the end, he was going to defend you, rather than give his gun to Crockett.”
I flashed back to the grim look of determination that transformed Buddy’s face from fear to resolve.
“Yes. But I’m afraid Crockett would have shot first.”
Melissa smiled for the first time. “Except for Archie.”
I nodded. “Except for Archie.”
“And here’s my threat to you, Barry Clayton. If something like this ever happens again, promise me you’ll track me down even if I’m on Mars.”
“Or what?” I asked.
“Or I’m running this story under the headline, ‘Archie Donovan, Junior, saves Buryin’ Barry.’”
Susan laughed and raised her glass of sparkling water. “To Archie.”
“To Archie,” I repeated. For once, the words didn’t stick in my throat.
Over six weeks later, Thursday, the first of November, dawned chilly and clear. At eight o’clock, Susan and I stood on the front porch of the funeral home and watched the moving van turn off Main Street into our parking lot. I put my arm around her waist and patted her tummy. The baby bump seemed to be growing daily.
We’d loaded the truck the previous day after getting Uncle Wayne and Mom settled in their apartment at Alderway. Both had been over the moon when we’d told them about the twins. Mom was already anxious about what the grandchildren would call her, and Uncle Wayne regaled us with tales of how they needed a set bedtime like when he grew up on a farm and had to get up early for chores. My bachelor uncle, the expert on child-rearing. Our only livestock was going to be Democrat.
“Your mom called a few minutes ago while you were out back,” Susan said. “She and Uncle Wayne are on their way with ham biscuits and orange juice.”
“Did you tell her we’re fine?”
Susan laughed. “Now what good would that have done? She said she wants the movers to have something to eat. You saw how they loved those cookies yesterday.”
That was my mom. See a person, feed a person. The local movers were doing triple duty: moving Mom and my uncle, moving Cindy and Fletcher, and moving Susan and me.
Not since high school had I lived in the funeral home. Susan and I agreed the two-bedroom cabin would be cramped quarters and it was Susan who convinced me that the funeral home with four bedrooms was a ready-made option. We took the money from the sale of her condo, also sold the cabin, and paid Mom a fair appraisal. Fletcher and Cindy bought the cabin before it went on the market and the movers got all the business, plus cookies and biscuits as a bonus.
Trailing the van was a Chevy Malibu of several years vintage.
“Oh, no,” I groaned. “I wonder what this is about?”
“Who is it?” Susan asked.
“Archie. He bought a used car because his insurance company says he wrecked his Lexus on purpose.”
“But he saved three lives.”
“Don’t I know it. Lindsay Boyce and the FBI are getting involved. They’re working the angle that Crockett and Janet caused him to total his car. The FBI may manage to have the Sinclairs’ assets impounded. Archie could wind up with Janet’s Mercedes or Robert’s Infiniti, if Archie doesn’t die of old age before the government paperwork is completed.”
Archie parked on the far side of the moving van. He got out, waved, and then pulled two wrapped boxes out of his backseat.
He stacked them under his chin and walked toward us without being able to see his feet.
“You’d better go help him,” Susan said. “We don’t need to test our new homeowner’s policy if he trips.”
I met Archie at the edge of the sidewalk and took one of the packages.
“Thanks, Barry. I can’t stay, but Gloria and I wanted to get you something for your first day in the funeral home. Can’t believe you’re living here. It’s like old times.”
He stepped up on the porch and smiled at Susan. “And how are you doing, little Momma?”
“I’m good, Archie. How’s the family?”
“Terrific. Everything’s terrific.”
“Well, that’s terrific,” I echoed.
“Come on in,” Susan said. “Have some coffee.”
“Thanks. These are for the kitchen anyway.” Archie stepped around her and led the way into the house.
Susan and I looked at each other. She shook her head as if to say, “Only Archie.”
He set his package on the kitchen table and I placed the second one beside it. They were wrapped in pink and blue paper.
“Go ahead. Open them.”
Susan took one and I took the other. In less than a minute, we were looking at identical boxes with a picture of a yellow booster seat on the sides.
“What do you think?” Archie asked. “We got this color because we don’t know the genders, but you’ll need them for when the twins are old enough to sit at this table and eat their peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.”
Archie punched me gently on the arm. “Huh, buddy? Just what this funeral home needs. New life.” He laughed at his own joke. “And if they’re boys, I’ve got the perfect names.”
I cringed.
He punched me harder. “Archie and Barry.”
Author’s Note
Secret Undertaking is a work of fiction, but elements of the story are based in fact.
The U.S. Marshals Service is charged with operating the Federal Witness Protection Program, or WITSEC, as it is known. In contacting the U.S. Marshals for information, one quickly learns that all aspects of their procedures for relocating their witnesses are closely guarded. “Neither confirm nor deny” is their prevalent answer. However, they referred me to the book, WITSEC: Inside the Federal Witness Protection Program by Pete Earley a
nd Gerald Shur, the man credited with creating WITSEC. Although the Marshals neither confirm nor deny its accuracy, the book is a fascinating revelation of the program’s history.
WITSEC was instrumental in decimating the mob, but an unintended consequence has been those occasions when relocated witnesses have used their new, squeaky-clean identities to return to a life of crime. Local law enforcement is not made aware of their presence in their communities. That tension between invaluable testimony for the prosecution of major criminal enterprises and the protection of those witnesses who are criminals themselves is real and created the underlying conflict for my story.
Likewise, the urban and rural abuse of the Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program (SNAP Food Stamp Program) is also documented fact, but I wouldn’t want the crimes depicted in my story to undercut the tremendous benefit that SNAP provides. Although fraud exists, it is a very small percentage of an overall program that offers vital assistance to millions of low-income individuals and families. It is a key component of our social safety net, and the USDA aggressively investigates and prosecutes those who would subvert it.
Acknowledgments
Special thanks to retired Mecklenburg County Sheriff Chipp Bailey for his insights into the U.S. Marshals’ insulation of relocated witnesses from local law enforcement. Also I’m appreciative of what information the U.S. Marshals Office of Public Affairs was able to share regarding WITSEC. Thanks to my brother Arch de Castrique, insurance and investment guru, for devising the Sinclairs’ policy scheme.
I’m grateful to my editor Barbara Peters for her guidance in developing the story and to Robert Rosenwald and the staff of Poisoned Pen Press, who turn stories into books. Thanks to the many librarians and booksellers who introduce my stories to readers and to all who spend time with my characters.
Finally, I’m grateful for my family—Linda, Melissa, Pete, Charlie, Lindsay, Jordan (and canines Grady, Belby, and Norman), who make reality even more fun to experience than fiction. Thanks for creating such a wonderful world.
Secret Undertaking Page 26