Love and Lies: A Jake Badger Mystery Thriller

by Glenn Rogers

  “Look it up,” I said.

  “Sometimes you're a real pain in the butt. You know that?”

  Chapter 37

  Daryl Neffkey was short and thick, and looked strong as a bull. He had a round, bald head. There was a weariness in his eyes that said they’d seen too much.

  “Have a seat,” he said, after shaking my hand.

  I sat. His small office was law enforcement utilitarian, which meant it was bland and sparse, not the kind of place you voluntarily spend much time.

  “So there's a mole in the FBI,” he said.

  “Yeah,” I said, “but we don't want to appear to be bragging about it.”

  I thought he almost smiled.

  He said, “And you think one of the people who turned states evidence against the syndicate might know who it is?”

  “Maybe,” I said. “If not, they might be able to give me the name of someone who would know.”

  “Someone inside the mob?”

  “Maybe.”

  “And you think someone in the syndicate is going tell you who their informant is?”

  “The right person properly motivated can be the source of all kinds of information.”

  Now it was Daryl's turn to say, “Maybe.”

  “Doesn't hurt to ask,” I said.

  He shrugged and retrieved three files from his top desk drawer. Laying the files on the desk in front of him, he pushed them across to me and said, “I got three people for you: one in Arizona, one in New Mexico, and one in Nevada.”

  “Who were they?”

  “One in Arizona is Peter Clegg, formerly known as Stephen Lawson. Was a defense attorney for syndicate employees. Tried to run his girlfriend over when he discovered she was sleeping with his brother. Now he teaches high school government classes in Mesa.”

  “Mob defense attorney,” I said. “I imagine they'd very much like to find him.”

  “They'd very much like to find all these people,” Neffkey said. “We have to make sure they don't.”

  I nodded as I looked at Clegg's file.

  “One in Albuquerque is Kathryn Lake. Real name was Tiffany Campbell, AKA Bunny Fellatio. Favorite whore of syndicate hit man Eddie Gomez. Ms. Lake now works as a computer tech support person for the Albuquerque Police Department.”

  “And the APD has no idea.”

  “None at all,” he said, dryly.

  “How'd you get your hands on her?”

  “She got caught cheating on her income tax.”

  “Dumb,” I said.

  “Cheating or getting caught?” Neffkey asked.

  “Either,” I said.

  Neffkey nodded once then said, “Third one is Neal Johnson, Paradise, Nevada. Johnson's real name was Samuel Fremont. Was the driver and bodyguard for Mrs. Sylvia Belldoni.”

  My eyebrows went involuntarily. “Mrs. Belldoni,” I said. “What'd he do to compromise himself?”

  “He compromised Mrs. Belldoni, if you get my meaning. When Mr. Belldoni found out, Fremont offered to trade what he knew for protection.”

  “What's Mr. Johnson doing now?”

  “Has a BBQ place called Smok'n Joe's. Ribs, pulled pork sandwiches, brisket, that sort of thing. Big portions. Fair prices. Doing pretty well.”

  “So, it looks like I'm going to be doing some traveling.”

  “Looks like,” he said. “Just be sure I don't have to relocate these people after you're done.”

  “Absolutely.”

  Wednesday evening, I called Mildred. She'd be back in the office in the morning. I explained that I'd be out of town a couple of days. Wilson would be waiting for her when she got to the office. She said that after three days with her son's new girlfriend, Wilson would be a welcome change. I didn't ask for details.

  The next morning after our run, I dropped Wilson off at the office, headed off to LAX and caught my flight to Phoenix. I did not enjoy the flight. Fortunately, the flight is less than ninety minutes.

  The Arizona sky was clear. The air was dry and hot. Mesa was a thirty-minute drive beyond Phoenix. I stopped at a mini mart for a Coke Zero before getting on the freeway.

  According to his file, Peter Clegg taught at Desert High School, in Mesa. It was eleven fifteen when I got there. I figured I could chat with Peter during his lunch break. I went to the office and inquired after Mr. Clegg. The lady at the desk, a Ms. Greenway, was not only very large in both directions, but was determined to follow procedure. I had to sign in, show ID, and explain why I was there. I explained that I was a private investigator working with the family attorney. Mr. Clegg's great uncle, Jedediah Cogburn, had passed away and left his nephew, Mr. Clegg, a sizable inheritance. I'd had trouble locating Mr. Clegg and the timeline for distributing the money was about to expire. Time was of the essence. I needed to see Mr. Clegg right away, lunchtime perhaps. Mrs. Greenway appeared to be convinced and told me where I could find Mr. Clegg. His class would be over in fifteen minutes. I thanked her and went to find the room.

  I waited outside Clegg's classroom. The bell sounded and the students poured out. Most of them looked bored, some looked confused; others appeared to be uncertain. They were where they were supposed to be, not where they wanted to be. Clegg followed after a moment, also looking less than enthusiastic.

  “Peter Clegg?” I said. He looked maybe forty-five. He was smallish. Five six, maybe, and about one forty. He had longish brown hair that needed combing.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Neffkey sent me. We need to talk. Can I buy you lunch?”

  Clegg tried to appear calm, but I could see him tighten up. He looked uncertain. He stepped back into his empty classroom. I followed him in. He shut the door.

  “You may have some information,” I said, “that will help the FBI in an investigation they're conducting.”

  “That wasn't the deal,” Clegg said. “I told them what I knew; they set me up here. That was supposed to be the end of it.”

  “And under normal circumstances,” I said, “I'm sure it would be. But these are not normal circumstances. Let me buy you lunch. We'll talk. Thirty or forty minutes and I'm out of here.”

  He hesitated but then finally agreed. We went out to my rental car and he directed me to a nearby Chili's. He said it would be crowded and noisy at lunchtime so we could talk without anyone listening.

  A waiter was there immediately after we sat down and we each ordered a Diet Coke.

  “So how do you like teaching high school government?” I asked.

  “Really?” he said. “Small talk?”

  I shrugged. “Would you prefer to get right to it?”

  “I'd prefer to be left alone.”

  “Then answer my questions and I'll be on my way and you'll never see me again ... unless you lie to me.”

  His eyes bore into mine. That was the defense attorney in him. It was a pretty good stare. With a stare like that I figured he didn't have too many discipline problems in the classroom. But I wasn't a high school kid so what did I know?

  “What is it you think I know,” he asked after a moment.

  “Someone in the L.A. office of the FBI is providing the syndicate with information. We need to know who it is.”

  “I don't know that. Why would I know that?”

  The waiter returned with our drinks and we ordered. I got the fajitas; Clegg got a burger.

  Once the waiter was gone, I said, “A defense attorney hears things.”

  “Sure. But that's not one of the things I heard.”

  I studied him for a moment. “It's the truth,” he said. “I don't know.”

  “If you wanted to know, who would you ask?”

  He looked at me as if I were an idiot. “No one,” he said. “You don't ask questions like that.”

  “Sure,” I said. “You also don't inform on the mob. But here you are.”

  He shook his head and took a drink of his soda.

  “There's someone who can be convinced to talk,” I said.

  “Look, I've been gone for
three years. I don't know who's who anymore. I have no idea who to ask.”

  “If it was three years ago, who would you ask?”

  He shook his head again. “Look, it wasn't like that. When they needed a defense attorney, they called me. I had a legitimate practice. I also defended people who were not part of the syndicate. I wasn't part of their organization. The only people I interacted with on their behalf were my clients and the person who called me.”

  “Who was that?”

  He shook his head.

  Our food came. We took a moment to get started.

  After a couple of bites he said, “Even if I was still involved and was stupid enough to ask something like that, even if I asked someone who happened to know, he wouldn't tell me. No one who knows who it is, is going to talk about it. No one.”

  “Why not?”

  He looked as if he were having to explain something to a bothersome child.

  “An informant in the FBI? You have any idea how much that’s worth, and how hard it is to get someone on the inside? It could take years. You think they get something like that set up they're going to jeopardize it by talking about it?”

  He shook his head, took a bite of his burger, chewed, swallowed and said, “Even if you could figure out who to ask, he's not going to tell you.”

  Chapter 38

  I had gotten what I was going to get from Clegg. Either he didn't know who the informant was and couldn't tell me, or he simply wasn't going to tell me. I suspected he was being honest when he said he had no idea who it was. I did not agree, however, that no one could be persuaded to provide a name.

  I thanked Clegg for talking to me. I paid for lunch and took him back to school. I went back to the airport and scheduled the next available flight to Albuquerque.

  We landed in Albuquerque a little after three. It was cooler than it had been in Phoenix, not by much. There were a few puffy clouds floating around above the desert landscape. I rented another car and drove to the police department looking for Kathryn Lake.

  There was a petite female officer at the information desk just beyond the front door. She was pretty, but looked stressed and tired.

  I smiled. She didn't. “Can I help you?” she asked, tiredly.

  “Looking for Kathryn Lake,” I said.

  “I need a little more information.”

  “Oh, sorry. She works here. Tech Support.”

  She pointed. “Down this hall, turn right. Tech Support is at the end of that hall. You'll have to ask them where she is.”

  I smiled again. “Thank you.”

  She still didn't smile. That really annoys me.

  Tech Support for the Albuquerque Police Department looked a lot like other tech support departments I’d seen: utilitarian. Lot’s of equipment stacked here and there. I stood at a counter for a couple of seconds before a rather plain-looking middle-aged woman smiled and asked if she could help me. She wasn’t attractive, but least she smiled.

  “Kathryn Lake,” I said.

  “Kathy,” the woman called over her shoulder. “Someone to see you.”

  A smallish woman in her thirties with short blond hair, big eyes, a generous mouth, and large breasts emerged from behind a shelving unit filled with electronic components. In her jeans and tee shirt, she looked like a grad student.

  “Can I help you?” she asked as she approached the counter.

  “A mutual friend in L.A., Daryl, sent me. He says, hi.”

  She just looked at me.

  “Is there somewhere we can go and talk for a few minutes?” I asked softly.

  Her eyes searched mine. “Uh, yeah,” she said, trying to sound casual. “How is Daryl?”

  “He's fine,” I said with a smile.

  Kathryn looked at the older woman. “I'll be back in a few minutes, Lynn.”

  Kathryn walked me out of the building and to the parking lot where we got into her car—a nicely restored fifty-seven Chevy.

  Once we were in her car, I said, “Nice car.”

  She ignored my compliment and said, “Okay, what's going on?”

  “Neffkey thought you might be able to help the FBI with an investigation.”

  She wanted to know what kind of an investigation. I told her.

  “I don't know anything about an informant.”

  I studied her eyes.

  “Do you know my background?” she asked.

  “I’ve read your file.”

  “So you know what I did. I provided a service. I wasn't involved in syndicate business.”

  “But maybe in the process of providing your service, you heard something.”

  “I heard lots of oos and ahs. Yeah baby, just like that. I didn't hear anything about any informant.”

  “Nothing at all?” I asked.

  She took a deep breath. “This is not supposed to be happening. You're not supposed to be here. I made a deal. I kept my end and I expect you people to keep yours. I'm supposed to be free of it.”

  “Just tell me what you know and you'll never see me or hear from me again.”

  “I don't know anything,” she said. “I spent time with Eddie Gomez. When we were together, he had other things on his mind. He didn't talk to me about business.”

  “But you did occasionally overhear stuff,” I said. “Maybe you overheard something about an informant.”

  She thought. I waited.

  “Anything at all would be helpful,” I said.

  She fidgeted and took a deep breath. “One day,” she said, “after we had finished, Eddie got a call. Normally he just listened and said okay. They told him who to hit and he hit him. Simple. But this time there was some discussion. And one of the things Eddie said was, the informant.”

  “The informant,” I repeated.

  “Yeah. It was like a question, like, the informant? And then he nodded and said ‘okay’ the way he always did. That was it. That's the only thing I ever heard about an informant.”

  I nodded. “That's good,” I said. “Thank you. That confirms that there was an informant.”

  She shrugged. “Maybe. I don't know.”

  “Thanks for your time,” I said. “I won't bother you again.” I got out of her car and walked back to mine.

  I drove back to the airport and booked a flight to Las Vegas. It was still hot in Vegas. It would cool off overnight, but at eight-thirty you could still fry an egg on the sidewalk. I rented another car and made the fifteen minute drive to Paradise.

  Neal Johnson lived on a quiet residential street in a well-maintained older ranch style house. I parked on the street, walked to his door and knocked.

  A tall middle-aged man with sandy colored brown hair answered the door. “Yes?”

  “Neal Johnson?”

  “Yeah. Can I help you?”

  I handed him my card. He looked at it. “Neffkey sent me,” I said. His eyes snapped back up to mine. “He thought you might be able to help the FBI with an investigation. Can I come in?”

  “You with the FBI?”

  “Used to be,” I said. “Now I'm private. But I’m working with the FBI on this one.”

  He looked me over, looked at my card again, and stepped back away from the door. “Sure. Come on in.”

  His house was a small, clean, nineteen seventies tract home furnished eclectically. He gestured that I should sit on the sofa. He sat in a chair sitting at an angle to it.

  “Something to drink?” he asked.

  “No, thanks. I'm good.”

  “Okay. So what's this investigation Neffkey thinks I can help with?”

  I explained about the mole in the Bureau's L.A. office.

  “And he thinks I know who it is?” Johnson asked.

  “We think that maybe it's possible that in your position with Mrs. Belldoni that you might have overheard something.”

  His eyes roamed the floor around his feet. He ran his fingers through his hair and took a deep breath. He shook his head and said, “I don't remember any conversations that included comments about an i
nformant.”

  “Who in the organization,” I asked, “other than the obvious people, would know who the informant is?”

  He frowned as he thought. His bottom lip came out just a bit. “One of the accountants,” he said. “One who physically moves the money around, who pays people.”

  My expression must have said that I needed more.

  “Informants have to be paid, right? No one's going to do that sort of thing for free. So the accountant's got to transfer funds. It will be one of the mid-level accountants.”

  I wanted to be sure I understood what he meant. I said, “So the high level guys, the CPAs or the attorneys, whoever, responsible for the books may not be the guys who move money around.”

  “Right,” Johnson said. “The guy responsible for the books is a high-level position. Way up there. But the guy who actually moves money around is a mid-level position. He just moves money in and out of accounts. He does what he’s told. Thing is, he knows where he's putting the money. He knows who’s getting paid. Find that guy, you might convince him to talk.”

  “That's a helpful insight,” I said. “Any idea who that person would be?”

  He shook his head. “Not today. When I was there it was a guy named Eli Wilkins. But I've no idea who's got the job today.”

  “Any particular reason it couldn't still be Wilkins?” I asked.

  “Not particularly,” he said, after considering it. “I guess he could still be there ... long as he didn't piss off one of the bosses.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Johnson. This has been very helpful.”

  “The Justice Department and the Marshall's office have been very good to me. If I can return the favor ...” he shrugged and held his hands out, palms up.

  I thanked him and left. It had been a long day. I didn't want to fly home that night, so I drove back to Las Vegas and found a cheap room.

  Chapter 39

  I caught an early flight out of Vegas that put me into L.A. at nine fourteen a.m. Traffic on the 405 was slow, so the forty-minute drive home took sixty. I pulled into my parking spot at my office at ten forty-two.

  Wilson was exuberant in his greeting. After he calmed down, Mildred asked, “How much did you lose?”