by John Foxjohn
When the others left, Melvin sat, crossed his leg and swung his foot, while he glanced at the carpet.
“Melvin—what’re your goals in the bureau?”
At the question, the computer specialist’s head jerked up, lips trembling. “I didn’t call Beeker,” he said in a hesitant voice.
David leaned forward. “Never thought you did.” He smiled to break the tension as gratitude lingered in the agent’s eyes. “I’d still like to know your goals.”
Melvin nodded a couple of times, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down like a yo-yo, and he adjusted his glasses with an index finger. “I want to be a good field agent. Not a computer specialist.”
David leaned back in his seat. “Okay—I want to describe someone to you and when I’m through, tell me what you think of him.”
Melvin nodded, but confusion crossed his face.
“The person I’m going to describe is a white male, middle forties. He’s six-foot five and weighs three hundred and twenty-five pounds. He has long blonde hair that he keeps in a pony tail.” David pointed to the doorway entrance. “His shoulders are so wide he’d have to turn sideways to enter that door. Most of the time, he wears muscle tee shirts, shorts that show off his huge thighs and calves. And a thick leather weight lifting belt.”
David drank some coffee. “What impression do you get of this man?”
Without any hesitation, Melvin said, “A workout freak.”
David nodded. “Good assessment. The man I described is a friend of mine in Houston. He is the weight and conditioning coach for University of Houston.”
Melvin nodded, his gaze taking in David’s mass. “That figures.”
“No one,” David continued, “would walk in there and not know who he is. Also, almost no one calls him doctor.”
Melvin’s eyes widened in surprise. “Doctor?”
David smiled, thinking about his friend. “Yep. Doctor. He has two doctorate degrees from Harvard. He’s also considered one of the world’s authorities on kinesiology and exercise physiology.”
Melvin leaned forward. “Really.”
“Uh huh. Do you think the people he works with would have a lot of respect for him if he showed up for work in a three-piece suit? How willing would the players he coaches be to follow his routine if he didn’t work out with them?”
He sat and leaned back. “His appearance presents an image,” David continued. “Melvin—when people look at you—what do they see?”
The agent dropped his gaze—his voice trembled when he said, “A computer geek.”
“Why is that?”
“Because I am.”
“No. That’s not the reason they see you that way. Your appearance presents that image, not you. It may not be fair, but people judge other people by the way they dress. Do you understand?”
“What can I do about it?”
“You can start by not spending all your own money on electronic equipment. If you need it, ask me. I’ll authorize the expense. Buy some clothes. Comb your hair.”
David stood, sauntered to the coffee pot and filled his cup, and had a seat. “Listen. You have the potential to turn into a damn good field agent. When you start thinking you’re a field agent, looking like a field agent, other people will think of you that way.”
David smiled. “One other little piece of advice—when you talk to a man, look him in the eye.”
* * * *
A few miles away the killer picked up the pay phone and dialed a number. The angry voice on the other end startled him. He’d expected elation over getting rid of the witness. He listened in stunned disbelief when the person on the other end told him he’d bungled the job again. The witness was still alive. His spirits sank when told that the FBI had a real picture of him.
When he hung up, the last words rang in his head. He had to kill FBI Agent David Mason.
* * * *
When David called to get an appointment to talk to the chief, they put him on hold for a good fifteen minutes. He thought about hanging up and calling later when the chief answered.
“Glad you called. I wondered how it was going with the investigation.”
David grimaced and sighed. “I’d like to talk to you about it. When can we get together?”
“Anytime. Just tell my secretary…”
A pause ensued. “On second thought,” the chief said, “Why don’t you drop by my house after five? We can have a drink, too. This way we won’t get interrupted like here. Dammit. I can’t think straight in this office.”
David scratched his head at the chief’s rant.
“You wouldn’t believe the political bullshit involved in this job.”
Want to bet. David decided to sit. He might be here a while. He sipped cold coffee and wondered if he could set the phone down, get a hot cup, and return back before the chief realized he wasn’t there. Better not.
“This morning,” the chief said, “I had a patrolman who stopped a kid for exhibition of acceleration. When he pulled him over, the kid got smart. Started telling him his dad would have him fired. The officer did what I would’ve done. Cash bonded his ass. It wasn’t thirty minutes later, here comes the dad. He’s on the city council. Wanted the officer arrested, fired, castrated, and after all that, wanted the officer punished.
David rolled his eyes, leaned back and put his feet up. Yep. Might as well make himself comfortable. None of this was news to him. He’d patrolled streets himself.
“Then he started talking about lawsuits for false arrest,” the chief continued. “He’s going to sue the officer, me, the city, and no telling who else. When I told him that the arrest didn’t qualify as a false arrest he got even madder. Now the officer and me are about to be fired.”
When he surfaced for air, David asked him if he told the man that as soon as an officer pulled someone over for a traffic stop that legally constituted an arrest.
“Damn right I told him. But he’s a shithouse lawyer. Told me cops couldn’t take people to jail for traffic stops.”
David chuckled. “I’m glad that’s not true. You forget something, Chief. You’re preaching to the choir. I was a police officer for years before I joined the bureau.”
“Damn. That’s right. Forgot. It’s been good talking to you, but I got to get off this phone.”
David rolled his eyes. He didn’t get to talk much. When the chief gave him his address, he hung up and chuckled. “Good talking to you, too.”
Taking a few eight by ten pictures of the suspect with him, David headed north on Highway 59 for Nacogdoches. Even in winter, East Texas had beautiful scenery. The four-lane highway, lined with pine trees, had a grass median in between with tall ocher grass swaying in the wind.
After crossing the Angelina River Bridge, the scenery changed. Instead of houses, liquor stores and strip joints lined the highway. This reminded David that Angelina County was dry, and people couldn’t drive to stores in Lufkin and purchase alcohol. They had to drive the few miles to the river. He shook his head, wondering how much in liquor taxes Angelina County gave to Nacogdoches every year.
Before he entered the city limits, a huge billboard indicated that he was welcome, and Nacogdoches was not only historic, but the oldest town in Texas.
David found Joe sitting in his office with a couple of deputies when he knocked on the door, and Joe waved him in. When he entered, Joe kept looking behind him. “Where’s the redhead?”
David chuckled. “She’s busy with something else.”
“Damn, son. You should’ve brought her.”
David dropped his chin and laughed. “If she’d come with me, we wouldn’t get to talk. Your mouth would be hanging open.”
Joe waved at him as if he swatted a fly, and introduced him to the two deputies. As soon as he completed the introductions, Joe shooed the two deputies out.
David flopped into a chair. “You find anything out?”
“Not much. We had the glove and bag processed. Bag was no help, but the glove had the initials
, TW inside. Does that mean anything to you?”
David thought a moment before shaking his head. “Could be anything or anyone.”
Joe nodded and put his feet up on the desk corner. “I’m just a dumb ole country boy, but there’s some strange shit going on around here.”
David rolled his eyes, leaned his head all the way back and shook it.
“What?” Joe asked.
David half-smiled. “Anytime one of you old bastards starts giving me this dumb ole country boy routine, I know I’m in a world of shit.”
Joe’s laugh started in his belly and ended up shaking his entire body. With laugh tears running down his cheeks, he said, “Boy. I knew I was going to like your ass.”
David held up his left hand, showing his wedding ring. “I’m married. Besides, I’m not that type of guy.”
Joe smiled. “Seriously, what’s going on here?”
David’s smile left. “I really wish I knew.” He told him of the deputies’ deaths and the bank employee.
“Do you think they’re related?”
David nodded. “Yep.”
With a frown, Joe dropped his feet off his desk. “You think Toni Jo has something to do with all this?”
“Is that the bank clerk’s name?”
“Yeah. Toni Jo Whistlam.”
“Do you know her?”
Joe sat back and crossed his arms. “For years. A good girl. Smart, but had bad taste in men. Before she died, she shacked up with a loser named Tanton Whistlam. Been living with him a couple of years.”
When the phone rang on Joe’s desk, he answered, but before he finished the conversation, he cupped the receiver and asked David if he wanted any coffee. When David nodded and told him black. Joe told his caller that he needed two barefoot ones, and hung up.
David frowned. “What all do you know about this boyfriend of hers?’
“In and out of trouble. He’s older than Toni Jo. Spent a year in the county lock up for burglary. Did a small stretch in the joint. I don’t know what for. If it’s not one thing, it’s another with him, but mostly small stuff. He’s a mean bastard. The type people shy away from.”
David scratched his head. “What do you know about the Angelina County Sheriff’s department?”
Joe tugged on his ear and reached into his desk. Taking out a bag of Red Man chewing tobacco, he put a wad in his mouth and offered the bag to David.
David’s face scrunched up as if his last meal erupted from his mouth. He shook his head, wishing he had a cigarette. He’d quit again a couple of months before.
“David—I’ll tell you this,” Joe said, switching his chaw to his cheek. “Even before this sheriff took over down there, we’ve had rumors of drug shit going on with that department.”
Joe picked up his cup of coffee and took a gulp.
David scratched his cheek. How the heck does he chew tobacco and drink coffee at the same time? The thought almost made David’s stomach turn.
Joe tilted his hat back. “All there is are rumors. Snitches tell us someone, or several someones escort drug runners through that county.”
As David scratched his head in thought, something flashed in his memory. Chief Spears telling him about how James kept straying out of his patrol sector to the southeast loop. Add that to what Joe just said. It sure made a lot of sense.
David and Joe talked for thirty more minutes. As David strolled out, he remembered the folder he’d brought the pictures in. He turned and picked them up. When Joe asked what he had, David told him some pictures. He pulled one out and handed it to Joe.
The sheriff glanced at the picture and looked up at David, his eyes narrowing. He set the picture down on his desk and crossed his arms. “Okay Mr. Smart Ass FBI Agent. If you knew about Whistlam, why did we go through that little charade?”
CHAPTER 17
David stood with his hands on his hips and a perturbed expression. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Joe’s finger stabbed the picture on his desk. “Tanton Whistlam. Why do you have a picture of him?”
David’s mouth fell open. His heart started pounding in his chest, and his hands trembled. Anger built inside his stomach. After taking a deep breath, he tilted his head and raised an eyebrow. “The man in that picture is Tanton Whistlam?”
“You didn’t know? Where’d you get the picture?”
David didn’t speak for a while. He didn’t know if he could. After closing his eyes tight, David said, “That’s a picture of the man who helped kill Deputy Justin Milam.”
* * * *
David rushed to Lufkin. On the drive back, his hands remained tight on the wheel. He didn’t know why they’d killed Justin, but he knew one of them. He would find the rest, and the why.
As he rushed up the stairs to the motel room, someone called his name. When he stopped, Melissa tried to catch up with him.
Behind him and with a frown on her face, she asked him what had happened. He motioned her to follow, and opened his door. Inside, David took a couple of steps and stopped. Melissa ran into him.
David stood, his head cocked, scanning the room.
“David—what’s the matter?”
He glanced over his shoulder. “What time does the maid come in?”
“About two, Why?”
David glanced at his watch. “It’s only eleven-thirty. They wouldn’t enter this early, would they?”
Melissa scratched her forehead. “No. What—is—the—matter?”
David crossed his arms, his right arm bent up with his chin resting on his thumb, tapping his mouth with his index finger. “Someone has been in my room.”
“What?”
“Someone was in here. My briefcase was moved.” He strode into the other room with Melissa following. He looked in his closet. “Uh-huh. I knew it. Look at my clothes.”
Melissa looked in the closet. “Seems okay to me.”
“Look again.”
Melissa put her hands on her hips. “What am I supposed to look at? The closet is perfect. Nothing out of place.”
Exasperated, David jerked the door open wider. “The suits. They’re out of order. The Armani is third in line. It should be first.”
David reached out and caught the sleeve of a grey suit. “This Doleche shouldn’t be here.”
David spun to face Melissa. She stared at him with an open mouth. “You—alphabetize your clothes. We need to sit down and talk about this compulsiveness.”
Before he said anything, he remembered why he’d hurried back. “Forget that for now. Call and get all the agents here, ASAP. Tell them to drop everything.”
Melissa looked at him for a moment with one eyebrow raised, but nodded. She left while David continued to search through his closet.
When Melissa came back, David sat at the desk on the phone. At first, she thought he talked to Beeker, but soon learned it was the hotel manager and he demanded they keep the maids out of his closet.
Thirty minutes later, all the agents arrived except Melvin. They were confused. Andy asked Melissa what was going on, but she shrugged her shoulders. A few minutes later, Melvin arrived. When he strolled in, the agents’ mouths flopped open like a kitchen trash can.
Morgan did a double take. “Damn. Melvin.”
Melissa’s gaze traveled up and down his appearance, her eyebrows raised.
David strode in from the bathroom, glanced at the computer specialist, smiled, and said, “I’d like to introduce Agent Melvin Potts.”
With an embarrassed grin, Melvin stood before them in a double-breasted, blue Armani, matching pants, white dress shirt, and a red Bolebray tie. While he was out, he had cut his hair.
David sat and motioned for Melvin to sit. “Melvin—did you bring your FBI jacket?”
Melvin looked David in the eye. “Yes, sir.”
David smiled. He was right about him.
“Okay, everyone. I’m expecting a call from the Lufkin Police Department. As soon as they call, we’re going on a raid.”
/> “Who’re we raiding?” everyone asked at the same time.
David relaxed for the first time since he found out about Justin’s death. “We’re going to arrest Tanton Whistlam.”
Melissa raised one eyebrow. “Are you going to tell us why?”
“Sure. For the murder of Angelina County Deputy Sheriff Justin Milam.”
* * * *
As Tanton watched TV, his new girlfriend brought him another beer. He jerked the can from her hand without thanking her, gulped a long swallow, and slapped the can down on the table. How the hell was he supposed to kill this FBI agent? He wished he’d never gotten involved in all this mess. If they caught him, “Old Sparky” waited, if the damn cops didn’t waste him first. He didn’t doubt they would, either. Someone killed a cop—their ass was grass in Texas. He knew one thing for sure—he wouldn’t go to death row. He’d take some of the bastards with him.
The phone rang interrupting his thought. “Would you answer the damn phone?”
Patsy marched in. “Dammit. You’re next to it.”
The phone continued to ring. Exasperated, she picked it up, and thrust it at Whistlam. “It’s for you.”
Not in the mood to talk to anyone, he growled, “Yes.”
His eyes widened and he slammed the phone down and ran to the bedroom. Sitting on the bed, he put his shoes on without tying them, and grabbed his coat off the floor.
Patsy, hands on hips, leaned against the doorjamb. “What’s the matter with you?’
He didn’t answer. Instead, he hit the front door at a sprint. She stood, mouth agape. “What the hell is wrong with him?’ she said aloud to the empty house.
Five minutes later, she sat in the recliner with a bourbon and water, ice cubes clicking against the glass. As she set the drink down, the front and back doors exploded open.
Her heart leaped into her throat. With her eyes wide, she froze, a scream lodged in her throat. Men with guns rushed in, yelling “FBI.” Someone threw her to the floor and cuffed her hands behind her. Cold metal dented the skin behind her ear. No one had to tell her what it was.