by Al Stevens
“Stand by again.” I turned again to Buford. “You want your twenty grand back?”
“Hell, yes.”
“Got an offshore account somewhere that the feds can’t see?”
“Of course.”
“Get me the account numbers.”
Buford got up and went to his desk, a huge mahogany behemoth with ornate carvings and inlays and not much clutter.
I said to Rodney, “I’m getting you a bank routing number and the client’s account number. I want you to transfer twenty grand from Vitole’s account into the client’s account.”
“Can do. I can get it all if you want. Put it in your account?”
I must admit I was tempted. “No. Just the twenty grand.”
The feds might not know about Buford’s account in Grand Cayman, or wherever, but my bank was in town with my name on file.
Buford returned with a slip of paper.
“Here they are.”
I read the numbers to Rodney. I waited while his fingers did their tap dance on the laptop keyboard.
Then he said, “It’s done.”
“Great work, Rodney. I’ll try to get you a bonus. Maybe a new shirt.”
We hung up, and I said to Buford, “You got your twenty grand back, you got the name of the shakedown artist, and you know where he is. What else can I do for you?”
“I’m impressed. How did you get the twenty grand?”
“Rodney got it.”
“Won’t there be a trace to who got it and where it went?”
“Only if the guy complains. And Rodney doesn’t leave a clean trail in cyberspace. What’s the asshole going to tell the cops, anyway? ‘I blackmailed a guy, and he hacked my account and took the money back’?”
“Good point.”
Buford handed me an envelope.
“There’s ten grand in there.”
He sure knew how to get a guy’s attention.
“That puts you on retainer for a month, weekends off,” he said. “I don’t have anything for you to do right now, but something will come up. I want you standing by while I get to Mr. Vitole before he realizes we got to him.”
I put the envelope in my jacket pocket. Ten grand. Willa would be ecstatic.
“Have you considered turning Vitole in to the feds and letting them handle it?”
“I have not. I do my own housecleaning.”
“How about if I go talk to him? Explain what we have on him and that we’ll rat him out to his former employer if he doesn’t back down. I think him knowing that we know should be enough.”
“What if he doesn’t go for it?”
“Then do it your way.”
“Let Mr. Bentworth try, Daddy,” Missy said. She was standing in the doorway. She must have heard everything. “I don’t want you to get hurt. Or you can send Sanford to do it.”
“Who’s Sanford?” I asked Buford.
“Sometimes he’s my lawyer.”
Sometimes? How can you be a part-time lawyer? What do you do the rest of the time? Repossess pacemakers?
“Well, ask him. Whatever you do might have legal consequences. I don’t want Rodney and me on anybody’s accessories list. Before or after the fact.”
“A pragmatist,” Buford said.
“Every time,” I said.
“I hate pragmatists,” he said. “Okay, make a call on him. Let me know how it turns out.”
Missy nodded her approval of our plan.
Chapter 6
I enjoyed a pleasant drive on a thoroughfare to the south, going across the river and under the Interstate. It was lunch time. I stopped at a fast food drive-through and got a burger and fries. With the hangover gone, the thought of all that grease and gristle didn’t bother me. I got back on the road and ate while I drove.
Mario Vitole’s house was a rambler in a suburban subdivision. Nothing fancy, but nice. A new Buick was parked in the carport, and the lawn was well-tended. A cute but tacky sign on the lawn announced to the world that the house was the dwelling of Mario and Stella Vitole.
I parked across the street and a few houses down. My car had tinted windows so, unless someone looked closely, they couldn’t tell that I was in there. I took my digital Nikon camera from the glove box, put the long range lens in, and waited.
This was routine for me, the same kind of surveillance I did on cheating spouses. Only this time, instead of catching an indiscretion, I wanted to chart the target’s movements to see where he went and what he did. I’d choose a way to confront him based on that.
At about two o’clock, a man came out of the house. He was about sixty-five, with a medium height and build, and curly black hair with streaks of white. Tan and good-looking for an old guy. I rolled down the window and snapped a picture of him. He walked up the sidewalk to the residence two houses away. I took pictures. He went in the front door. Odd. He didn’t knock, just went in.
I drove up a few yards to just across from the doorway of the house where he went in.
About an hour later the door opened. I started snapping. He came to the doorway, and a woman came along behind. She was wearing a robe. He kissed her, came out, and returned to his own house. I took more pictures. I wrote down the neighbor’s house number. Then I called Rodney.
“Rodney, find me the name of whoever lives at 512 Cherokee Avenue.”
Rodney tapped and clicked. After about a minute of that, he said, “William Sproles. Do you need more information?”
“Can you get his wife’s name?”
Tap, tap, click, click. “Marsha. Anything else?”
“Find out what you can about them.”
I called Vitole.
“Mr. Vitole, I need to speak with you privately.”
“About what? Who is this?”
“This is about one of the former clients in witness protection.”
“I retired. You must want somebody else.”
“This is about Anthony Curro, also known as Buford Overbee.”
The line got quiet for a moment. Then, “Who is this?”
“We need to speak alone,” I said. “I’m parked just up the street. Where’s a good place nearby to meet?”
“You want to come to the house?”
“Anybody else there?”
“No. I’m alone,” he said. “My wife won’t be home until about six.”
“Okay. Keep in mind, this is just a meeting. An exchange of information. I come in peace.” I smiled at the Captain Kirk reference. “I expect to be likewise received. If not, your next visitor won’t be so peaceful. Understood?”
“Understood.” So far my usual bluff was working.
He was waiting in the doorway when I pulled up. He had changed into shorts, a T-shirt, and flip-flops. I got out of my car and walked up the sidewalk toward him. He retreated into the house and waved me in.
He walked ahead of me down a hallway. He looked back to size me up. This was where my bluff really needed to work. Not only am I not tough, I don’t look tough.
The house was tastelessly decorated with pile carpeting, red flock wallpaper, and etched mirror tiles. New simulated antiques decorated the entranceway, and the furniture and wall hangings were new too, every schlock style imaginable, nothing matching, nothing coordinated. But much nicer than my place, you can be sure.
He led me into the living room and pointed to a chair. I sat and he plopped on a sofa across from me.
“You want a beer or something?”
“No, thanks.”
“So, what’s this about Overbee?”
“Someone’s been shaking him down.”
He paused. “Really?” His mock surprise was not well-delivered, given what I already knew. “How?”
“They’re threatening to out him with his clients and with the mob.”
“No shit. You understand, I was not his handler. I never met the guy.” He was getting jumpy.
“I know. But you know all the major players in the Marshals Service. Maybe you can get the word out.”
“What word?”
“We traced the blackmailer’s e-mail address to his OnlinePay account and hacked into the account.”
His face got white.
“We recovered the twenty grand Overbee already paid the blackmailer. Next time the blackmailer signs on, he’ll be a lot poorer.”
Vitole started looking around as if he needed to check something. He took a gulp of his beer.
I continued. “It’s a short jump from the account to its owner. If the blackmailer persists in his extortion, we will make that jump and turn our records over to the feds.”
I watched for his reaction to that. His face turned red.
“If that doesn’t bring it to a stop,” I said, “Mr. Overbee and his business associates will make a personal call on the blackmailer. In fact, that’s what he wanted to do right off the bat, but I talked him out of it. I think we can safely say that whoever it is, he’s still walking around thanks to my intervention.”
You wouldn’t expect a retired U.S. Marshal to be that easily intimidated, but Vitole looked like he was about to crap his shorts.
Now for the clincher. “If this doesn’t go down right, if the blackmailer puts any more of a squeeze on, the shit hits the fan.”
I paused to let the indirect threat sink in. Vitole bit his lower lip and ran his hand across his mouth like a junkie needing a fix. His eyes darted from side to side, and he squirmed on the sofa.
“Why do you think I’d know who it is?” he asked.
“Witness protection is a small team. It’s got to be one of your former colleagues, probably also retired like yourself. Nobody else has access to the files to know who to target. So, try to pass the word along. And we can bring this matter to a peaceful close.”
I said a polite goodbye, went out to my car, and called Buford.
“I think he’s convinced,” I said.
“He better be.”
“But if not, I’ve got leverage. He’s fooling around with his neighbor’s wife. I’ll e-mail you the evidence when I get back to the office.”
I drove around the block and parked between Vitole’s house and the Sproles’s so I could watch both. At about six o’clock, Vitole’s wife came home from wherever she had spent the day and parked her Toyota next to his Buick. I took a couple pictures of her going from the car to the house. Not a pretty woman, she was overweight with gray hair and looked to be in her late fifties or early sixties. She went in the house.
A short time later, a car pulled into the Sproles residence. A man got out and went into the house. He was middle-aged and looked like the couch potato type. I got more pictures. Then I headed back to the office.
Chapter 7
I always have trouble finding my cell phone when it rings in the car and I’m driving. I’ve usually tossed it on the passenger’s seat because I can’t hear it in my pocket over the sound of the engine. Then it gets lost among the other trash on the seat. Old fast food bags, scribbled notes and directions on bar napkins from months before, gas receipts, my GPS, and the like. By the time I find the cell phone, the caller has given up.
This time I found it only because I had just used it to call Vitole. Amanda was calling.
“What’s up, sis?”
She was crying.
“Stanley, I don’t know what to do.”
That was her usual complaint when she couldn’t figure something out. “About what?” I asked.
“About Jeremy.”
“Who’s that?”
“The Army Captain I’ve been going out with.”
“Oh, yeah. Captain Jeremy. Didn’t you dump him?”
“I tried. He won’t accept it. He keeps calling, and today he hung around my office all morning. I’m afraid I’ll lose my job. The last thing he said was that he’d come to my house this evening.”
“Did you tell him you’d call his wife?”
“He said he didn’t care. She’s going to leave him anyway.”
“Did you say you’d report him to his Commanding Officer?”
“He doesn’t care about that either. He has his twenty years in and is about to retire.”
Twenty in and still a Captain. This guy must be a real piece of work.
“What do I do?” she asked.
“Well, given that he’s about to split up with his wife, might you still want to see him?”
“No, Stanley. I saw his ugly side today. He didn’t take it too well when I told him I had a private investigator looking into him and found out he was married. He scared me.”
“Did he touch you?”
“He followed me down the hall, cornered me outside the ladies room, yelled at me, and pushed me so hard I sat on the floor.”
That got my slow burn going. It takes a lot, but messing with my family is one of the ways.
“When do you expect him?” I asked.
“Tonight some time after supper.”
“Okay. To start, let’s post Rodney there wearing his taco shirt. I’ll explain to him. If that doesn’t discourage the Captain, I’ll take over. Don’t worry. I’ll be parked around the corner from your place. What’s he look like?”
“Sandy hair. Fortyish. Crew cut. Glasses. Average size. Kind of cute.”
Younger than me and probably in better shape. Hell, my grandmother’s in better shape, and she’s been dead for ten years. I’d need an edge, an equalizer. Time to get old Roscoe out of the safe.
Yeah, that’s right, I named my .38 Roscoe. They don’t pay me for my imagination.
I drove to my office building and climbed the stairs. It was late afternoon. I stopped at Willa’s desk, tossed Buford’s envelope there, and went into my office. She gave out with a war whoop when she opened the package.
Rodney was already back from the Cheap Peeper Emporium. He was at my desk again.
“When you gonna get me my own desk,” he asked.
“Where would we put it? In the men’s room?”
“In here. There’s room.”
“No, there’s not.”
I turned on the Nikon and paged through the images to the ones with Vitole and Marsha Sproles.
“Download these pictures to your laptop and e-mail them to Buford Overbee.”
He got out a cable to connect the camera to the laptop.
“Did you find out anything about the Sproles family?” I asked.
“Not much. They moved into the neighborhood a couple years ago. I couldn’t find where they came from.”
“One other thing unrelated. See if you can hack into the Army computers and find out what you can about Captain Pugh. Do it in the outer office. I need some privacy.”
He took the camera, cable, and laptop and left.
“Close the door,” I said.
I got my pistol out of the safe and checked the cylinder. Six cartridges. I don’t know why I checked. I’d loaded it when I first got it several years ago and had never fired it. But old habits and all that.
I took my private detective’s gold shield from my wallet and pinned it to the holster. From a distance it looked just like a Delbert Falls detective’s shield, which was why I had ordered this particular model from the Internet badge and uniform store. Thirty bucks and authentic-looking. But its golden shine notwithstanding, it signified nothing more than to impress gullible clients and people you want to question. Flash it, and people open up. For all the clout it gave me, I could have gotten it from a Cracker Jack box. And saved the thirty bucks.
I clipped the holster to my belt in front just under my jacket. Then I called Rodney back in.
“The Captain is coming to your mom’s house tonight,” I said. “I want you there. When he comes to the door, speed dial my cell and leave your phone on the table next to the door. I want to hear everything that goes down.”
“What happens if he gets rough, Uncle Stanley?”
“I won’t be far away. Be as nasal, whiny, and obnoxious as you can be. In other words, be yourself. If he does get rough, make sure I hear it.”
Rodney nodded.
“Keep in mind you’re protecting your mother,” I said.
“Yep.”
I didn’t tell Rodney that the Captain had knocked Amanda down. I wasn’t sure what he would do. Might get himself hurt. So might I. But I was going to do something. Not sure what, but something.
“What did you learn about the Captain?” I asked.
“Mentally unstable. A history of paranoia and obsessive-compulsive disorder. Manic depressive, too. A real mess. He’s on the verge of being discharged on a section eight, whatever that is.”
“That’s when they boot you out of the service because you’re nuts,” I said. “Get over to the house and get ready. Your mom is expecting you. This ought to be interesting.”
I said earlier that I am not tough. That’s true. But I am a good bluffer and an even better actor. My young years as an undercover cop had taught me that. I had been a good undercover cop. The bad guys never suspected I was a cop. I didn’t look like one. I could blend in as the guy who did whatever he was told.
But when the situation called for it, I could act tough. Especially with backup.
Tonight I’d get a chance to revisit those old skills. I started to get together what I’d need.
Chapter 8
The south side of Delbert Falls was residential. Small single-family houses and inexpensive apartments west of the tracks, and the better homes for the upper middle class on tree-lined lanes on the east side.
Amanda’s neighborhood was south of my office on the west side past the Interstate. Sunset had started and it would be dark soon. I pulled up to the curb near the house and parked where I could see her front door. I hoped I wouldn’t have to wait in the car for long. It was going to be cold. She lived in a small, one-story house in a row of identical houses, nothing fancy. My cell phone rang.
“You out there, Uncle Stanley?”
“Yep, just got here.”
“Mom is nervous.”
“Put her on. And bring me your baseball bat.”
Amanda came on. “Stanley—”
“Don’t worry, Mandy. Stay back, and let Rodney handle it. I’ve told him what to do. When your boyfriend comes out, I’ll take it from there.”