by Chuck Dixon
“Where?”
“Maryland,” she said and flashed him a wolfish leer.
“Is there more?” He knew there would be.
“You’re going to shit.” She laughed and quickly added, “Sir.”
He believed that he just might as she cut off a Trailways bus to zoom down the exit ramp nearest the airport.
6
"Those fifties were a good catch," Ted Brompton said.
“And a lucky break. Someone said their prayers last night,” Bill said.
Bill was settled back in a tufted seat of buttery leather aboard the confiscated luxury jet. The upholstery was so inviting he wanted to sink into it and sleep all week. Starbucks made him jittery but not as awake as he needed to be. He bit the inside of his mouth hard enough to make his eyes water and concentrated on Brompton's words.
“Both bills trace back to an account the SEC was watching when Blanco first came on their radar. They recorded the serial numbers, sprayed them with UV paint and planted them in a stack of bills Blanco’s wife withdrew from an account down in Boca.”
“The deceased wife?”
"The honey you met up with in Boston. She's a player. Don't you worry; we have plenty to hold her on."
“Surprised the SEC went to all that trouble. Cloak and dagger stuff,” Bill said.
Ted snorted. “It was the ’90s, bro. Clinton was urging Treasury, IRS and Securities to climb up everyone’s asses looking for revenue. He unleashed them.”
“The ex-wife give up any more?”
“This invasion crew was after the big enchilada; a key of some kind to all of Blanco’s offshore accounts. His rainy day fund. The way the former missus tells it, there was north of a billion five salted away,” Ted said with a grin.
“A key?” Bill blinked.
"That's what Blanco told her. But no more than that. It's not an actual key; you can be damned sure of that. He also told her he had numbers for accounts that weren't his own. Other people's money. He could dip into them if he wanted. Whatever this key is, it's a double bonanza and a week in Hawaii for us, Treasury and the tax geeks. Throw in the SEC and FTA too. Careers will be made off of this."
“And she thinks this key was at the lake house?”
“She said he always liked that place best. He built it with the first million he stole. And he was paranoid about keeping too much overseas. Never knew when political winds could change.”
“Then maybe our mystery man has this key?”
“That’s the smart money.”
“She give us a good description of our missing actor?” Bill said.
“Downloaded it on the way from Bangor.” Ted handed over a tablet for Bill to look at.
A stern face looked back at Bill from the screen. It was a composite with all the qualities of a high-res photograph. The jawline and mouth matched what he could see under the hoodie in the Xtra Mart video. The eyes, usually lifeless in these recreations, had a predatory look about them. Well-set either side of a nose that had seen a few breaks. It was an intelligent face. Hard but intelligent.
“Facial recognition any help?” Bill said.
“Nada. It’s iffy with these visualization programs. The ears and jaw only need to be a little off and we’re eye-deeing Liam Neeson. But we may not need it.”
“Yeah?”
“Our man got tangled in something in Maryland that the Baltimore PD and VSP are still sorting out.”
“VSP?”
“Virginia State Police. We’re close behind a possible last known location for this guy. He’s ours. He just doesn’t know it yet,” Ted said with a lupine leer that was a mirror of the grin Agent Mandy had shared with Bill earlier.
Bill wasn’t so sure. There was something about that face. Even in the compilation photo he sensed something feral, primal. There was too much about this guy they didn’t know.
He kept his thoughts to himself and sank gratefully into the warm depths of the opulent chair and closed his eyes while Ted took a call from DC.
Gunny Leffertz said:
“Luck is no lady. Luck is a bitch. With you one second and gone the next.”
7
Merry rested against him as he drove, her breathing soft. He hated to wake her but they were two exits from Roanoke.
Levon Cade drove with eyes shifting to the rear view and to the shoulders of the highway. The wipers slapped at the freezing rain marching in sheets out of the gray dawn light. He watched for the swirling lights of state troopers ahead and behind. By now, someone back in New Market would have found the body of the big man where he’d left it in the entryway of the flower shop. They’d find out who the dead man was. That would lead them to the GMC Sierra that Levon was now piloting south on 81.
He could feel the ring tightening around him. That sense of weight about to fall. He knew to trust that feeling.
The run down from Maine was a long one. It was only a matter of time before the police turned to the feds. And the feds would be putting the pieces together. They’d have an idea of what had happened up at Bellevue. They’d pick up the trail. They’d start stringing together events that would lead them south. He had hours. Maybe less.
Levon weighed speed against caution. He could stay to the highway and build distance between himself and the bodies he’d left behind. Or he could go to ground and wait out the hunt. Going to ground made more sense. If the FBI or multiple agencies were after him it wouldn’t be a linear pursuit. They’d get ahead of him.
Simply running was not a solution. That required luck. And he knew he was way past luck. Fresh out of good fortune.
It would be pure D foolishness to underestimate the effort the government would make to find him. Through the fabric of his shirt, Levon’s hand touched the lozenge shape that hung around his neck on a silver chain. The flash drive he’d taken from the thieves in Bellevue. It was what they’d gone to Maine to find. They killed for it. And at his hands, they died for it.
Whatever secrets the flash drive held were worth a global hunt by a crew of professionals. And if it was valuable to the thieves then it was valuable to the government. The little drive contained data that might lead to a Solomon’s mine of untaxed millions hidden in banks around the world.
Levon had also taken a half million in cash and several millions in cut diamonds from the open vault. The feds wouldn’t care about that. They wanted the little plastic stick swinging against his chest. If they got that, and got him, he’d do life on a list of federal charges. A half dozen or more homicides, a kidnapping or two, grand theft, at least three counts of auto theft, assault and whatever else they could tie him to depending on how much of the past two days they figured out. In addition, they could make a case that he was part of the robbery crew and make him an accomplice to all their prior offenses. They were dead. The justice meant for them would fall on him.
He needed to lose the Sierra and find other transport for them. He needed to get off the highway. And there was one more contingency that he didn’t want to think about.
Levon’s hand dropped to Merry’s shoulder to steady her against him on the bench seat as he pulled off the first exit for Roanoke.
They left the Sierra on a municipal lot where it wouldn’t be noticed. The rain had stopped. The light traffic on the street swished through the slush. Hand in hand, Levon and Merry walked a few blocks to a Hardee’s that was open early for breakfast. The place gleamed jewel-like in the muted morning light.
There were kids Merry’s age and older in the booths and at the counter. They had book bags and some wore school blazers. Levon took a seat and sent her to the counter to get their order. There would be cameras over the registers. An eleven-year-old girl wouldn’t be noticed in the crowd of schoolkids.
Levon rested his boots against the gym bag and overnight bag that contained all he owned. Merry’s backpack sat on the bench opposite him. Cartoon characters he didn’t recognize capered across the fabric.
Merry came back with a tray loaded with egg and baco
n sandwiches, hash brown patties, orange juice and a black coffee. He sipped coffee and watched her eat. There were dark circles under her eyes that he knew weren’t from lack of sleep. The sight of her drawn face under strands of rain-drenched hair confirmed the way ahead for both of them.
They hiked down to the main street. No one would take a second look at a girl with a backpack. All the kids on the way to school had book bags. A grown man with a pair of bags would look like he was heading for the bus terminal a few blocks away. Levon found what he was looking for on a strip of stores set back from the street by a small parking lot.
Skyline Cell sold and repaired cell phones and personal devices. They carried satellite phones and prepaid cards for airtime. While Merry played on a display game device, Levon picked out phones and cards. The counter guy woke from a sleepy daze when Levon placed bills on the counter.
“How about a free ball cap?” the counter guy said, pulling down an adjustable cap with the Tracfone logo embroidered in gold against a black panel above the bill.
“No thanks,” Levon said.
“It’s free. They’re gimmes from the company,” the guy said and held the cap above the plastic bag he held open on the counter.
Levon shrugged. “Sure. Thanks.”
A block away, Levon removed his sodden cap and stuffed it in a trash bin. He fitted the new cap to his head.
Merry went into a Rexall with a list from her father. She told the nosy counter woman that her mom and baby brother were homesick and had no one else to pick up the stuff they needed. If the woman wondered why her mother needed bandage strips, packing tape, and three books of postage stamps, she kept it to herself. Merry eyed herself in the HD surveillance image displayed on the monitor above the checkout.
At the post office, Levon filled out a packing label addressed to Gunny Leffertz in Mississippi. He affixed the label to the box containing one of the new satellite phones and then sealed the box all around with the packing tape before placing rows of enough postage stamps to send the package priority. Before all of that he recorded the sat phone’s number on the back of a blank customs slip.
Since it was over thirteen ounces Merry took the package into the post office counter. A bored guy with a beard and a mustard stain on his USPS smock postmarked it and plastered Priority Mail stamps on every face of the box before tossing it in a bin with other parcels. If he noted that there was no return address marked on the box he didn’t say anything.
“Thank you,” Merry said and skipped through the door to the lobby. A buzzer sounded when the door swung open.
“Uh huh,” said the bearded guy.
Levon and Merry sat on a bench under the shelter of a bus stop. Traffic had picked up as the morning moved on. From their vantage point, Levon could watch the parking lot of a community hospital. Merry dozed, her head down on the backpack in her lap.
A five-year-old Buick Lacrosse pulled onto the lot off the street. It made its way to spaces marked Emergency Staff only. A slender young woman in royal blue scrubs under a down coat exited the car. She pulled the strap of a gear bag over her shoulder and walked to the entrance under the emergency awning.
Levon touched his daughter’s shoulder to wake her. He asked, “What do you do if anything happens?”
“Walk away,” she mumbled without raising her head.
“Good girl,” he said and lifted the gym bag from the pavement and crossed the street to the hospital lot.
In under sixty seconds he was inside the Lacrosse. Its alarm squawked twice before he cut it off. Car alarms were part of the urban soundtrack. No one paid attention to them. He started the car, which smelled of recent marijuana use, and pulled off the lot. An emergency room nurse would be pulling at least a twelve-hour shift. That was enough lead time to get where he needed to be.
Merry, who had been watching, rose from the bus stop bench to meet him on the lot of a tire store. She carried the overnight in addition to her Adventure Time backpack. They were out of the city and rolling west on a county road.
“Is that mail on the dash?” Levon asked her.
“Yeah. Deborah Ianelli. She lives in Vinton,” Merry read from the envelope of a gas company bill.
“We’ll send her some cash for the use of the car,” he said.
“Okay,” she said and reclined her seat until her feet were dangling in the air.
The tires hissed on the wet road as they barreled under the bare limbs of trees arched above. They burst into watery sunlight when the woods gave way to rolling fields dappled with white left from earlier snow.
Merry spoke up when the Lacrosse plunged once more into the shelter of woods. “Daddy?”
“Yes, honey?”
“Why did you buy three of those phones?”
“Well, I was meaning to talk to you about that,” he said and swallowed to clear his throat.
8
“I still don’t see how this ties in,” said Lieutenant Charles Rance of Virginia State Police CID.
Ted Brompton explained, “We’re putting the pieces together ourselves.” They sat at the counter of the My Way Hi-Way truck stop on 81.
Lieutenant Rance eyed the agent seated by Brompton. The man looked as if he slept in his clothes and was possibly hungover, face gray, hair lank and shoulders bowed where he bent over a plate of scrambled eggs and peppers smothered in hot sauce.
Bill Marquez listened to the exchange. He wolfed his scrambled, washing it down with pulls from a bottomless cup of black coffee. Long stake-outs had taught him something the academy didn’t; if you can’t get sleep, get calories.
Bill studied Rance once the big statie turned away. Guy was ex-military for sure. Skin dark as the coffee Bill was slamming down. Gray creeping in on the short-back-and-sides-cut hair, otherwise it was impossible to nail down the guy’s age. Desert Storm vet maybe. The statie wore his tailored blue suit like a uniform; knife-edge creases, dazzling white shirt and conservative pale blue tie with a little pair of gold handcuffs pinning it in place. Bill felt like an unmade bed around a guy like this.
“So, a home invasion homicide in Maine two days ago ties into a homicide here in New Market last night?” Rance said, trying to keep up with Agent Brompton’s timeline.
“That’s the working theory. Can you share what you have?” Brompton smiled professionally.
Rance flipped open a notepad and read:
“Calvin Thomas Shepherd is the deceased. Multiple gunshots. Time of death sometime after midnight last night. He has a record but no convictions in Maryland and New Jersey. Assault mostly. Whoever shot him either used a revolver or picked up their brass. They worked close, too. CSI said there were powder burns on Shepherd’s clothes.”
Ted said, “He’s tied in with a crew in Baltimore. We found three of them dead in a bar in Towson. Killed sometime yesterday afternoon.”
“Dawson,” Bill said around a mouthful of eggs and peppers.
“Right. How did Shepherd get here? You find a car?” Ted said.
“He had no keys on him. Maybe someone drove him here and killed him,” the lieutenant said, flipping his pad closed.
“Or killed him and took his ride.” Bill pushed the empty plate from him and jabbed a finger down at his empty mug for a wandering waitress to see.
“Did Baltimore give us a list of cars in Shepherd’s name?” Ted said, turning his stool to Bill.
Bill touched his smartphone, scrolling until he found what he wanted. He picked the phone up and squinted, eyelids still gritty.
“A GMC Sierra. Forest Green. This year’s model. Maryland plate. GXR-977.”
“Then that’s what he’s driving,” Ted said to the statie.
“That’s what who is driving?” Rance said.
“That’s what we’d like to know,” Bill watched with greedy eyes as the waitress loaded up his mug.
The lieutenant called his superiors who put a BOLO out for the Sierra. As they walked out to their cars, he promised the two FBI agents to send along all the initial re
ports on Shepherd. He didn’t expect any revelations.
Ted shrugged. “Rained like hell last night.”
The agents thanked him and picked their way between puddles to the bureau car they’d gotten from the Baltimore office.
Gunny Leffertz said:
“Move away from your attacker. Distance is your friend. Only break up your unit when pursuit is close.”
9
Merry slept most of the drive and when awake spoke only when spoken to. She was angry and hurt over what he had to tell her, the hard decision he was forced to make.
“You wanted to visit Gunny and Joyce.”
She turned to the window, voice breaking. “With you. But you won’t be there.”
“I don’t want it to be this way, honey.”
“Then keep driving. Just drive till we both get there.”
“I can’t. I explained why I can’t.”
“I don’t want to go alone.”
“And I don’t like the idea either. This is the best way. The only way. I’m all out of options. You have to be brave.”
She wouldn’t answer him. They rode in silence.
It was after midnight when Levon pulled into the lot of the America’s Best Value Inn in Murphysboro, Illinois. The drive from Virginia had taken fourteen hours. Two hours added to the straight through drive because he stuck to county roads until they were well into Tennessee. He got them on Route 40 at Knoxville around three in the afternoon.
Levon checked himself into a single room using the story that his wife kicked him out of the house. His father-in-law, a mean son of a bitch, was over to the house. He didn’t have time to get his wallet, he just got his ass the hell out of there. A buddy lent him a couple hundred.
“Whydn’t you stay with your buddy?” the guy at the desk asked more out of idle curiosity and desire for conversation on a slow night.