The Virgil Jones Mystery Thriller Boxed Set

by Thomas Scott

  Ron Miles parked his car, reached into the box and pulled out the plastic statue of the Virgin Mary. What a joke, he thought. It was one thing to return evidentiary property to their rightful owners, but quite another when the property was a cheap plastic statue that wasn’t worth the cost of the gas it took to drive it over.

  He grabbed the statue from the front passenger seat, got out of his car, walked up to Mrs. Ibarra’s apartment and just for the hell of it gave the door a good old fashioned cop knock. When no one answered a few minutes later, he knocked again. After the third time, the door to the right of Ibarra’s opened and an elderly Mexican man with a cane in one hand and a bottle of Dos Equis in the other opened his door. “Señor?”

  Miles showed him his badge and said, “My name is Ron Miles. I’m a detective with the Indiana Major Crimes Unit.”

  “Si?” the man said.

  Ron heard himself say, “Si,” and winced a little.

  “You are looking for Señora Ibarra?”

  “Yes. Do you know where I can find her? I have some of her property that I’d like to return to her.”

  The man smiled and did a little wiggle. “You have not heard?”

  “Heard what?”

  “Señora Ibarra. She has won the lottery. The big drawing. She had the ticket, Señor. The one worth mucho dinero. She is rich and I tell you this: she is gone.”

  And Ron thought, son of a bitch.

  Ibarra carried the money in a laptop bag that held no actual money, just a laptop that had access to the money.

  “Everything go okay?” Brian asked.

  “Oh yes, Nicky. Everything go exactly like you say it would.”

  Nicky waved a finger at her. “It’s Brian now, Mrs. Ibarra. You’ve got to remember that.”

  “Si, Brian. I will remember. All of the funds were transferred. All three hundred million dollars worth.” She handed him the laptop and Brian punched the keys.

  “I told you I’d do it, didn’t I?”

  “Si, but I never quite believed you. Where is our gay little Wu?”

  Brian pointed out to the water. “He’s out there, snorkeling with Linda. Why does everyone think Wu is gay?”

  “Hmm, I am not sure. I do not like the way he looks at my feet...”

  Epilogue

  Later that evening when Virgil got home he walked down to the pond and stood next to Mason’s cross. He stared out at the water and thought about his dad, his grandfather, Ed Donatti, and especially his unborn son, Wyatt. As much as he was loathe to admit it, Nichole Pope was probably right…at least about one thing: The answers lie not in the extreme, but somewhere in the middle.

  He still had the thumb drive she’d given him. He pulled it from his pocket and studied it under the light of the moon before setting it on top of the cross. He bent over and picked up a few rocks and skipped them out across the water, wondering what was on the drive and more importantly if it really mattered anymore. It would be easy enough to find out. He could take the drive up to the house, pop it into the computer and read everything it contained. But to what end? Pearson and Pate were dead, their misdeeds and malfeasance no longer an issue or a problem in Virgil’s life. Why dive into the past when it was the future that really mattered? Wasn’t that the message his father had been trying to convey all along?

  Ultimately Virgil decided to take Nichole’s advice. If she didn’t care, why should he? He’d destroy the thumb drive, leave Pearson and Pate to rot in hell and let the Pope twins deal with their own demons down the road.

  He tossed one final rock into the pond then turned to grab the thumb drive from the top of the cross, ready to crush it under his boot. But when he looked at the cross, the thumb drive was gone and his badge—the badge he’d thrown into the pond—sat there in its place.

  And Virgil thought, Dad?

  …and the story continues.

  Virgil and the gang are back in State of Control!

  As Mason would say, “Stay tuned.”

  State of Control - Book 3 of the Virgil Jones Mystery Thriller Series

  Publisher's Weekly says the Virgil Jones mystery novels by Thomas Scott are absolutely thrilling!

  You've felt the Anger...

  You’ve experienced the Betrayal…

  Now…it’s time to take Control!

  Turn the page to read book 3 of the Virgil Jones Mystery Thriller series, State of Control!

  State Of Control

  Virgil Jones Mystery Thriller: Book 3

  Copyright © 2016 by Thomas Scott. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, without written permission from the copyright owner of this book. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, governmental institutions, and all incidents or events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, locales, or government organizations is entirely coincidental.

  For information contact:

  ThomasScottBooks.com

  Linda Heaton - Editor

  BluePenEdits.com

  Giving up control is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. In truth, I’m sure I still have a lot of work to do. But I have wonderful children who continue to teach me and show me the way forward.

  Joe, Tori, Zachary, Lauren & Joshua…You guys are the absolute best. You’ve taught me more than you’ll ever know. I’m so proud of you all. This one is for you. From the bottom of my heart, thank you.

  Control |kənˈtrōl| noun

  The power to influence or direct people's behavior or the course of events; A group or individual used as a standard of comparison for checking the results of an experiment; A member of an intelligence organization who directs the activities of a spy

  The whole trip occurs in an unfolding process of which we have no control.

  —Ram Dass

  1

  In the end things turned out the way they did because of their shared history, a time from decades ago when choices were simple and clear, balanced by a fundamental certainty that truth, integrity, and innocence weren’t just words, they were a way of life. But it was a history full of markers that remained fluid and resonated with energy, with them at every turn like a Klein bottle or Möbius strip, Euclidian in nature, the affine properties rewriting their future without their knowledge. Ultimately it left them with the kind of choice no one should ever have to make, much less carry to their grave.

  Had things gone differently, taken a turn somewhere along the way, it might not have happened at all. But where did you draw that line? Especially with Virgil Jones.

  Virgil…always pushing. Always in control.

  The watcher felt out of place. It was an odd sensation because in a way he felt like he belonged up front, maybe even sitting right there in the front row next to the family. But he wasn’t. He was lost in the middle of the crowd under a sea of umbrellas, though he was still close enough to see and hear. The hearing wasn’t so important because like almost everyone there he’d heard some version of it all before. The same predictable speech, varied with the utterance of a proper name and a specific prayer: ashes to ashes, or…whatever.

  But the seeing mattered, in a guttural way. It was a need, a fixation he could not escape. He caught himself standing up on his toes to get a better view over the tops of all the umbrellas, then forced himself to relax and keep his heels on the ground. Reminded himself that he was surrounded by an army of cops.

  The whole affair took longer than he thought it would, most of it spent waiting for everyone to shuffle into place before they could begin. It looked like every cop in the state was present. The city and state cops wore dress blues, the county cops in brown and tan, their Smokey Bear hats covered with clear bonnets. The bonnets reminded him of his grandmother’s old shower cap… and the crusty expression that went with it. Even the DNR guys were there. Their uniforms were dark green with some sort of ceremonial sash
that angled over their shoulder and then down around their waist. It looked impressive enough from a distance but up close it was all pressed polyester and faded sweat stains that smelled of fear and dry-cleaning chemicals. They were all probably thinking the same thing: That could be me.

  He fell into a rhythm of bowing his head every few minutes like he might be praying or reflecting on some long forgotten memory of the deceased. Then he’d raise his head slowly, always in a slightly different direction. Doing so gave him almost a full one hundred eighty degree view of everyone around him. Not that he needed it, really. There were only a handful of people he was actually watching and all of them were knitted together in a tight little group under the tent, right in front of the casket.

  And out of the whole of that group he was really only interested in one person.

  The little boy.

  The news of the cop’s death had stunned him, mostly because he’d planned to do it himself. He’d spent years trying to figure the whole thing out, but he wasn’t quite smart enough to pull it off…to get all the pieces in the proper order. He’d gotten away with killing before, plenty of times—so he wasn’t dumb, he was simply…uncreative. And a little lazy. The lack of creativity paralyzed him and the laziness justified it all, day after day, until he woke up one morning and was hit with two stark realizations: The paralysis had cost him six years of his life, and the chief cause of that paralysis was dead. Now here he was, standing in the middle of a crowd at the gravesite of Major Crimes Unit Detective Ed Donatti, with storm clouds on the horizon and surrounded by what looked like every cop in the state of Indiana.

  He was lost in thought when the preacher said something with finality and people started forming a line to walk by the casket. Some of the mourners touched the flag that covered the coffin. Others saluted or crossed themselves. Some looked like they didn’t know what to do or say so they just walked by, eyes straight ahead, their hair and jackets and skirts and ties blown sideways as the storm moved closer. Many of the women paused to hug Donatti’s wife or place their hand on top of the boy’s head before they walked away.

  As the line moved forward he let himself drift toward the back. He didn’t want to be seen here even though the only person who would recognize him wasn’t really in a position—much less a state of mind—to point a finger and start screaming his name. But why risk it?

  Besides, he’d done his research over the last few years and he knew who all the players were. He saw an attractive blond woman named Sandy Small move away and wait by the line of cars. She was a tasty looking little tart…one of those broads who simply oozed sexuality. He wondered what that would be like. Maybe he’d have the chance to find out.

  He watched Virgil Jones sit down next to Pam, and the boy, Jonas. Pam said something and then Jones said something to her, though he couldn’t hear exactly what. Too far away. Then Pam shook her head and said something back. It looked like they might be arguing.

  The rain started up again, then Virgil Jones moved to stand up, but the boy climbed on his lap and hugged him and held him down for a few more minutes. The boy might have said something, though it was hard to tell. When he glanced at Small he saw her bury her face in her hands.

  Then the rain came hard and the whole thing was over and he turned away, thoughts of his past lurking at the back of his brain…his abusive father, the beatings, the emotional scars, the war. These thoughts were swallowed whole and left to rot in the septic of his soul. Everything should have turned out so different, yet it hadn’t. What was the greater message here? Probably nothing at all. You left your mark or a mark was left on you.

  The rain on his face tasted like saltwater and he couldn’t understand why until one of the cops saw the look on his face and patted him on the shoulder as he walked past. The watcher flinched without meaning to, an odd look on his face. He’d been crying and didn’t even know it.

  Hell of a storm coming.

  2

  Harvest time now, the dead season right on its heels, the calendar running short on breath, a couple minutes of light peeled back every day like logs pulled from the winter cord. It’d be downright cold soon—a brittle slap in the face that carried a four-month sting. The leaves had already turned and gone, ripped away by an early polar vortex that swept in from the northwest on the ass end of a ruinous year, a dry death that every farmer in the state of Indiana would speak of for generations to come.

  Every farmer except Charlie Esser, that is.

  The five men met in secret. They sat around a plain wooden eight-by table in the central meeting room of the Shelby County Farmer’s Co-Op, in Shelby County, Indiana. The co-op was a squat, single-story cinderblock structure that much like the men in the room, was showing some age. The building, painted with two coats of barn-red every year by the 4-H club whether it needed it or not was now so thick and heavy with the stuff it looked like the cinderblocks themselves were no longer necessary for structural support.

  The men: Henry Stutzman, Angus Mizner, Basil Graves, Cal Lipkins, and Vernon Conrad. All were board members and stakeholders of the county co-op. The only member not present was the board’s chairman, Charlie Esser. It wouldn’t do to have Esser at this particular meeting, thus the secrecy.

  “Just so we’re clear, we all know what we’re talking about here,” said Stutzman, the vice-chair of the six-man board. He tapped his finger on the table for emphasis. “The deadline is tomorrow. If we miss it, the deal is gone for good and we’re toast. If we make it, all operations would essentially cease.”

  “That’s not exactly accurate,” Graves said. “There’s no ‘essentially’ about it. We’d be done with our farms. Forever.”

  Lipkins rolled his eyes in a dramatic, almost valley-girl sort of way. “For Christ’s sake, we all know that. How many times are we going to go over this? If we take the deal, we won’t need to farm anymore. Our biggest worry will be what color umbrella we want in our rum punches while we sit on the beach and calculate the interest.”

  “And keep track of the royalties,” Conrad said. “That’ll be a full-time job, right there.” A little light in his eyes.

  “I’m sort of worried about finding the least crooked funds manager,” Mizner added. “Fund-wise, I’ve got it narrowed down to Fidelity and Vanguard, but the people who run them—they’re all a bunch of thieves.”

  “Let’s try to stay focused,” Stutzman said. “We’ve got to find a way to get Charlie on board or there won’t be any colored umbrellas and crooked fund managers to deal with. Or royalty checks for that matter.”

  They all ran mega-farms, including Charlie Esser, the lone holdout on their multi-million dollar deal. When Charlie married Martha Shultz, he married into just over two thousand acres in the southern part of Shelby County, most of it bordered on the Flatrock River. The Flatrock ran diagonally through the county where it eventually hooked up with the Wabash and Ohio rivers before draining into the Mississippi. Martha’s great-grandfather had purchased the land a section or two at a time during the course of his life over one hundred years ago and her family had farmed it ever since. Her grandfather went on to start the co-op, Hank Stutzman’s granddad right there with him. Together the two men had turned a small farming community into an agricultural powerhouse.

  The Mizner, Graves, Lipkins, and Conrad families took up a year or so later, after the fact. Over the decades that followed their influence and voting power had grown strong and allied, though they were no different from any other farmer. They were all cash poor and land rich. When the last of the Shultz men were dead and buried, Charlie Esser found himself at the head of the table, in charge of an empire…one he ran with an iron fist that was as hard and solid as the forged blades of a twelve-bottom plow. But that was about to change.

  Maybe.

  Their season had been bad, the worst any of them had ever seen. No rain to speak of…not a goddamned drop was the way almost everyone described it when they weren’t in church. There were a few brief showers here and there,
along with one ferocious storm earlier in the year that spun up a small tornado, but it wasn’t nearly enough. When the Flatrock flowed to no more than a trickle, the co-op brought in drillers who worked in triple shifts boring deeper and deeper into the water table for irrigation, and then, that faint whiff of sulfur in the air and everything changed.

  The drillers had hit a pocket of natural gas. Charlie Esser and Cal Lipkins were standing next to one of the drilling platforms when the foreman started shouting and hit the rig’s kill switch. Two seconds later they smelled the stench of sulfur and Lipkins’ face lit up like a kid on Christmas morning. A geological survey crew was called in—no one really knew who made the call, though everyone suspected Lipkins had greased those particular skids—and a week later a lawyer representing a natural gas consortium made his pitch to the board. The first one had not gone well, but the lawyer hung around and chipped away at them in a divide-and-conquer sort of way. He was making progress and he knew it.

  “The bottom line is this,” the lawyer had said. “You’re all sitting on a mountain of money, especially you, Mr. Esser.”

  “I own over two thousand acres of land,” Charlie said. “Land that’s been in my family for generations on end. I’ve been sitting on a mountain of money since the day I married my sweet Martha.”

  The lawyer almost laughed at the absurdity of his statement. Another country simpleton. “Yes, sir, I understand that. I really do. But if I could be brutally honest with you, Mr. Esser…with all of you, we know this hasn’t exactly been your best year in terms of yield. You’ve all turned more than ninety percent of your crops under, the drillers have pulled out because they’re not equipped to deal with the dangers of gas pockets this large, and the Flatrock doesn’t show any signs of returning to normal levels until next year at the earliest. Maybe not even then. In addition—and I know all of you know this, but I’m going to just go ahead and say it anyway—even if the Flatrock were at normal levels, you couldn’t pull enough water out of the current without having every town and county municipality to the Southwest breathing down your necks for overuse. Quite frankly, I’m having trouble seeing the alternatives. Why not just take the money? You’ll still own the land. The people I represent are only interested in the mineral rights.”