—
BACK IN THE PAPER, Lucas made up a list of known associates, and in particular people who actually seemed to be friends of Poole. He included Poole’s parents and sister. Dora Box apparently had no living relatives. When he was finished, he had twenty-two names. He e-mailed the list to Sandy Park, the deputy marshal who’d done the computer research, and asked for reports on those people.
That done, he called the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation and talked to the head of the Criminal Investigation Division.
“I wanted to tell you that I’m coming through and let you know what I’m doing,” Lucas said.
The agent, Justin Adams, knew Poole’s name and some of the details from the Biloxi murders. “You think you’ve found him, give me a call and we’ll be there. You want somebody to go around with you?”
“Maybe later,” Lucas said. “First thing up, I’m going to be talking to his parents and sister and that kind of thing—I don’t expect too much. If I get into something, though, I’ll let you know.”
—
SANDY PARK got back late in the afternoon, with the results on the list of people who were friends or accomplices of Poole. Of the twenty-two on the list, nine were dead—some because they’d simply gotten cancer or had gotten old, like Box’s parents, while three had died violently: two shot during robberies, one in a motorcycle accident. Dora Box’s sister had committed suicide after a long run on heroin. Of those still alive, eight were in prison, mostly serving life terms as career criminals. One was on death row in Alabama.
Of the other five, Lucas got addresses for three. Nothing was known about the location of the other two.
An e-mail came in from Pratt, the retired MBI investigator, with a few details that hadn’t been in the formal paperwork. Poole knew how to create different “looks” for himself—he’d dyed his hair at one time or another, had been both clean-shaven and bearded, sometimes lounged in jeans and boots and workingmen’s T-shirts, and sometimes appeared in expensive suits and ties. Sometimes he had white sidewalls, sometimes hair on his shoulders.
“One thing is always the same,” Pratt said. “He always shoots first.”
—
LUCAS SPENT two days with his son, Sam, at his Wisconsin cabin, cleaning it up and getting ready to shut it down for winter. Sam was eight, skipping school and loving it; they went fishing for an hour or two in the morning and Sam caught his first musky, a thirty-incher. Lucas was more excited than the kid was—not only was it a musky, but the kid was being imprinted with a certain kind of lifestyle, the love of a quiet lake in the early morning. Lucas showed him how to support the musky in the water, take the hook out with a pair of pliers, then release the fish back into the deep.
As they were washing the fish stink off their hands in the lake water, Sam said, “That’s the best thing I’ve ever done in my whole life.”
At night, they watched a little satellite TV and Lucas continued working through the Poole file. Done at the cabin, they drove back to the Cities, and Lucas told Weather he was leaving the following Sunday for Nashville—he wanted a full week to begin with, with all the government law enforcement offices open for business.
“How long will you be gone?” she asked. “Best estimate?”
“I’ll leave Sunday evening, make a short day of it, get to Nashville the next day. I should know in the first week or two if there’s any chance of locating him. If I get a sniff of him . . . could be two or three weeks.”
“Why do you think you can find Poole when nobody else can?” she asked. They were in the kitchen, loading up the dishwasher. Sam was out in the garage, and they could hear him knocking a wiffle ball around with a cut-down hockey stick.
“If he’s alive, he can be found,” Lucas said. “There’ll be people who know where he is, or at least how to get in touch with him. If he was the shooter in Biloxi, at least one guy knows where to find him, the guy who spotted the counting house. If I can squeeze between that guy and Poole . . . I’ll get him.”
She closed the dishwasher, pushed the programming buttons, then leaned back against it and said, “Don’t be too confident. It could get you killed.”
“I’ll be as careful as I know how. The guy’s a cold-blooded killer.” Lucas smiled at her, the wolverine smile. “The best kind.”
“God help you, Lucas,” she said.
4
LUIS SOTO was a bad man and liked being a bad man. The badness rolled off him like a malaria sweat, a mean little rat-bastard who could walk into a bar and order a shot of Reposado Gold and everybody in the bar would figure him for a gun and a razor and an eagerness to use them.
He’d been born in Miami, and not a good part of Miami, of Cuban immigrant parents, and started his career in crime as a driver and muscle for a loan shark. He’d also burned a few buildings down for people who needed their buildings burned down, had laundered money through the Florida Indian casinos for his various bosses, had provided protection for a smuggling operation that brought Iranian turquoise in from the Bahamas. He’d spent some time robbing tourists on Miami Beach; and he’d been caught a few times, because he wasn’t the brightest.
He’d been described by a Miami detective as “our all-purpose asshole.”
His life had changed when he got in an argument in a parking lot of a chili bar in San Cristobal, Florida, and had cut the best part of the nose off a Jepsen County, Florida, sheriff’s deputy after the deputy called him “a nigger of the spic persuasion.”
The deputy had been in civilian clothing and Soto hadn’t known he was a cop, but that wouldn’t have stopped him anyway. He would have known that he was probably causing himself more trouble than the cutting was worth: but a man had his pride, and so he cut the deputy.
He was right about the trouble. He was carefully and thoroughly beaten for thirty consecutive nights in the Jepsen County jail and hadn’t been able to walk quite straight or fuck anything at all since performing that traumatic nose job. The jailers also spent some time jerking him around on the end of a dog collar, leaving him with a rough, high-pitched voice that sounded like a crow scratching on a tin roof.
When Soto got back to Miami from Jepsen County he couldn’t run or lift anything too heavy, and had finally taken up killing people for a living. He got anything between fifteen hundred and ten thousand dollars per murder, whatever the traffic would bear. His primo client was a Honduras drug cartel, his specific employer a man he knew only as “the Boss,” with a capital “B.”
The Boss would provide a succinct explanation of why the designated murderee needed to be dead and where he was, and Soto would set up the kill and carry it out. Most of the murders weren’t exactly masterworks of subterfuge: Soto would pull up to the victim’s front door, knock, and when the guy answered, fill him full of nine-millimeter jacketed hollow-points; the pistol, of course, was silenced. Not silent, but quiet enough in those neighborhoods disinclined to ask about loud, sharp noises. A day or two later, ten thousand dollars would show up in Soto’s Panama City bank account—the Panama City in the country of Panama.
A few of the kills were more complicated and also paid better. Those were the punishment murders. Soto would track the miscreant, and at an opportune moment, kidnap him, or, occasionally, her. He didn’t do the punishment himself: that was done by his partner.
—
BAD AS SOTO WAS, he was nothing like the nightmare of Charlene Kort.
Kort didn’t live her life, she suffered it. She suffered it right from the beginning. Born to a long line of white trash and being fat and greasy, she had a bad time in school from her elementary years right through two years of high school. She made it all worse with a meth habit that started in seventh grade, when her parents began cooking it.
She’d once gotten dressed up to apply for a job, and asked her tweaker father how she looked. He’d said, “Like you caught on fire and somebody stomped you out w
ith golf shoes.” He really thought he was being funny.
With twenty-eight years of unrelieved poverty and bitterness following her like an incurable disease, she’d found her calling when she murdered an assistant manager at the Dollar Store where she was working the overnight shift as a stock girl.
The assistant manager, whose name was Dan Bird, delighted in giving her a hard time: she didn’t work fast, she didn’t work smart, she wasn’t even clean enough for the Dollar Store: “When did you last wash your hair, anyway, dirt girl? Even if you don’t respect yourself, you gotta respect the store, you hear me?”
Bird had gotten drunk and had done a late-night surprise drop-in to make sure that she was hard at work. He was running his mouth on that subject as Kort was unpacking an iron.
“You gotta work fast and you gotta work smart. You don’t do either one, do you, dirt girl? You wanna know why? You’re dumb trailer trash, white trash, trash. That’s why . . .”
He got a step too close and she clocked him with the iron, knocking him on his drunken ass. Knowing the job was all over for her anyway, she hit him several more times with the edge of the iron, until his skull started to get mushy, and took intense, absolutely sexual pleasure as she watched him shake and tremble and groan and bleed.
After a while, having thought about how much fun this was, she walked over to the hardware section and got a pair of wire cutters, a drywall saw, a hammer, and a contractor’s trash bag. She stuffed him in the bag, dragged him out to his own car, drove him down to a nearby river landing, where she sometimes went to smoke her meth, and tore him apart with her tools.
When he was dead, which took a while, his body went in the river. His car was parked behind an Adult Pleasures Outlet, and Kort walked back to the Dollar Store to clean up the bloody mess on the floor and to await the arrival of the cops.
The cops finally had come, she’d heard, but nobody talked to her, and eventually no more was said about the disappearance of Dan Bird. She’d gotten away with murder, without even trying.
Given her contacts in the world of backwoods meth feuds, her newfound skills and murderous enthusiasm were definitely marketable. Nobody knew exactly what she’d done, but the word had gotten around that Charlene Kort was the meanest bitch in North Florida, which would put her high on the list for meanest bitch worldwide.
Kort moved on from hammers and drywall—though the extra-large side-cutters still had a place in her tool bag—when she discovered the wonderful world of electricity, and all those battery-powered Japanese saws and drills and nail-drivers. Her redneck employers called her “the queen of home-improvement tools.”
Then one day, two years after she killed Dan Bird, her employers hooked her up with Soto, who had contacts sideways across the Gulf of Mexico, where all the money was. Soto killed people, which was a valuable skill, but combined with Kort’s interest in the pain of other people, they made an even more valuable team.
That, despite the fact that they’d hated each other at first sight, the gimpy Cuban and the overweight white-trash girl. Soto didn’t like Kort any more than anyone else had, and Kort sensed that from the first moment she got in his car.
—
ON THIS OCCASION, they met in Panama City, the one in North Florida, at Alegra’s Fine Pizza and Pasta, a place with checkered-plastic tablecloths, plastic baskets of supermarket rolls, and frozen pizza and pasta lightly heated in microwave ovens; they got a booth with a view of the building across the alley.
“It’s complicated,” Soto told Kort. “This is punishment, but we also gotta get some information. We can’t cut them up and leave.”
“What’s the deal?” Kort asked. Soto’s head bobbed and turned constantly, checking the environment, maybe looking for strange guns. He reminded Kort of a bobble-head doll with a mean streak.
“Somebody robbed the Boss’s bank,” Soto said. “He wants the money back, and he wants the robbers punished. If we get the money back, we get a quarter-million each. If we don’t get the money back, but punish these guys, we get twenty grand each.”
“So it’s mostly about the money.”
“Always is,” Soto said.
“I’d like a quarter-mil,” Kort said. She thought about it, and asked, “What if we can’t find him and we get nothing back?”
“Then we get nothing. But they pick up all the expenses.”
“They know who robbed them?” Kort asked, as she sucked down a Mexican Coca-Cola.
“The College-Sounding Guy says it’s probably a man named Garvin Poole. He’s a holdup man and killer. The cops have been looking for him for ten years,” Soto said. “Problem is, nobody knows where Poole’s at. They do know he’s probably got his girlfriend with him. Her name is Dora Box.”
“How are we gonna find them?” Kort asked. “We’re not the cops.”
“The College-Sounding Guy is going to help out. He’s in all the cop files. The thing is, Poole can’t be found, but his relatives are out there like sittin’ ducks. That’s where you come in.”
Kort nodded and said, “Okay. Gonna have to think about it. Maybe read up some.”
“Read up? What’s to read up about?” He didn’t quite sneer at the idea.
“On the other jobs, the Boss just wanted somebody hurt bad, so the word would get around. We didn’t care when the sucker died. If we need to get some information out of somebody, I’m gonna have to be more careful. Stretch it out.”
“Makes you kinda hot, doesn’t it? Thinking about it?” Soto said. “You ever been laid?”
“Fuck you,” Kort said. She sucked the last of the Coke out of the bottle, pulled the straw out and crumpled it in her fist, pushed it back in the bottle. She didn’t know why she did that, but always had. “When do we get the names?”
“Anytime now. The College-Sounding Guy says he has to do some research. Shouldn’t take long. Go rent a car, I’ll let you know. Oughta be ready to roll tonight.”
—
THE COLLEGE-SOUNDING GUY was a computer hacker also employed by the Boss, and who had valuable entrée to almost any police files, and lots of other files as well. He’d gotten a half dozen fake IDs for both Kort and Soto, and credit cards that actually worked for two months. The amounts they paid for his services were fairly small—a few hundred to a couple of thousand dollars each time, which made Kort think that he might have a lot of accounts.
They had a phone number for him and nothing else. Kort imagined him sitting in his mother’s basement, lots of shadows around, surrounded by Orange Crush bottles and sacks of Cheetos. In real life, when they called, he was usually listening to soft-rock music, like Genesis, or somebody.
When they called the Boss, on the other hand, there was no sound but the Boss’s baritone voice, and a very faint electronic twittering.
Kort didn’t mind talking to the College-Sounding Guy, because he had a workaday voice and casual attitude: pay me the money and I’ll get you the information. The Boss, on the other hand, was remote and disembodied, and extremely courteous, and for that reason, mysterious and threatening.
—
KORT AND SOTO left the restaurant separately, Soto going first. They’d rent cars for the job, although the cars they rented wouldn’t be used on the job—they’d rent a different set of cars for that. Lots of cars meant lots of ways out, if the shit hit the fan.
Kort got hers at the airport, drove to her apartment, forty minutes away, threw everything out of the refrigerator but some bottles of water, took the garbage around back to a dumpster. That done, she watched a couple of hours of television and was getting into a Friends rerun when Soto called.
“We’re going to Tennessee. I’ll see you there tomorrow night, in Nashville. About an eight-hour drive. You get a car?”
“Yes.”
“The College-Sounding Guy made reservations for you at the Best Western at the Nashville airport, under the
Sally Thomas name.”
“I’ll call you when I get in,” Kort said.
She rang off and went to her computer: time to do a little research. Soto had been right about one thing: thinking about the job did get her a little hot.
5
LUCAS LEFT ST. PAUL after dinner on Sunday, driving into the rising moon. As a night owl, he didn’t mind driving past midnight, as long as he had a motel reservation. He took that one short day, plus most of Monday, to get to Nashville, watching the autumn leaves turn from yellow and red in Minnesota and Wisconsin, back to a dusty green by the time he crossed the Tennessee border.
He’d never been to Nashville. The name to him mostly meant shitkicker music, whining violins and frog-plunk banjos, and if anything, he was a rocker. The country music he did like mostly came from a line that might be drawn from Bakersfield, California, to Tulsa, Oklahoma, to Jacksonville, Florida, and south of that. In other words, not the Grand Ole Opry or anything involving the Appalachians or moonshine or whatever happens when you cross the Harlan County line.
A few minutes before six o’clock, he pulled into a La Quinta Inn off I-24, twenty miles south of Nashville, checked in, took a leak, washed his face, changed into a suit, tie, and black oxfords—a high-end cop look—and then drove northeast into the town of La Vergne, where he cruised past the home of Poole’s parents.
Kevin and Margery Poole lived in a beige two-story house with vinyl siding, few windows, a single-car garage, and a burned-out lawn. The sun had hit the horizon in the west and the evening was coming on, but no lights were showing in the house. There was a car parked in the driveway, not quite straight, as if it had been left in a hurry, or the driver was a little drunk.
Lucas parked in the street and went to the door and rang the bell. No answer.
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