Smoke & Mirrors Page 12

“Who owns this building?” Brad said.

  “I don’t know all that,” the man answered. “You the sheriff. Don’t you know it?”

  “Open the door,” Brad said.

  “Push your warrants beneath the door,” the voice called back. “I can’t open unless Mr. Todd says to. Ain’t you the sheriff over in Tunica County?”

  “I am,” Brad called out.

  “Well, no disrespecting untended, suh, but this here ain’t Tunica County. I have to ask y’all to leave. If you want, I’ll call Mr. Todd and he can come out and you can talk to hum. He could be here in about a hour or two. He in Memphis.”

  Brad was thinking. He looked at Winter, who shrugged in defeat.

  “That’s all right. We were just checking out a call about a rabid fox. You seen any foxes wandering around foaming at the mouth?”

  The man inside was silent for a few long seconds.

  “I got me a rifle and if I sees hum I know what to do with it.”

  “Okay. Sorry we bothered you,” Brad said.

  The trio walked back to Brad’s truck, got in, and drove slowly back out of the gate.

  “Rabid fox,” Alexa said, laughing.

  “We’ve had them,” Brad said defensively.

  When they had reached the road in the woods, Winter looked back just in time to see the personnel door close.

  39

  ALBERT WHITE ARRIVED OUTSIDE THE TUNICA County Airport and parked as close as he could get to the main doors. He climbed out and went around to the passenger’s door. Seconds later, a man with short blond hair, an overcoat, and sunglasses strolled out of the terminal carrying a suitcase and a hanging suit bag. The man moved like a professional athlete.

  “I thought Tug Murphy was meeting me,” he said, smiling like a salesman offering up his private stash of brilliant white teeth.

  “I’m Albert White, director of casino security. Tug was out of pocket, so I came. He should be waiting for us when we get back.”

  “I was messing with you, Albert. Part of my job is to know what everybody at the casino looks like. Nice to meet you.”

  He slipped off his sunglasses and shook White’s hand firmly.

  “Welcome, Mr. Finch,” Albert said.

  Finch looked directly into White’s eyes as if he was reading a sign hanging on the inside back wall of his skull.

  White opened the rear door to allow the man to put his baggage inside the compartment. Usually RRI employees arrived in chartered aircraft, landing and pulling into a hangar to keep nosy people from seeing who was arriving or departing. This man was at the main terminal, and no commuter or commercial flights had landed within the last hour. A man who worked security at the airport took money from the Roundtable to steer arriving passengers their way. White had spoken to him and after giving the man Finch’s description, he’d told White that Finch had walked into the terminal from the parking lot to wait near the doors as though he’d just flown in. Very odd. White figured he’d been around scouting before he officially appeared. Supposedly he was good, and Kurt Klein could afford the best of everything.

  “I hope your flight was okay, Mr. Finch,” White said.

  “My flight was fine, Albert. Call me Steffan,” the man said, nodding. His accent sounded British, but White knew from his research that Finch was South African, and he’d spent years living and working in England with the SAS.

  “Let’s be off,” Finch said, checking his watch, a matte black chronometer.

  “So Tug is a recent hire, I understand.”

  “That wasn’t in your files?”

  Finch smiled. “Tug isn’t his real name, is it?”

  White shook his head. “A nickname he had legally changed to his Christian name.”

  “The nickname Tug,” Finch said. “What does that signify?”

  “He told me that when he was a kid, he used to pull on his old man’s pant leg to get his attention. His dad called him Tug.”

  “Oh,” Finch said. “I hoped it would be more interesting.”

  Albert White put the SUV in gear and rolled off into the bright Delta day.

  Finch turned on the radio, which Tug must have set to NPR, and tuned in a classic country music station. While White concentrated on his driving, George Jones told the SUV’s occupants about a relationship he had a few regrets about.

  40

  ALTHOUGH HE’D HAD A WARNING FROM SECURITY, Pierce Mulvane didn’t look up when Jacob Gardner entered his office accompanied by a security guard. Pierce calmly finished reading the floor reports from the past twenty-four hours. Despite the fact that the numbers were very good, he held a frown on his face. Finally he looked up, feigning surprise at finding that someone had come into his office while he was engrossed in his business.

  Mulvane dismissed the guard with a wave of his hand, waiting until he was gone to speak.

  Jacob Gardner wore the sincere smile of a desperate used car salesman and did his best to appear relaxed, but Pierce could smell the anxiety radiating from him, just as strong as the stale odor of booze that wafted from his pores.

  “How’ve you been, Mr. Mulvane?” Jacob asked.

  “I guess if you didn’t have good news for me you would not be here,” Pierce said. “So I assume your ex-wife has accepted my generous offer.”

  “Well, I was inches from getting this resolved, but there was an incident at her place yesterday, so there wasn’t any time for a business discussion. Unfortunate set of circumstances.”

  Pierce said, “The hunting misadventure involving the young girl. I heard about it. Very unfortunate, but just as well it wasn’t your daughter or your ex.”

  “Leigh’s pretty damned upset, as you can imagine. She was very fond of that girl. We might have to conclude this after the funeral,” Jacob added.

  “When is the funeral?”

  “Saturday, I think. I’m sure we can negotiate a deal before Monday, Tuesday latest.”

  Pierce took out his pen and opened it. “I’m sorry, but this matter has to be concluded before Monday, or it will be out of my hands. This is what I am going to do. I want you to pass on an offer that should negate the need to haggle further. This is going to be the absolute top dollar we will pay and our absolute final offer. We have the political clout to have the land condemned and if I have to wait that long, your ex will be paid a sum for the land based on what we paid for the adjoining properties, which wasn’t very much.”

  Jacob had his hands clenched together in his lap, waiting for the number. Not just yet, Pierce thought.

  “If memory serves,” he said, “we have your checks totaling three hundred and twenty-one thousand dollars. One ten you lost here and the rest was consolidated from certain other casinos and individuals with the help of the list you furnished us.”

  “Yes.”

  Pierce stared at Jacob. “A substantial amount, secured by a piece of land you claimed to own at the time you agreed to these actions.”

  Jacob’s fevered eyes darted around the room as he nodded.

  “The last figure we discussed for the parcel was nine hundred thousand, which you told me you passed on to Ms. Gardner. My question is how this woman, an astute businesswoman, can refuse such an offer. You did present her with our offer, didn’t you? Nine hundred thousand dollars?”

  Jacob Gardner’s eyes fell to his lap. “Well, I actually…”

  “I thought as much. How could I be so stupid to believe anything an attorney—especially a disbarred one—says? What figure did you offer her?”

  “Well, I had to cover my losses here in the deal.”

  “I told you months ago we’d work that out. And each time we have discussed it, we’ve had to track you down. Each time I pressed you and like a wet eel you slipped away.” Pierce felt his anger rising and clenched his teeth. This was worse than he’d imagined. He should have figured Jacob would try to screw her as he had them.

  “I am a patient man, Gardner. Truly I am, but there are people upstairs putting pressure on me who are not n
early as indulgent as I am. I have depended on my powers of persuasion as well as your intelligence, but obviously I badly misjudged you. Even for a degenerate gambler who lives by feeding off the labors of his ex-wife, you set a new record for sleaziness, dishonesty, and selfishness.”

  “I know,” Jacob blurted. “I’m not a well man, mentally or physically. I might have cancer. They’re running some tests.”

  “I can check that,” Pierce said, adding a note of warning.

  “I’m going to have testing done,” Gardner mumbled. “I have some troubling symptoms.”

  “Here’s what I’m going to do,” Pierce said, making notes on a piece of stationery. “I will pay Ms. Gardner two point five million dollars for the land. In the interest of rewarding you for brokering the deal, I will not merely cancel your debt to the casino, but I will give you an additional five hundred thousand dollars in cash, which is a net to you of eight hundred and twenty-one thousand. And we will all live long and healthy lives—assuming you don’t have cancer, naturally.”

  Jacob Gardner straightened suddenly and his lips turned up at the corners. “Okay. I mean, man alive. That’s a very, very generous offer.”

  “Now, use all of your persuasive powers to make sure she accepts it.”

  “See, I haven’t told her who wanted the land because I know her and I thought that if she sees the intended use for the land, she’ll want more. It has taken a great deal of finesse.”

  “Explain to Ms. Gardner that she must take this, or I will pursue alternatives that will be far less financially rewarding. We do not want further unpleasantness, but if there is any, it’s going to be unpleasant for you. That’s all I intend to say on the matter.”

  Jacob stood.

  “And, Gardner.” Mulvane held out his open hand. “The recorder?”

  Meekly, Gardner took a tape recorder from his pocket and placed it in Mulvane’s hand.

  “I just wanted to make sure I had it so I’d remember the meeting, the specifics of your offer.”

  “Yes.” Pierce snapped the recorder off, took out the cassette, and tossed it into an open drawer before throwing the empty device back to Gardner, who managed to catch it clumsily.

  “We have to trust each other. Not to do so is courting disaster.”

  “I understand, Mr. Mulvane.”

  “I certainly hope so,” Mulvane said, cranking up his smile. “This works as planned. If you screw this one up, nobody on earth can help you.”

  41

  AS JACOB GARDNER RODE DOWN IN THE SMALLER private elevator, he blamed his hangover for the fact that he was sweating, his hands were trembling, and he felt oddly disconnected from reality. The tape recorder had been a risky move, but he had wanted to have evidence of Mulvane taking credit for the girl’s murder on tape to give him an edge, if necessary. Mulvane hadn’t admitted to the killing, but it didn’t mean he didn’t have it done. It was good that he hadn’t taken the recorder personally, though.

  It infuriated Jacob that his spoiled bitch of an ex-wife would get any of the money. It was all rightfully his since she had stolen the land from him when he was down-and-out, but at the moment he could see no choice. Despite Mulvane’s Monday deadline, he probably still had time to try to figure out something. Without buying the land, there was no way Mulvane could get his hands on it unless Jacob got the kids to agree to sell it. If Leigh were out of the picture, getting the children to agree would be simple, if he could get power of attorney. With every foot the elevator descended, Jacob was more certain that Leigh was the only obstacle to his financial well-being.

  He knew Mulvane had sent the shooter, who had delivered the message that it was a simple matter to kill whomever they chose, whenever they liked. Lucky thing for Leigh that it was the black gal that was targeted, but too bad for him. With enough cash Jacob could start over, buy a successful business, and live like a king without a worry in the world. He couldn’t do that on the pittance Mulvane had offered him—not by a long shot.

  As Jacob exited the elevator he almost ran into Albert White and another man who fit the image of what Jacob imagined professional killers looked like. He wondered if that was the man who’d shot Sherry Adams.

  Just after Jacob got into his Cadillac, his cell phone buzzed. Checking the ID, he answered it.

  “So what the hell are you pulling now, Cyn?”

  “Listen carefully, Mr. Gardner. I won’t repeat myself.” The unfamiliar voice sounded almost mechanical. “I have your daughter. She is fine and will stay that way unless Mrs. Gardner holds on to that land. Make that sale happen. Let’s keep this just between the two of us. Any cops get involved…well, you know what.”

  The phone went dead.

  42

  ALEXA’S CELL PHONE RANG, AND WHEN SHE LOOKED at the readout her heart almost stopped. The display read H. HATCHER. Waving to Winter, she stepped into the sheriff’s conference room to take the call. Assistant FBI Director Hayden Hatcher, who ran the Counterterrorism Division, was calling from his office.

  “Alexa Keen,” she said.

  “Alexa, Hayden Hatcher. I hope I’m not catching you at a bad time.”

  “Not at all, sir. Can I help you with something?”

  She pictured the sandy-haired Hatcher, a Bureau golden boy in his late thirties, a few inches over six feet tall, trim as a boxer, and handsome in a corn-fed Midwestern kind of way. He had worked his way up from the Omaha field office due to successful outcomes, an appealing personality, a head for political gamesmanship, and—most of all—a talent for clasping the right coattails. He had been promoted after 9/11 to the growing anti-terrorism arena—the department with the biggest budget, which was therefore where the sex appeal stayed these days. His and Alexa’s offices were on opposite sides of the building, and their paths seldom crossed.

  “I understand you have made inquiries into RRI. May I ask what this request for intelligence relates to?”

  “A casino operation in Mississippi. The Roundtable. I made an inquiry to assist an investigation by Tunica County, Mississippi, authorities.” Alexa couldn’t imagine why casinos would be of interest to Hatcher, unless they were somehow being used to funnel money to terrorist cells, which seemed unlikely.

  “I see. And how is it that the Tunica County authorities went through you? The sheriff called you for it?” he asked.

  “Yes.” Alexa felt a heat deep in her stomach and managed to keep her voice neutral. “Actually, one of his deputies asked on his behalf.”

  “I assume this somehow involves an abduction, if you were called?”

  “No, sir. A murder. The sheriff suspects there may be a connection to the casino because the victim worked for casino security.”

  “And do you mind telling me why a deputy sheriff contacted you to make the request?”

  “He called me because we’ve known each other since we were teenagers. And we worked together on a case.”

  “Who is this deputy?”

  The heat in her stomach suddenly felt like a forest fire. “Massey.” She suspected that the deputy director already knew that Winter had made the request, which seemed impossible.

  “You worked with Winter Massey on the kidnapping of Judge Fondren’s daughter and grandson in Charlotte.” His lack of hesitation signaled that, sure enough, Hatcher had already known. “Naturally I’m familiar with the case and with Winter Massey. I wasn’t aware that he was a deputy sheriff in Tunica County.”

  “He’s working with the sheriff there as a personal favor. Does his inquiry intersect with another investigation under way that involves Counterterrorism?”

  “No, I was just curious when I heard about your inquiry. Usually when Massey appears on our radar screen, unpleasant complications arise from his activities. I’m just wondering if the Bureau should become involved in supplying information to him. I’m calling to make an informal inquiry to get clarification on the nature of the request.”

  “Does this threaten any CT investigation?” she asked pointedly.

&
nbsp; “Not directly.”

  “The director has asked us to cooperate with local and regional law enforcement. I was involved with NOPD last year under that policy, and it seems to me that this falls under that heading,” she said.

  “Still, you aren’t the proper channel for requests like this one. Since you asked OC, I wondered about a suspected connection to organized crime. Often our cases do intersect.”

  “They don’t suspect the casino of being involved with organized crime or terrorists, as far as I know. They just wanted to know if there was anything that pointed to one.”

  “I just don’t want to get caught by surprise if any complications arise that could impact the Bureau. Due to their nature, and the money involved, casinos tend to have open case files, and maybe what Massey learns in his investigation could be helpful to us. A two-way street is always preferable to a dead end. You get the picture. You’re a team player. If you tread on anything, I’m sure someone will let you know. Massey can be trouble. I’d hate for you to be embarrassed if something goes off on this one.”

  “I’ve known Winter Massey for over twenty years. He is a capable man who acts in both a legal and deliberate manner. If anything happened to me, I’d want him finding out what happened. He’s the sort of person you want to work with, given a choice.”

  “Very good,” Hayden Hatcher said. “Carry on. We should have lunch when you get back.”

  “Absolutely,” she said.

  He hung up.

  Alexa knew that unless a company or an individual was flagged by Counterterrorism, there was no reason for Organized Crime to notify Hatcher. The Bureau was eighty percent politics and, like all intelligence organizations, it was a paranoid monster that lumbered about blindly, its feet entangled in red tape and its hands bound by sibling rivalry. Sharing information between departments usually took a request from one to the other.

  Alexa Keen didn’t trust many people in the Bureau, and she especially didn’t trust Hayden Hatcher because his loyalty depended on the direction of the political winds. She trusted Winter Massey without reservation, and she knew that getting in his way was a very bad idea.