38
It took twenty minutes of driving across the bleak landscape on blacktop county roads, plus a trip down a rutted thinly graveled trail, before they arrived at the site, a vast flat field nestled against the levee. Under the smoke-gray sky, it looked like a black and white photograph of a WWI battlefield. Stagnant water stood in a series of shallow ponds inhabited by hundreds of ducks. For half a mile to the north and south, trees had been cut to the ground. Scattered piles of tortured tree limbs and other organic debris lay where hardwoods had been pushed or broken down as if by artillery shells. At the southern end of the scalped land stood an enormous, newly constructed metal building. It stood alone on a graveled lot surrounded by a tall hurricane fence topped with barbed wire.
“This is recent,” Brad said.
“Equipment came over from that building to do the clearing,” Winter said, tracing the dozer tread tracks with his eyes to the fenced-in structure. “Whose is it?”
“That’s just outside the county line. I recall something about the Corps of Engineers putting in an equipment facility to support their dredging activities, but we don’t really patrol this corner unless we’re called because it’s all private land.”
Alexa wondered aloud, “Would the Corps of Engineers have done that for a company?”
“I don’t know,” Brad said. “They’ve worked all the way around Leigh’s parcel, and can’t go onto hers until that acquisition is final. But as soon as they know it’s a done deal, whoever it is can begin doing whatever the hell they have in mind.”
Alexa’s cell phone rang and she looked at the ID. “It’s Louis Sykes from OC.” She opened it. “Louis, that was fast.”
She listened for almost two minutes without interrupting, thanked him, and hung up.
She said, “RRI stands for Royale Resorts International. They own casino resorts all over the world. Most are high-end all-inclusive resorts with a couple of exceptions, most notable being the Columns Casino in Atlantic City and the Roundtable.”
“I guess the connection between the Roundtable and the Gardners is solid enough now,” Winter said.
“Sure looks that way,” Brad said, as he drove toward the barn.
Alexa asked, “If they were going to put in a casino, they could cut a channel in the levee and replace it once the casino gaming structure is in place. That is how it’s done, isn’t it?”
“They could put fifty casinos on this place,” Brad said.
“Or one extremely large gambling resort,” Winter said. “It’d cost hundreds of millions of dollars.”
The personnel door next to a large equipment door swung closed. “You see that?” Winter asked.
“Sure did,” Brad said. “Someone’s in there.”
“Let’s go talk to them,” Winter said.
“And say what?” Alexa asked. “I don’t think we should let them know we’re interested in this land.”
“You’re right,” Winter said. “We’ll just say we’re looking for a duck-hunting site.”
As they approached, it was easy to see from the truck that the gate wasn’t locked. The logging chain and padlock were hanging from the chain links, and the gate hadn’t quite closed the last time someone had come through it. Winter opened the gate and they drove into the lot. Brad parked near the door and they climbed out. While Alexa and Brad stood on either side of him, Winter made a fist and pounded on the corrugated steel personnel door, which was locked.
“Hello in there!” he shouted.
“Who is it?” a muted voice called from inside.
“Deputy Sheriff Massey,” Winter called out.
“Sheriff Barnett,” Brad yelled.
Alexa was silent.
“What y’all wants?” The voice was that of an elderly black man.
“Open the door and we’ll talk,” Brad said.
“Y’all ain’t supposed to be here unless Mr. Todd says so. I been instructed not to open the door for nobody what ain’t been announced ’forehand. That’s the rules and I don’t wants to get fired.”
“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.
