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.
“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.
43
