“Sure you can. I want you to have it. Surely you can use it. If you’re upside down on the car, then you must be upside down on other debts as well. Apply the excess to those.”
Sam placed the packet on top of the stack and leaned heavily on her forearms. “This is crazy. Why are you doing this?”
The real answer-the true answer-was that he felt sorry for her. That preserved place setting at the end of the table was testament to the sad, brave story that was being lived every day in tens of thousands of households around the world. Spouses and children waiting for their husbands and fathers to return from war. It pained Jonathan that this particular warrior would return to poverty, perhaps with only a few short months before his next deployment. Jonathan could afford to pay off every debt owed by thousands of such families, and this particular one happened to be within reach.
But he’d share none of that with this young mother, lest his altruism come off as creepy. Instead, he explained, “I need to buy time. I need you to feel fairly compensated so that you don’t pick up a phone and call the police as soon as I leave.”
Sam considered that. He could see that her defenses were weakening. “This must mean that you’re intending to use the truck for a crime. I don’t want to be any part of that.”
“It doesn’t mean that at all. If someone comes and asks, tell them that you sold the vehicle to a stranger who offered you full price. If push comes to shove, you’ll have the record from the paid-off repo guy that he got his money. The paper trail will work for you.”
“Until you get caught and testify against me.”
Generally, it wasn’t this difficult to give a generous gift. “I never said that I was going to do anything illegal. You assumed that I was, and I gave you a good cover. Hypothetically, though, if lawbreaking were on my mind, the last thing I would do is throw you under the bus.”
Sam clearly had no idea what she should do.
“Think about it, Sam,” Jonathan said, closing the deal. “Is there really much choice to be made here?”
Turns out there wasn’t.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The faded sign, no doubt handmade with what appeared to be a child’s wood-burning kit, had been nailed to a tree, and likely would have been invisible if they’d arrived in the dark. The sign read NATHAN BEDFORD FOREST MOBILE HOME PARK. A cluster of rural-style mailboxes teetered underneath it.
“Aren’t there supposed to be two Rs in Forrest?” Gail asked, leaning forward in the backseat, so that her head was between Boxers and Jonathan, who occupied the driver and shotgun seats respectively.
Jonathan chuckled. “I guess it depends on whether you’re talking about the person or a place.”
Boxers asked, “What person?”
“Nathan Bedford Forrest,” Gail said. “Father of the Ku Klux Klan.”
“Charming guy to name a neighborhood after,” the Big Guy grunted.
He piloted the big Dodge down a narrow wooded road until it opened up on a cluster of sad, aged house trailers, probably dating back to the 1960s. Jonathan could almost smell the mildew from all the way out here. He counted seven units altogether. Despite their weatherworn appearance, most appeared to be well cared for. Each of the mobile homes sat on what appeared to be a half acre of land, and showed the remnants of gardens out front. Two had already put up Christmas decorations, the most elaborate of which involved red foil and a wreath on the door.
“Which one belongs to Stacy Phelps?” Gail asked.
Jonathan said, “I’ve got the address one one seven, but I don’t see any house numbers.” He relayed the question into his radio, and Venice answered right away. “All the way to the end on the right,” he repeated. “By the way, Mother Hen, anything on ICIS about our borrowed vehicle?”
“Not yet,” she said. “I’ll keep monitoring and let you know.”
Jonathan had considered dropping the Dodge off somewhere and stealing a second vehicle, but he’d gotten a good vibe from Sam.
“So how are we working this?” Gail wanted to know. “Are we just going to knock on her door?”
“That’s my vote,” Jonathan said. “Box?”
Boxers shrugged. “It’s a little boring, but it’ll do. I think we should kill the phone first.”
“Agreed.” Jonathan turned to Gail. “I’m going to badge her when she answers the door, but I want you to do the talking.”
Gail made a motorboat sound in her throat. “I hate it when you use the badge,” she said.
Jonathan and Boxers exchanged looks, but they didn’t comment. Their FBI credentials weren’t as false as most of their kind. Fact was, the Bureau occasionally found itself in positions where they shouldn’t be, with a requirement to go where they shouldn’t go. When those occasions arose, Security Solutions was always on the short list of contractors to clean up the mess, and the creds came in handy. In return, the people who counted at Bureau headquarters agreed to look the other way when Jonathan needed them for his own purposes. It wasn’t as if they had a lot of options, after all. No one relished the idea of Jonathan Grave speaking in open court about the things he knew.
The ultimate irony, of course, was that Gail had actually been a sworn agent of the FBI, but she had no credentials, and refused to allow Jonathan to have some made up for her.
Boxers parked the Dodge out front of Stacy Phelps’s mobile home, its bumper nearly touching the trunk of her eight-year-old Celica, blocking her ability to drive away. All three climbed out together, but Jonathan and Gail hung around the vehicle while Boxers went around back.
Thirty seconds later, the bud in Jonathan’s right ear delivered Boxers’ report that the phones had been disabled. He’d hang around back there to cover the black side of the building, just in case.
The steps to the stoop were too narrow to accommodate both of them, so Jonathan led the way and rapped on the door. He did it heavily, using the heel of his fist rather than his knuckles. When you’re pretending to be a law enforcement officer, the last thing you worry about is stealth. For them, it’s all about intimidation, and it begins with the knock on the door.
When the door remained unanswered thirty seconds later, he pounded again. A moment later, he heard movement, and then two locks slid and the door opened a crack, revealing the sleep-puffed face of a woman in her twenties. “Who do you think-”
Jonathan held his badge in the open door crack. “Special Agent Harris, FBI,” he said. “Are you Stacy Phelps?”
Stacy’s anger morphed to confusion. Maybe to fear. “I’m Stacy Phelps. What’s wrong?”
“May we come in?” Jonathan asked.
“Why?” she asked. Then, as an afterthought: “We?”
Jonathan pivoted his body so that she could see Gail at the bottom of the stairs. “That’s Special Agent Nichols.”
Gail gave a curt nod, but otherwise didn’t move. She had her game face on. “You don’t look like an FBI agent,” Stacy said.
Jonathan acknowledged his woodland cammies with a glance. “Never judge a book by its cover,” he said. “Out here, all respect, might as well wear a target on your chest as wear a necktie. I’d really rather talk inside,”
Stacy stepped aside and left room for the two of them to enter. “I’d offer you some coffee,” she said, “but I don’t have any made. I work nights and I was sleeping.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Gail said. “We know you do.”
Stacy paled. She had an undernourished, overworked look to her-long, stringy black hair that needed a wash- and why wouldn’t it after a long night at work? What Jonathan noticed most were the dark circles under her eyes. They didn’t impress him as the transient variety that would go away with a night’s sleep.
“Y- you know I work nights?” she stammered. “Why would the FBI be interested in knowing my work schedule?”
Rule one of negotiations: Control the conversation by asking all the questions. Gail said, “You received a phone
