The rest of the day passed uneventfully with Dave and me deep into the information my partners had gathered on Crosby and Franks.
* * *
Dave walked into my office, a puzzled look on his face. “What’s this about putting me on the payroll?”
“Payroll?” I asked, eyebrows raising.
“Alice said she needed my bank account number to start making deposits in it. Said it was for work I was doing with you guys.”
I nodded. “Oh, right. We need to make sure and have you on contract with us, so you’re covered in our medical insurance. Plus, for tax purposes, it’s good to have another person for when we get bonuses for jobs. Like the last one you helped us with. Stands to reason you should get paid for helping us.”
“Makes sense.” He looked at my desk. “That the map you been waiting for?”
I bent over the desk, tapping on the map of Anacortes Island. “Even with this aerial map it’s easy to see this place has more protection than the normal home,” I said.
Dave sat and leaned back, hands behind his head. “You’re right. We need to do a soft recon. Plus find out what they’ve got for security inside the place, too.”
I sat down. “You got any skills at this kind of thing?”
He stared at the ceiling, a thoughtful frown gathering. “Been awhile, but yes, I can still creep around pretty good.”
I nodded. He’d shown his mettle up at Wildacres when sneaking up undetected on the alert crook in the car. “Let’s put together a plan for Crosby’s compound.”
He leaned forward, staring at the map again. “I sure like the way her place is situated out among the islands in Puget Sound. Makes for a multitude of escape routes if needed.”
I folded up the map, and drew another folder from the stack to my left. “Another thing: We need an up-to-date picture of her.” According to the information we had, Marianne Crosby had started out her brushes with the law over 30 years ago. She’d made a pain of herself by gathering several dozen friends together and conducting a protest on the steps of the Washington State capitol building, stumping for looser regulations on the use of pot. After getting physical with the police when they tried to break up her gathering, the cops threw her in the same cell as a group of particularly nasty hookers. A night of hell ensued for the innocent young woman.
She had to spend some time in the hospital recovering from the rough treatment she’d received, and vowed to have all of them arrested for what they’d done. That earned her a face full of acid. The doctors managed to save one eye, but she had been horribly disfigured.
Dave flicked open the second file concerning Marianne. “She turned into a monster after that. Hunted down all the prostitutes who’d been in the cell with her that night, and according to sources killed them herself.”
“That’s probably why no pictures since then,” I said.
“Right. Became a pretty good drug dealer, too. Didn’t hurt her reputation any that she apparently has a ruthless streak to go along with her looks.”
The intercom chimed. “Francis, you got a call on line two. Says it’s urgent,” Alice said.
I hurriedly picked up, wondering what Lenny had run into now. “Yes?”
“Francis, how you been’? This is Phil.”
My mind did a flip as it moved back in time. The only Phil I’d known had been–“Phil? Phil Conway, is this really you?”
“Long time, my friend. I heard you retired from the biz awhile back, but thought you might need some information I just came up with. Glad I kept your number when you boys moved west.”
In past years, right after getting out of the Army, I’d used Phil’s help gathering information to set up burglaries and keep abreast of what happened in the criminal world. He’d been my best source. “Information?”
“Yessir, and I’d classify this particular data as life-changing, if you get my meaning. Enough so that I thought you’d better get down here and see it for yourself. It’s a level five grade of information.”
I stiffened at that. Back when he’d gathered information for me and others in the criminal world, he’d classified his data from one to five–with five meaning very dangerous. Especially if the word “life changing” was used in the conversation. “You still live at the same place?”
“That I do. When can I expect you?”
“I’ll try to be there tomorrow afternoon. That soon enough?”
“You bet. I’ll let you decide how much this information is worth. Give me a call just before you get here, would you?”
I stared at the receiver after he’d hung up, mind racing. “Dave, could you get with Tony and Marty to plan out the first recon of Crosby’s place? Mainly look at planting surveillance equipment the first trip, then …” I continued on for several minutes, pausing long enough to ask Alice to buy plane tickets. Hell, I wasn’t looking forward to another trip. Especially this one.
* * *
By early afternoon the next day, I was entering the outskirts of Columbia, South Carolina. The drive from the Charlotte airport had been two hours of boredom, broken up by a brief thunderstorm. At least I’d slept well on the plane this time. Finally remembered my earplugs. The golf course where Phil lived was south of town. Within minutes I was wheeling onto Sawgrass Court, and stopped at the seventh house on the street.
A man in his seventies was sitting in front of his garage, soaking up the sun. He grunted out of his chair, favoring both knees as he stepped forward. “Light and set, Mister Baker. I got some sweet tea coolin’ in the fridge.”
I settled back in the canvas chair, feet propped up on a settee and a glass of iced tea in hand. I toasted him with my glass. “Thanks for the tea, Phil. It’s delicious.”
Phil settled a Panama hat on his nearly-bald head, and picked up his frosted glass. “No problem, I assure you. Glad
