Deadly Dozen: 12 Mysteries/Thrillers (16 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Margrave, Georgia

November 2

11:39 a.m.

Roscoe looked shell shocked. Kim judged the reaction genuine. Mostly because she wanted it to be.

“Our jurisdiction?” Roscoe asked.

Brent said, “GHP turf. They only called because we’d put our BOLO out there for Newton and they say it’s him.”

Kim thought Brent seemed upset and relieved in equal measure. Upset, because the guy wouldn’t be dead if Sylvia had been properly kept in jail. But what accounted for the relief?

Roscoe asked, “Who’s there now?”

“Four GHP cruisers, more on the way. Paramedics just arrived. Coroner’s ten minutes out. Guess he had another call. Can’t move the body until he’s done. I don’t know who else. Crime scene will be there, if they’re not already. GHP traffic, probably. This time of day, rubber-neckers won’t be bad, but somebody will need to handle it.” He looked down at the carpet as if he didn’t want to deliver the last piece of news. But to his credit, he did, eventually. He said, “Media maybe. Got the first notice over the GHP radio. We’re checking the TV news channels.”

“Who’s GHP on scene? Archie and Jim Leach?” Roscoe asked.

Brent nodded yes.

Swell,
Kim thought. Just what she needed. Another encounter with the Leaches.

Roscoe felt differently.

“Good,” she said. “Did Archie tell you what’s going on?”

“I called him on his cell. The guy is dead. No need to rush, Archie said. They haven’t even opened the car yet.”

“Anything else?”

Brent looked down at his shoes again. “Not that I know of, Chief. Archie said they have it all under control. He said you can take your time.”

“Call him back. Tell him I’ll be there as soon as I can. Tell him to wait until we get there to open the car. I’d like to see the body before they move it.”

“Will do.”

“Tell him I’m about twenty minutes out.”

“Ten four.”

“Ask him if that’s OK. Let me know if it’s not.”

“Will do.”

“Before you make the call, can you cue up the edited video from last night?”

“Already done,” he said. “View on camera three.”

Roscoe pulled her cell phone off the desk and held it out to him. “And put two or three good stills on here of Newton, Marshal Wright, and Sylvia.” He crossed the room and collected the phone and went away to do her bidding.

After the door closed behind him Roscoe turned her computer monitor around. She seemed to change direction and headed there directly. She said, “Take a look at this video. These two guys aren’t who they claimed to be; there was no order and nobody sent here from the Marshal service. The short guy is an imposter, too. L. Mark Newton died last year. Obituary is posted on the internet. Give me a positive ID on these two so I can find their asses.”

Roscoe pressed a couple of keys.

“What are we looking at?” Kim asked, admitting nothing. She wanted to trust Roscoe, but Gaspar could too easily be right about her. There was more going on here than Kim could fathom. She moved her chair closer to the monitor. Gaspar’s viewing angle was already good enough.

Roscoe’s demeanor was all business. No hysteria now, if that’s what it was before. “We have constant security video inside the station, including last night when Shorty and his sidekick took Sylvia. The whole thing lasted 32 minutes. This edit is the total six minutes of action.”

“Any audio to go with it?” Gaspar wanted to know. “I’m pretty good at voice identification, if you’ve got a reasonable recording.”

Roscoe said, “There’s full audio, but these guys didn’t say much and they were careful not to speak loud enough for the microphones. We’ve punched the sound, which distorts the quality.”

“So they were familiar with the limits of your equipment,” Gaspar said.

“That’s my guess,” Roscoe said.

Kim asked, “Can we get the full video? Maybe our people can apply some forensics you don’t have access to.”

Roscoe nodded. “We sent it to the FBI Atlanta Field Office early this morning. But I’ll have Brent get you a copy when we’re done here.”

They watched in silence for six minutes, straight through.

Kim saw the date on the tape was November 2.

Initial entry time was 12:01 a.m.

After which: Two men come in. They have a brief chat with the desk sergeant. Not Brent after all. Kim was glad. And she wondered now what he was so worried about since he wasn’t at fault.

The fake Marshal hands over a folded paper. The desk sergeant makes a phone call at 12:06 a.m. lasting less than one minute. Another brief chat at the desk. The sergeant makes another phone call at 12:11 a.m. lasting less than one minute. He shakes his head. A briefer chat follows. The sergeant puts the paper on the desk and walks to Sylvia’s cell. Sylvia is sitting as she had been in her own kitchen that day, hunched over, head down, forearms resting on her thighs, fingers pressing together rhythmically in sequence.

Sylvia looks up when the sergeant unlocks the cell. She stands, hands in front. He cuffs her, holds her right bicep, and walks her to the front. He presents her to the Marshal, who grabs her left bicep.

Sylvia and the two men walk out through the front door.

Outside, all three get in the Chevy Kim and Gaspar had seen on the Interstate median. The one with the dead body in it. The one Roscoe called Shorty, still alive at that point, is driving. The fake Marshal is sitting in the navigator seat. Sylvia is in back.

The car drives out of frame at 12:33 a.m.

Roscoe said, “Recognize them?”

Kim shook her head once. Negative. Like Roscoe, Kim knew only who the guys were not.

“Roll it again,” Gaspar said. “We’ve got questions.”

Roscoe pressed replay without taking her focus off the screen.

Kim studied details this time.

Two men stood outside, pressed the call button, waited for the door to unlock, entered the station, and approached the desk. The shorter one was dressed in a dark business suit and tie. He carried a briefcase.

He looked familiar.

The taller one was wearing a U.S. Marshal uniform, complete with hat and equipment belt. Hat shadowed his face; uniform enveloped his body. Nothing visible enough to identify.

Both men wore leather gloves.

It was November.

Costumes.

Meant to convey normalcy and conceal reality. Well done.

The desk sergeant was the other guy Kim had seen with Brent at Sylvia’s home yesterday.

“Who is that?” she asked.

“Officer Frank Kraft.”

“He’s new?”

Roscoe didn’t look up. She must have seen the video a hundred times already, but she remained focused. “About a month, I guess.”

“Break any rules about buzzing visitors in here at night?” Gaspar asked.

“Federal officers pretty much come and go as they please around here,” Roscoe said.

Touchy, like small-town cops everywhere.

The shorter guy, was the first to speak. His voice was husky in an abnormal way.

“Sergeant,” he had said, “I’m L. Mark Newton, attorney for Sylvia Black.” He handed Kraft a business card. “This is Marshal Wright.”

Kim registered the words. They seemed rehearsed. Had she heard the voice before? A tenor. Midwestern. Maybe.

The second guy also presented a business card to Kraft, but said nothing.

Kraft looked the cards over and placed them on the desk.

“What can I do for you?” Kraft asked. Deep baritone with a lisp.

“We have a federal court order for Sylvia Black,” Shorty said. “We’re here to collect her.”

Marshal Wright reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a tri-folded white paper. No envelope. He handed the paper to Kraft. Kraft opened the paper and read it.

“I didn’t know Mrs. Black was being released tonight,” Kraft said. Was there any surprise in his tone? “I’ll need to check with my Chief.”

Shorty said, “There’s nothing to check. It’s all there in black and white.”

The Marshal said, “We have to get her to Chicago by 3:30 a.m. We miss that flight in Atlanta, we’ll all be in a world of trouble, you know?”

Kraft nodded. “Sure. I understand. It’ll only take a minute.” He picked up the phone and placed the first call. At 12:06 a.m.

Gaspar asked Roscoe, “Did he actually call you?”

She said, “What the hell do you think?”

Gaspar said, “I think he tried and didn’t get you. Why not?”

“I was involved in something else at the time.”

Gaspar didn’t press her. Good. There would be a time for that, but not now.

Kraft hadn’t left a message. He had said, “I’ll need to call again.”

And the short man had gotten a little nasty at that point, while keeping his voice down. Kim recognized the trick. She’d seen it before. Very effective for confounding voice identification. The end of his sentence was: “If your Chief has any questions, she can call us. Remind her that Federal judges can’t be challenged on matters of national security.”

Kraft nodded, as if the statement was as obvious as wet water. Still, to his credit, he made the second call. Same result.

Gaspar didn’t ask Roscoe why she failed to pick up the second time. Nor did Kim mention that Shorty was flat wrong on the law and Kraft should have known better.

On the tape Shorty looked at his watch and spoke again. Insistent words, nastier tone, but still controlled. Definitely rehearsed. He said, “We can take you into custody, too, son. Anybody here with you?”

Kraft said, “No. Just me.”

Gaspar actually groaned. Roscoe shot him a withering stare.

Shorty’s practiced coercion got heavier. “You don’t want to leave your station unattended, do you?”

Now Kraft seemed unsure, and worried.

Shorty changed his tactics to the reasonable approach. “Look, officer, you have our cards and our numbers. You have the order. Your chief can follow up when you reach her. What’s the problem?”

Kraft wavered, undecided. Body language conflicted, but leaning toward refusal.

The Marshal broke the deadlock. He stood tall and conveyed a simultaneously threatening and brothers-in-arms posture. “We’re on a deadline, officer. We can’t wait until your chief gets her shuteye. Shall we take Mrs. Black alone, or do you want to come along? Either way is fine with me.”

Kraft spent four more seconds thinking it over before he said, “I guess I’d better stay here.”

The Marshal pulled his handcuffs off his equipment belt and held them out. “Do you want me to come with you?”

Kraft said, “I can handle it.”

He snagged the cuffs, left the desk, and headed toward Sylvia’s cell.

Kim asked, “Any conversation between these two while Kraft is gone on the full recording?”

“None at all,” Roscoe replied.

Kraft walked into the cell block. He pressed the release button on the wall and Sylvia’s door popped open. She looked up, faced the camera, and flashed her model’s smile.

“Time to go, Sylvia,” Kraft said. Sylvia stood up, smoothed her clothes, patted her hair to be sure it remained in place.

Gaspar asked, “These two know each other?”

Roscoe replied, “Of course.”

Kraft said, “I have to put the cuffs on.”

Sylvia held her hands out in front, palms together. Kraft put the cuffs on her wrists. They walked together out of her cell.

Sylvia showed no surprise.

And she asked no questions.

“Did you edit any of Sylvia’s responses?” Kim asked.

Roscoe met Kim’s gaze for the first time since the video began.

She said, “No.”

“She expected this, then.”

“That’s how I figure it,” Roscoe said.

On the tape Kraft walked Sylvia back to the desk in silence and handed off his prisoner to the Marshal. Sylvia’s face lit up. The Marshal’s answering expression remained concealed by his hat. He took Sylvia’s left arm without comment.

Shorty said, “Again, sergeant, have your chief call us if she has any questions. We’ll be out of touch, off and on, until we land at O’Hare. After that, we’ll be continuously available.”

Kraft was clearly unhappy, but he said, “OK.”

Hat on, head down, the Marshal led Sylvia toward the exit. He pressed on the door with his forearm, but it didn’t open.

Shorty, five steps behind, turned back to Kraft and said his last words, “Can you buzz us out?”

Kraft returned to his desk and pressed the lock release.

The Marshal’s gloved hand pushed the glass door open. He herded Sylvia through the gap. Shorty followed.

The green Chevy was parked at the curb, engine running. The Marshal opened the sedan’s back door. Sylvia looked back at the station and raised her cuffed hands and waved. Then she ducked into the back seat. The Marshal reached into his pocket and pulled something out. He handed it to Sylvia and closed her door. He turned away and got into the Chevy’s front passenger seat without showing his face to the station’s outdoor cameras.

Taking probably his last steps, too, Shorty walked around the trunk and got into the driver’s seat.

The car pulled away from the station at 12:33 a.m.

Kim figured they felt elated at first. Maybe at 12:34 a.m. they were whooping it up inside the Chevy, with a bigger celebration planned for later. When they reached their destination. Which was probably not Atlanta and most certainly not Chicago.

They’d have reached the cloverleaf between ten and fourteen minutes later. Say three minutes to pull the car off to the side of the road, intending to switch to a replacement vehicle. No reason to park there otherwise.

Shoot the short guy in the head, get out of the Chevy, raise the hood, get into the second vehicle, and leave the scene.

Maybe five minutes.

Which put Shorty’s time of death between eighteen and twenty-two minutes after the video ended.

Call it 12:51 a.m. to 12:55 a.m.

Almost exactly the time Finlay should have shown up in the JFK Hudson Hotel.

But hadn’t.

Which, of course, the boss already knew.