Gnosis (38 page)

“I have a few tasks I still need to clear here in Denver,” Lisa said. “Shouldn’t take more than another day. I’ll get to work on it when I’m done. Meantime, I’ll go ahead and call Jeff Walker—he’s my contact in the Marshal’s Service—and see if he can help us. Or at the very least, put us in touch with someone who can.”

“Sounds good. And, Lisa, if it’s at all possible, I’d like to work fast on this one.”

“I understand. You want to put away another bad guy.”

“Yeah. But I would also like to see Eli Whitehouse die a free man.”

Heavy storm clouds floated above the night sky like giant black zeppelins, hovered briefly before moving on, only to be replaced by bigger, darker zeppelins. Off to the east, sporadic flashes of lightning bumped up against the darkness, pushed it aside for an instant, then vanished, leaving the night even darker than before. Thunder rumbled deep and low—Eli’s Yahweh must be suffering from a bellyache, Dantzler thought—and the first drops of rain began to tickle the lake behind the house.

Standing on his deck, glass of Pernod in hand, Dantzler felt like a man who had fallen into a pit of quicksand. He wanted to move—needed to move—but forces beyond his control had him at a standstill. Frustrated and trapped, once again at the mercy of others, and there was nothing he could do about it. Just wait, while watching the minutes and hours tick away.

Two days and he had heard nothing from Lisa Kennedy or Jeff Walker. Not a word, not a peep. Only silence. He was disappointed, but more than that, he was surprised. He knew Lisa, knew she was a pro, true to her word. If she gave her promise, it was good as gold. But Lisa had her own job to do and it had to take priority over helping him. He understood that. He also figured if Lisa had spoken with Jeff Walker, she probably didn’t impart the same sense of urgency to him that Dantzler had stressed when talking with her. There was also a good chance Walker handed the case off to yet another agent who might make it a high priority, or just as likely, stick it at the bottom of his to-do list.

The Feds tended to move at their own speed, which invariably meant moving at a slower pace than Dantzler cared for. Usually, it was a crawl rather than a slow pace. Of course, if the situation were reversed, if the Feds needed or requested his assistance, they expected to receive it pronto. Urgency was important if they were the ones seeking answers.

Dantzler flopped down into a chair, sipped at the Pernod, closed his eyes, and listened as the rain began to come down harder. The rain, he knew, was here to stay, and would likely last the night. This was fine with him—he loved the rain and had since he was a small boy. Few sounds were more soothing than rain hitting on the roof. A gentle summer breeze suddenly kicked in, bending the grass, jostling the trees, their branches waving like shadowy arms in the darkness.

Nice, he thought. Peaceful. A rare moment of inner quiet, when the detective voices in his head were silent and his thoughts drifted in other directions. There had not been many moments like this lately, not since he . . . Then quick as the next lightning flash, those detective voices smashed through the barrier, shattering the inner quiet, directing his thoughts back to the Eli Whitehouse case. Back to Johnny Richards.

Back to what was proving to be an impossible, frustrating challenge.

Dantzler had spent much of the past two days poring over the female obituaries. He was all but certain Johnny Richards was the shooter, but he had to make sure. He had to be absolutely convinced he had not leapt at the first clue without giving the full weight of his attention to other possibilities. He wanted to be one-thousand percent positive he was going in the right direction. In his line of work, where a person’s fate was at stake, there could be no screw-ups. Ever.

You can’t blunder on match point.

His research into the female obituaries uncovered three names he deemed possibilities—two Marys and, incredibly, one Salome. As expected, they turned out to be dead ends. Both Marys were long-time widows, in their eighties, neither of whom had so much as a speeding ticket on their record. They were law-abiding, upstanding citizens in every regard.

So was Salome Renee Garrett, who, according to her obit notice, owned and operated a successful florist business, had never been married, and was survived by her life partner, Becky Allen. Like the two Marys, Salome’s record was spotless.

His researched had only confirmed what he suspected all along—Mary Magdalene Richards was the clue Eli hinted at.

And Johnny Richards was a four-time murderer.

*****

Initially, Dantzler had been disinclined to keep watch on Richards. He thought it best to wait until he heard back from Lisa Kennedy, or whomever she handed the case off to. See what they could come up with, which might turn out to be something big or nothing worthwhile or helpful at all.

Despite his conviction that Richards was the shooter, at this stage of the game, barring more pertinent information, round-the-clock surveillance was not in the cards. Captain Bird vetoed the plan in no uncertain terms. Bird argued, and rightfully so, there wasn’t enough evidence against Richards to justify a full-court press surveillance-wise, which would involve too much manpower and too much expense, neither of which could be spared unless more relevant information came to light.

Still, Dantzler wasn’t about to hang around and do nothing, no matter what Captain Bird said. It was bad enough having to wait for the Feds to get him information regarding Richards; that particular stumbling block was beyond his control. But it didn’t mean he had to sit idly by while Richards fled the city, or possibly the country. Doing nothing was not an option at this stage of the game.

Dantzler’s plan was simple, cheap, and if not completely satisfying, it would at least keep Richards within his sights. He would have someone drop by the tavern and spend a couple of hours inside, to see if Richards was there, to monitor his movements, and to observe the men and women he interacted with. No tape recorder, no camera . . . just old-fashion cop observation. Eyes on the prize.

Two nights ago, Bruce Rawlinson was the observer, arriving at a little past eight and staying until eleven. He reported back that Richards remained seated on a stool at the end of the bar for much of the night, drinking very little, and only rarely interacting with the clientele. On a couple of occasions, he worked the bar while the bartender took a bathroom break. At nine-thirty, he left the bar, went upstairs, and was gone for approximately twenty minutes before returning to his stool.

According to Rawlinson, Richards “acted normal, just like you might expect a tavern owner to act.”

Last night, Dantzler dispatched Laurie to the tavern, telling her to stay as long as she felt comfortable. He also recommended she not go alone. A woman as beautiful as Laurie would need help fending off the many drink offers and Big Bubba advances he knew would come her way. For women frequenting a dive like Johnny’s Tavern, there was always strength in numbers. Laurie agreed, taking Annie Westrom, her old colleague in the Missing and Exploited Children’s Unit, with her. They stayed for almost two hours, each one nursing a beer, while politely declining the dozen or so sent to their booth by hopeful suitors.

Laurie’s report differed little from Rawlinson’s. Richards spent the entire two hours perched on a stool at the end of the bar, reading a magazine or newspaper. He had one drink—Jim Beam, straight—briefly spoke to a couple of men, nodded at several women, and helped out once when the bartender took a break. All perfectly normal actions for a bar owner, Laurie concluded.

Although nothing noteworthy had been gleaned from the visits, Dantzler was satisfied he had made the correct decision sending his undercover snoops into the bar. Based on their reporting, he was now sure of two things—Johnny Richards was still in town, and he had no inkling that he was on their radar.

Johnny Richards closed
The
Daily
Racing
Form
and ordered another Jim Beam, this one mixed with Diet Coke. It was almost eleven and the bar was packed, mostly with regulars, the same faces he saw virtually every night of the week. One of the regulars, Patty Morris, a twice-divorced mother of three with a strong yin for vodka, walked past on her way to the restroom, pausing long enough to offer condolences for the recent death of his wife. He thanked her with a nod, saying nothing, because there really wasn’t anything to say.

Besides, he had more important things to do than engage in conversation with a vodka-soaked floozy like Patty Morris. Far more important things. Like deciding what course of action to take next.

He had spent the past hour alternating his attention between studying the fillies running at Churchill Downs tomorrow and the two fillies seated in the middle booth next to the wall. He circled his picks on tomorrow’s card, noting his wager amount next to each one. But as much as he loved handicapping the ponies, the two-legged fillies dominated his thoughts.

The one seated in profile, the one with short blonde hair and cute turned-up nose, he had never seen before. He had a gift for remembering faces, and hers wasn’t one he had run across. She was completely unfamiliar to him. Not so with the other filly, the one he could see dead on, the beauty with the long brown hair and classic movie star beauty. Her, he was familiar with. Her, he had seen before. Twice, in fact.

The first time was the night he sat parked on the street across from Dantzler’s house. He had gotten a good look at her face when she stepped onto the well-lighted porch. Her unexpected arrival had forced him to alter his plan to kill the detective. She had no way of knowing it, but she had saved her lover’s life. A lucky break for Dantzler. He wondered how she would feel about it if she knew.

The second time he saw her was immediately following the gunfight between Rocky Stone and the detectives. She arrived shortly after the shooting stopped, flashed her shield, spoke briefly with Dantzler, then began interviewing witnesses. Very thorough, very professional, very cop-like.

And now here she was, this detective, this beautiful filly, sitting in his bar, acting all cool and remote and nonchalant and superior. Hanging with her gal-pal, two fun-loving chicks out for a few drinks, having a nice, innocent time in the bar.

His bar.

Tonight.

Coincidence? He didn’t think so.

They were here for a reason, and he knew what the reason was—to keep an eye on him. They had been sent by Dantzler to monitor his comings and goings. To keep him within grabbing distance.

Okay, he thought, so now we all know the score. You have me in your sights. No big deal . . . I’ve been there before.

He grinned.

Let the games begin.

*****

An hour after the two lady cops departed, Richards climbed the stairs to the small apartment above the bar, opened the safe, and began filling a duffel bag with stacks of cash. Close to a million dollars, all in hundred dollar bills. Emergency funds he had accumulated over the years. Get away money.

After the bag was filled and zipped shut, he sat at the wooden table and assessed his situation. He did this without any sense of panic or fear. Those two emotions simply did not exist within him, and never had. From the very start of his career as a killer, when he was still a teen, he had earned a reputation for being cool, calm, and totally in control of his emotions. Sam Giancana once famously called him “the original Ice Man.”

If the men he had worked for and against in those bloody days hadn’t scared him, a cop like Jack Dantzler sure wasn’t about to.

But Dantzler was, he knew, a damn good cop. One of those bulldog types who doesn’t know the meaning of the word quit. Who keeps digging until he gets what he wants. No, he thought, Dantzler might not be a man to fear, but he was a man to be respected.

Giving this much thought to a cop, even one with Dantzler’s skills and reputation, was out of character for him. He was not a man given to introspection or reflection or self-recrimination. He didn’t second-guess himself, either for actions taken or not taken. Beating yourself up served no useful purpose; it only made you weak. And being weak made you vulnerable. Being vulnerable got you killed.