Sting (6 page)

“Does this have a point?”

“Either—and here's where it gets interesting—”

“About time.”

“—either,” he stressed, “that billboard is a declaration that you're your own woman, separate and apart from Josh and his misdeeds…”

“Or?”

“…or, it's your way of giving everybody the finger. Let 'em think what they want to about your baby brother. You're not ashamed of him. You'll remain loyal, steadfast, and true, no matter what.” He waited a beat. “Are you distancing yourself from Josh, or announcing that he'll always have your love and support, that you'll be at the ready to lend assistance if ever he needs you? Which is it, Jordie?”

“What difference does it make to you?”

“It doesn't,” he said. “But obviously it does to Billy Panella.”

J
oe Wiley walked into his office, dropped a Subway sack on top of a pile of paperwork on his desk, and, without unnecessary preamble said, “I thought he was in Mexico.”

“He was,” Hick said.

“On the payroll of a drug kingpin.”

“He was.”

This was the first chance they'd had to talk freely about Shaw Kinnard.

As soon as Joe had notified his office of Kinnard's apparent involvement in the execution-style slaying of Mickey Bolden, he had wrapped up as swiftly and as neatly as possible in Tobias, relinquishing that aspect of the case to Deputy Sheriff Morrow so he and Hick could concentrate their efforts on the search for Shaw Kinnard and Jordie Bennett.

Sensing their urgency to get going, Morrow had brought them up to speed on what had transpired while they were interviewing the bartender. Royce Sherman's only crime beyond general stupidity appeared to be possession of unregistered firearms and carrying without a concealed handgun license. Nothing substantive was obtained from any of the other witnesses, so they'd been allowed to go.

No further physical evidence had been recovered from the parking lot or surrounding area, but the FBI crime scene crew along with that of the sheriff's office were still searching.

Fingerprints had been lifted from Jordie Bennett's car. Hers were on record with U.S. Customs and Border Patrol because of her Global Entry status. If any prints other than hers were found in or on her car, Morrow would notify the agents immediately.

He offered to drive them to the field where the chopper was waiting, but at Joe's request they stopped first at Morrow's office to retrieve what was left of the bullet that the ME had removed from Mickey Bolden's head. Joe wanted the bureau to conduct the ballastics tests, although they would be academic. He knew who had put Mickey permanently out of business.

Standing in the downwash of the chopper blades, Morrow snapped a salute and promised that he would stay on top of the murder investigation and notify them first of any developments. As they lifted off, Joe felt they were leaving the mop-up to a good man.

Noise had prevented him and Hick from talking on the short flight back to New Orleans. Since each had left his car at the heliport, they'd split up there. Joe had offered to stop on the way to the office and pick up a couple of sandwiches.

Now, Hick took one from the sack, unwrapped it, discovered meatballs smothered in melted mozzarella, and passed it to Joe, who said, “Don't worry. Your Veggie Delite is in there.” He took a bite of meatball and spoke around it. “To live in New Orleans and be a vegetarian—”

“‘—is a waste.' So you've said. About ten thousand times.”

“It's worse than a waste. It's a sin. Ask your priest. He'll back me up.” He used a napkin to blot marinara from the corner of his mouth. “So Kinnard's no longer down Mexico way.”

“Our guys went into overdrive. This is what they've got so far.” Hick took a sip of sweet iced tea, reached for a folder, and flipped it open. “He made a notable exit.” He turned the folder around so Joe could see the top photo in a stack. It showed the bodies of two men inside a late-model Mercedes, both bloody and indisputably dead.

“The car, as you see it here, was left two blocks from state police headquarters, which was as close as the concertina wire barricade around the compound would allow.”

“The police must've appreciated that consideration.”

“Not so much.” Hick tipped his head toward the photo. “The guy in the uniform? Was the jefe.”

“Of the state police?” When Hick nodded, Joe folded the wrapper around the remains of his sandwich and pushed it aside, predicting he was probably going to have raging heartburn.

“But don't cry over him,” Hick said. “He was as corrupt as they come, playing both sides of the drug wars and taking graft from everybody.”

Joe looked at the photo again. “Who's body number two?”

Hick slid the top photo aside to reveal the one beneath it. A name had been printed across the bottom in red marker. “Thirty-two-year-old American, originally from Phoenix, middle-class upbringing, son of two college professors. Started dealing in junior high school.”

“The beginning of an illustrious career?”

Hick nodded. “Big-time operator in the guns and drugs markets. The late state police chief moonlighted as his senior bodyguard, but he employed an army of them, and they were needed. In addition to bloodthirsty enemies, he had a price on his head, wanted by an alphabet soup of federal agencies, including us, ATF, DEA. The list goes on.”

Joe studied the picture taken with a telephoto lens of a baby-faced young man sitting in what appeared to be a nightclub booth with a cigarette dangling from his insolent smile. “He looks like a frat boy.”

Hick smiled. “Basically, that was his mentality. An undercover DEA agent reports that he was running afoul of his allies south of the border, making them nervous by living too high off the hog and calling attention to himself. Big hacienda. Flashy cars. Wild parties. He was hosting one such wingding when Kinnard struck.”

“When did this happen?”

“Tuesday night.”

Joe grimaced. “This Tuesday?
Our
Tuesday.”

“Yep.”

“Can't be a coincidence.”

“Nope. Kinnard was a houseguest at the guy's villa. One of the playgirls hired for the evening told the authorities that Kinnard, the frat boy, and the bodyguard left the party together in the Mercedes, Kinnard driving.”

“He shoots them in the car, abandons it with the bodies inside and sure to be found, then what?”

“It's anybody's guess,” Hick said. “Nobody knows how he got out of the area or where and how he crossed the border. He arrived in New Orleans midday Thursday on a flight from Dallas / Fort Worth. He grabbed a meal at an airport Chili's before boarding.”

“How'd he get to Dallas?”

“We've got guys working backward from there, but so far, they haven't found a trail. All that's known is that he called a taxi to take him to the airport from a local motel, where he spent one night. We have him on numerous security cameras at DFW.” Hick shuffled through photos, pointing out Shaw Kinnard in blurry shots of the busy, crowded airport. “Outside our airport, he hailed a taxi and had it drop him at the Doubletree. But he didn't check in.”

“He walked through and went out another door.”

“Not before waving to the security camera,” Hick said sourly. “He exited the side-street door, strolled off down the sidewalk, and that was the last anyone saw of him until he showed up at that bar with Mickey Bolden.”

Joe belched behind his fist. “What ID did he use when he went through DFW's security?”

“Georgia driver's license. Breezed through. He checked a bag. His weapons must've been in it.”

Joe grumbled, “Don't count on it.”

He stuffed his trash into the carryout sack, then stood up and made a circuit of the small room, giving Hick time to wolf down his sandwich. Joe resumed by asking, “Anything out of Mississippi?”

Mickey Bolden had kept an apartment in Biloxi. Basic shelter. Nothing fancy by any stretch. It was paid for by what he earned as a maître d' at a restaurant in one of the shabbier casino hotels. He reported his gratuities to the IRS, as any solid citizen would, and paid his income taxes and bills on time.

His hobby, for which he seemed to have a passion, was far more lucrative than the restaurant job. Unfortunately the Bureau hadn't yet discovered where he banked the fees he earned by snuffing people, which was one reason they were never able to make a case against him that a prosecutor felt would hold up in court.

“Last Wednesday, Bolden told his employer that he needed to take a few days off,” Hick said.

“Which he did periodically.”

“And nobody ever asked why.”

“Probably because everybody knew why,” Joe remarked.

“Probably. Anyway, he hasn't been seen around his Biloxi apartment since Thursday evening. But the car registered to him is still in the parking lot.”

“Rental?”

“None leased in his name.”

Joe hadn't expected there to be. Mickey would have had someone under the radar who supplied him with a vehicle when he went to a job.

“I did hear from Morrow,” Hicks said, “but don't get excited. Deputies canvassed Jordie Bennett's neighborhood. One lady noticed an unfamiliar car parked at the end of the street yesterday. In a nutshell, all she remembers is that it was dark in color and had four wheels.”

Joe chuffed.

“There might have been two men inside. She couldn't say with any degree of certainty.”

Law enforcement agencies in Louisiana and surrounding states were on the lookout for Shaw Kinnard and Jordie Bennett, but they didn't even know what kind of vehicle to be looking for or in which direction Kinnard was headed. So far no sightings had been reported even by the crazies who routinely reported they'd seen Elvis and Osama bin Laden.

“Agents have been interviewing Ms. Bennett's employees and friends with whom she keeps in touch,” Hick said. “All went hysterical when told of her disappearance and probable abduction. None were helpful, but they sing the same chorus. It must have to do with her brother and Billy Panella.”

“Tell me something I don't know,” Joe groused. “Anybody contact Jackson Terrell?”

“He was reached by phone at a ritzy wellness spa in Colorado. Woke him up, and he wasn't alone.”

“New girlfriend?”

“New wife. They got married several months ago.”

“Guess we weren't invited.”

“Guess not.”

“But he's not mooning over his breakup with Jordie Bennett.”

“Apparently not. Can't speak for her, though.”

Joe thought about it and came to the conclusion that they had zilch. No leads, false or otherwise, to follow up. They might just as well be in a damn black hole, a situation infuriatingly similar to the last time Shaw Kinnard was their suspect.

As though Hick was reading his mind, he asked, “What was he doing with Mickey Bolden?”

“Mickey was a link to Billy Panella and thirty million dollars, give or take a few mil.” Thoughtfully, he pulled on his lower lip. “Only a guess, but Kinnard probably approached Bolden a while back and laid some groundwork. In the hope of getting to Panella and all that dough, he established a quasi partnership with his trusted hit man.”

“He offered his services.”

“I'm only guessing,” Joe reminded him.

“It feels right, though,” Hick said. “He let Bolden know that he was available for down-and-dirty jobs, then sat back and waited for a call.”

“Which he received on Tuesday.”

“So he sewed up his business in Mexico and hightailed it here.” After a beat, Hick asked, “Do you think he knew who the hit was?”

“He probably assumed it was Josh Bennett.”

“At what point do you think he learned it was his sister instead?”

Joe rubbed his forehead with worry. “I don't know.” He pushed his fingers through his hair, noticed that it was greasy, and realized how badly he needed a shower. Even Hick was looking less than bandbox fresh.

“Let's take a couple of hours.” Joe picked up the folder with the gruesome photos and tucked it under his arm. “I need to touch base with my family. I think we're supposed to go to a carnival at the kids' school this evening.”

“How will Marsha take you missing it?”

“She'll be pissed, but she'll forgive me. Eventually. How's your love life? Still in that ‘promising relationship'?”

“Yes. It's still promising.”

“Oh yeah? When will you be taking it to the next level?”

“No time soon.”

“How come?”

“Because of all my other promising relationships.”

Joe rolled his eyes and motioned Hick toward the door, but he hung back. “One thing I failed to mention earlier. The hired party girl who talked to the authorities in Mexico?”

Joe nodded.

“She was with the three men when they left the party.”

“Explain.”

Hick told him that after the bodies of the two victims were discovered near police headquarters, the young woman was rounded up from the villa along with all the other guests. He pointed to the folder under Joe's arm. “She cooperated in exchange for anonymity, so you won't find her name or photo in there. But she's the one who IDed Shaw Kinnard.

“She told the investigators that just as the party was getting into full swing, Kinnard approached Frat Boy and confided that there was a guy he needed to meet, someone from a rival cartel who wanted to switch teams. To demonstrate his sincerity, this guy was willing to tell everything he knew about the rival's operation, but it had to be right then before the rival caught on and silenced him for good.

“Our frat boy was reluctant to leave the sex, drugs, and rock and roll, but Kinnard impressed on him that this guy could decide that the life expectancy of a traitor was short and chicken out. They had to move on it or say bye-bye to a golden opportunity. So Frat Boy grudgingly went with Kinnard, and, at Kinnard's suggestion, took only one bodyguard so the soon-to-be-traitor wouldn't get spooked.”

“The frat boy chose his top guard, the chief of the state police.”

“Actually Kinnard made the selection,” Hick said wryly. “We know all this because the frat boy was all over the party girl during this discussion, and she heard everything. When the time came to leave, the frat boy insisted that she go along to ‘keep him company.' Her words.

“They piled into the Mercedes. Kinnard behind the wheel. Just beyond the villa's security gate, he stopped the car and ordered the girl to get out. Frat Boy objected, but Kinnard told him his hard-on should be for this guy who was going to supply them with valuable information, not for a chick when chicks could be had for a dime a dozen. The jefe agreed with Kinnard. Kinnard got out, opened the backseat door for her, and told her to scram.” Hick stopped to take a breath.