The Election (18 page)

“What good does this do Jed?” Jake asked.

“It gives you a defense to the murder charge,” suggested Bob Whitfield. “You can prove that someone else had motivation to kill Jesse Thompson, and that might create reasonable doubt with the jury.”

“Are you offering to give me these records in exchange for my keeping quiet about Mr. Thompson and Naomi McClellan?” Jake inquired. “Because if you are, I'm not biting. Mr. Thompson was worth at least fifteen million.”

“We thought you might say that. So I'm prepared to pay one million in addition,” Earline added. Her voice grew soft. “Naomi McClellan didn't deserve what Jesse did to her all those years ago. This should go a long way toward rectifying that situation. I wish Naomi still worked for me. But with her son accused of killing Jesse, it just wasn't possible for her to continue. Looking back, I'm surprised she stayed as long as she did.”

“I don't know, Mrs. Thompson,” Jake said. “I need to talk this over with Ruth and Ms. McClellan.”

“What is there to talk about?” inquired Bob, rolling his eyes in disgust. “This is a great deal.”

Jake remembered the
Lillian Scott
case. He knew Bob always had more money on the table.

“All right. I'll tell you what.” Jake took control of the conversation. “You put two million dollars in a separate account with the McClellans' names on it only, give me those records, and then I'll keep your dirty secret quiet.”

Mrs. Thompson looked at Bob and nodded slightly.

“Agreed,” Bob said.

“And release the mortgage against Jed's house,” Jake continued.

“You drive a hard bargain, Mr. Reed,” Earline said with a small smile. “Agreed.”

Jake took the envelope full of documents and left the restaurant. He was back in control, and it felt great.

Even better, things were beginning to look up for Jed and his family. He might still be charged with murder, but at least his family wouldn't lose their home and they'd be taken care of financially for the rest of their lives.

And Jake still held two other cards that might impact Jed's case—proof of Jesse Thompson's money laundering and Wanda Lacy's photographs.

Who knew what might happen when he brought those to light?

 

Agents Boyd and Simon, both wearing headphones, sat in the back of a white van in the parking lot of the Downtown Grill. They had heard every word spoken by Jake, Earline Thompson, and Bob Whitfield. Ron hurriedly wrote down
F-PAC
while Jerry moved to the driver's seat. They returned to the old jewelry-store building and phoned Deputy Director Armacost, who was, as usual, in his office late.

“We recorded a conversation between Jesse Thompson's widow, her lawyer, and Jake Reed,” Ron announced. “Mrs. Thompson gave Reed some records concerning a political organization called F-PAC. We don't have a copy of those records, but we'll try to get them.”

“We looked at F-PAC early in the investigation,” responded Charlie. “We didn't find anything at that time, but maybe we missed it.”

“Mrs. Thompson and her lawyer certainly thought there was some connection between F-PAC and the Thompson murder, based on those records,” Ron stated.

“See if you can get a copy, but stay out of sight,” instructed Charlie. “Somebody knows you're there.”

 

Dalton Miller finished the last bite of his filet, grilled medium-well, as Jake Reed, Earline Thompson, and Bob Whitfield left the Downtown Grill. He paid the waitress with a nice tip for arranging the table he had requested, second from the back, and then exited the restaurant.

Once he was back in his hotel room, he dialed Shep Taylor's cell phone.

“Shep, this is Dalton. Can you talk?”

“I'm by myself. Go ahead.”

Dalton told Shep about the conversation he'd overheard and the money laundering at First National Bank in Jackson for F-PAC. He also told Shep that the FBI had heard it too. He'd watched as an agent bugged the table.

“We're getting close,” Shep said. “And the election is getting close too. We've got to break some news soon. Can you get a copy of those documents?”

“I'll see what I can do, but let me tell you something else,” continued Dalton. “It turns out that the guy they arrested for shooting Thompson is really his son. Reed has a DNA test that proves it.”

“DNA? How did he get a blood sample from the dead guy?”

“I don't know. He's resourceful, I'll give him that.” Dalton chuckled. “He convinced Mrs. Thompson and her lawyer to pay his client two mill to keep quiet.”

“I like this guy. What do you think he'll do next?”

“Maybe nothing. He's got what he needs. He might try to get a plea bargain for his client, but I bet he's got enough to get the charges dismissed. I'd say he's done for a while.”

“He's our best lead. We can't let him quit yet. It may be about time for you to introduce yourself to him.”

Dalton scratched his cheek. “I was thinking the same thing. I'll try to see him the first of the week, but I've got to be careful. The Feds have him wired tight, and they don't know I'm here.”

“Speaking of the Bureau, what are you hearing from them?”

“They got some photographs from our boy that clearly show the assassin they suspected was at the murder scene,” Dalton responded. “I think they're looking for him now.”

“Is the director still in the dark?”

“He knows the investigation is going on, but the deputy director is keeping as much from him as possible. There's no love lost between the two of those guys, that much is for sure.” Dalton gave another chuckle. “My contact tells me that somebody is keeping the director informed, but the deputy director hasn't found the mole.”

“I may need to make a personal visit to Armacost,” said Shep. “He may be on our side.” There was a pause, then, “I've got to go. Someone's knocking on my door. Let me know how your meeting goes.”

Dalton hung up the phone. He knew he had a lot of work to do, and he was running out of time.

 

Loews Denver Hotel, Denver

Shep opened his hotel room door and found Mac Foster on the other side.

“Who were you talking to?” Mac asked, evidently spotting the cell phone in Shep's hand.

Shep desperately wanted to tell Mac everything about the investigation. The words screamed in his mind. He wanted to share his burden—and his elation—with someone. But he knew Mac would not stand for anything covert going on. Shep had to maintain his silence…for now.

“Just checking on Sarah and Jonathan, sir,” Shep responded.

 

Law offices of Holcombe & Reed, Jackson, Tennessee

Jake left The Grill and drove straight to his office. Rachel and the children would have to wait a few more minutes. The documents from Earline Thompson had to be placed safely under lock and key before he went to bed. By the time Jake returned to his office from the evening meeting with Earline and Bob Whitfield, the parking lot was empty except for Barrett's red four-wheel-drive pickup. Jake parked next to it and strode toward the back door of the office. As he opened the door, he bumped into Barrett, who was just leaving.

“You've got to see this,” Jake said.

“What is it?”

“It's the information that Earline Thompson and Bob Whitfield wanted to give me in exchange for keeping the rape quiet.”

“Is that all you got?”

“That and two million dollars.” Jake grinned.

“Two million!”

“Let's go back to my office and take a look at these. I'll explain everything to you.”

Once they were in his office, Jake removed the F-PAC documents from the envelope. He and Barrett scanned through the documents for several minutes, attempting to decipher the information. As they did so, Jake gave a blow-by-blow account of his meeting with Bob and Earline.

Most of the documents were ledgers with handwritten entries. The entries identified millions of dollars deposited into dummy accounts at First National Bank. The entries also identified millions of dollars being paid from those accounts into another account with a customer name of F-PAC. Most of the money made the transition safely, but the ledger records reflected that thousands of dollars from each transaction were being deposited into another account labeled
Jesse Thompson
.

“So that's what he was doing,” commented Barrett thoughtfully. He was studying the last few documents in the stack. “Jesse was skimming money.”

“That's what Mrs. Thompson said. I can't wait to see Highfill's face when I show him these. When he sees that someone else had motivation to murder Jesse Thompson, he'll have no choice but to at least talk about a plea.”

“Are you going to tell Jed about the money?”

“I think I'll wait and surprise him, Ruth, and Naomi, with the dismissal papers and the money at the same time.” Jake beamed a broad, satisfied smile at his partner.

“Come on, counselor.” Barrett handed a stack of the F-PAC documents back to Jake. “We've both had a busy day. Let's go home.”

“That's a good idea.” Jake took the documents from Barrett and put them in the manila envelope with the others. He unlocked one of the filing cabinets in his office and inserted the envelope into Jed's file, right in front of the photographs of Raoul. Jake agreed with Barrett. It had been a busy day. And a long one. He would hardly see his children before it was time for them to go to bed.

Sanders residence, Arlington, Virginia

Saul Sanders had begun to dread the weekly Saturday telephone calls with Randolph Winston. There had been no significant news the last three weeks, and he could sense the anger in Winston's voice. But today would be different, since Charlie Armacost's agents had been busy.

Saul had been up before dawn, anxiously awaiting Winston's call. When the phone rang, Saul jumped. He looked at the clock on his study wall.

Eight o'clock. Randolph sure is punctual.

“Saul,” Randolph commanded. “I hope you have some news for me today.”

“I do. But you aren't going to like it. Our friends in Tennessee have been busy.”

The moment of silence hung heavy.

“I thought you said Armacost was going to abandon that investigation,” Randolph said. “Yet it's been nearly two months now, and his people are still there.”

Saul tried to defend himself. “I thought he would leave soon, but now it looks like his guys are going to be there awhile longer. They've uncovered some information.”

“Have you heard anything about Burke or us?”

“Not yet, but you better be careful,” Saul warned.

“What do you mean?” Randolph's voice was threatening.

“Attorney Reed has discovered that Jesse Thompson was the father of the man who's been charged with the murder.”

“How did he find that out?” inquired Randolph.

“I don't know, but that's not the half of it. It gets worse.”

“Go on.”

“He has pictures of an assassin named Raoul Miguel Flores at the crime scene.”

“Armacost now thinks an assassin was involved in the murder of Jesse Thompson?”

“That's what it looks like.”

“Has Armacost connected the assassin with whoever employed him?”

“Not yet, but it gets even worse than that. Armacost's agents overheard a meeting where Thompson's widow gave Attorney Reed some documents referring to F-PAC.”

“That is a problem,” Randolph agreed. “Those documents might link us to Thompson and Burke.”

“Do you know anything about the assassin?” Saul asked.

“The assassin's not important at this point. I'm worried about what Jake Reed might be planning to do with those documents.”

“You should be worried. It appears that he continues to turn over stones that I didn't know existed. Who knows what he might find under the next one? He's quite resourceful.”

“So he is,” Randolph responded slowly, as if deep in thought. “Don't do anything yet. I need to talk with Pierce and Milton. I'll get word to you about what to do with Mr. Reed.”

“I'll await your instructions.”

“Good,” Randolph replied. “What about the other matter you're handling for us?”

“We keep an eye on both of them twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. He visits her every weekend, but we haven't seen anything suspicious yet.”

“Keep watching them. There's something there that we're missing. I can't figure it out, but he's up to something. I can't afford any mistakes at this point, and I'm concerned that he could be trouble.”

“I've got some of my best people on it. If it can be found, they'll find it. I'll let you know if we see something out of the ordinary.”

 

Apollyon Associates, Inc., lower Manhattan

Randolph Winston hung up the phone and gazed out the window of his office. Complete control of the world was only three weeks away. Any interference would not be tolerated, and Jake Reed was becoming an interference.

 

Law offices of Holcombe & Reed, Jackson, Tennessee

It was a cold and rainy Sunday night. One solitary streetlamp hung from the rear corner of the building near the alley. It illuminated only a fragment of the parking lot and a portion of the street that ran behind the building. The steady rainfall and storm clouds blocked the light from the moon, further increasing the blanket of darkness. Occasionally a lightning bolt flashed, momentarily illuminating the entire parking lot. Its light would trick the streetlamp into thinking it was daytime. The lamp would extinguish itself following the lightning strike, and the few seconds that followed were the darkest of the entire night.

Dalton Miller stood under the small overhang that covered the rear entrance to the office. It was just past midnight, and Dalton knew no one would be inside the building at this hour. His dark clothing, the murkiness of the night, and the rain made him practically invisible. He stood with his back to the door and constantly looked in all directions. He had to get in and out as quickly as possible, without being seen.

Dalton wasn't worried about the door lock. It would be easy enough to manipulate. The security system was the problem. He couldn't find any exterior wiring that he could use to disarm it. He would only have thirty seconds once he entered the building to identify the code and enter it into the keypad near the back door. One last look around the parking lot, and he was ready for action. He inserted a small, flat, metal locksmith tool into the keyhole of the doorknob and twisted it to the right until he heard the metal pin retract from the door casing. He leaned against the door with his right shoulder, preparing for entry. He slowly counted to three in his head, then swiftly pushed the door inward to open it and stepped inside.

The keypad immediately to the left of the door began beeping, warning Dalton of his deadline to enter the access code. Dalton mentally marked on his digital watch where the indicator would be when the thirty seconds to enter the code would expire. He removed a hand-held computer from his pocket and clamped it to the front of the keypad. On the outside of the computer were red numbers that rapidly began deciphering the access code. The first number locked on 1. Then the second on 4. 1 again. The last was 9. Dalton removed the computer, and punched 1-4-1-9, Off, into the keypad. It went silent.

Dalton had staked out the Holcombe & Reed offices often enough over the last several weeks that he knew exactly which office was Jake Reed's. He retrieved a compact flashlight from his coat pocket and quietly maneuvered the hallway in the building until he reached a door with T. Jacob Reed on the narrow brass plaque.

 

Agents Boyd and Simon were asleep in the upstairs apartment across the street from the Holcombe & Reed offices. Rarely was there any activity at Holcombe & Reed after business hours, and never after midnight. As a precaution, though, they always set the surveillance equipment to sound an alarm if a noise was detected during the night. The alarm startled both of them when it activated. It was the first time it had sounded since they had arrived in Jackson. Ron, the first agent to assume his position in the darkened downstairs surveillance room, quickly donned a set of headphones.

“Do you hear anything?” Jerry asked as he entered the room a few seconds after Boyd.

“Not yet,” Ron whispered. He focused his eyes on the floor and concentrated on the silence coming through the headphones. Jerry peeled back a small section of the paper covering the windows in the front of the old jewelry store. He scanned up and down Main Street for any signs of activity. Nothing. He peered through a pair of binoculars at the law offices across the street and examined every window for any movement. Nothing. Maybe the surveillance equipment had malfunctioned.

Ron pushed the red buttons on the receiver to designate which room in the Holcombe & Reed offices he wanted to listen to. Front lobby. Conference room. Jake Reed's office. “Wait a minute,” he exclaimed, but still at a whisper. “I think I hear something.”

 

Dalton was careful to replace the papers on Jake Reed's desk and the items in the drawers precisely as he looked for the F-PAC documents. When he didn't find anything in either of those places, he moved to the credenza behind the desk. It was filled with manila and expandable file folders containing court documents and correspondence, but no F-PAC documents. Two putty colored four-drawer filing cabinets stood in the corner of the office near the closet. One was locked, and the other was not. Dalton quickly looked through the unlocked one, hoping to get lucky. Nothing. He removed the same locksmith tool he had used earlier and easily unlocked the remaining filing cabinet. Finally, in the third drawer from the top, he hit pay dirt.

 

“There's definitely someone in there,” Agent Boyd stated to Agent Simon. “Do you see any lights?”

“If there are any lights on, they have to be in the back.” Jerry continued to scan the law offices across the street through his binoculars. “I can't see anything from here.”

“You better go check it out. Take a radio, and circle around to the back. I'll keep you posted on what I hear.”

 

Dalton spread the F-PAC documents across the top of Jake Reed's already cluttered desk, and examined them with his flashlight.

Shep will be ecstatic to see this.

He removed a slender silver camera from his pocket and began snapping photographs of each page. There were ten pages in all. It took only a few seconds, and he placed the documents back in the filing cabinet precisely where he'd found them. He suspected the FBI had the office wired and took a moment to look for the small transmitters. One was under the lamp stand on the desk. Another in the telephone. A third was under the guest chair near the door. He had all the information he needed. It was time to leave.

 

“Everything is silent now,” Agent Boyd spoke into his radio. “He may be leaving. Are you near the back door yet?”

“Almost,” Agent Simon responded. “I'm in the alley beside the cleaners. I'll be there in ten seconds.” He sloshed around the rear of the building that housed the cleaners and into the Holcombe & Reed employee parking lot.

 

Dalton stopped at the rear door to reset the alarm before exiting. Every precaution was necessary to make sure that his presence in the Holcombe & Reed offices would go unnoticed. He knew the puddles of water on the floor that formed when he entered the building would evaporate before the employees arrived for work. The alarm was the only variable remaining. He punched 1-4-1-9, Set, opened the door, and backed out, closing the door behind him.

Just before the door latched, and without warning, Dalton was struck violently in the back of the neck. It felt like he had been rear-ended by an eighteen-wheeler. The force of the blow caused him to fall forward into the partially closed door and onto the hard linoleum floor immediately inside the door. He was stunned for a second but rolled to his back in time to see the silhouette of a man pouncing on him like a cat on its surprised prey.

“Who are you?” the voice from the unknown man demanded from the darkness as his body landed on Dalton.

Dalton raised his right forearm and shielded his body from the onslaught. The two men rolled savagely on the floor, swinging their closed fists wildly. The other man managed to land a punch to Dalton's face, and Dalton felt the warmth of blood streaming from the open wound. The keypad for the alarm system began beeping again. The thirty seconds permitted to exit the building after the alarm was set had almost expired.

Dalton struck his attacker in the left temple, dazing him. Dalton finally had enough of his wits about him and landed another blow, this time to the man's diaphragm. When the man slumped to the floor, gasping for air, and curled up into a fetal position, Dalton struggled to his feet. The security alarm began to wail from the outside speakers just as Dalton reached for the doorknob.

As he dashed out the door into the downpour, he could hear the assailant's groans. Just then a bolt of lightning streaked across the sky, providing Dalton with enough light to see that the parking lot was empty. Then blackness descended again.

 

Agent Boyd heard the commotion through Agent Simon's radio, and raced from the jewelry store building to the rear of the Holcombe & Reed offices. He tried to open the rear door to the offices, but it was locked from the inside. Jerry's moaning was barely audible through the constant siren blaring from the alarm system.

“Jerry, are you in there?” Ron knew his voice was probably swallowed by the sounds of the rain, the thunder, and the siren. He listened again at the door. More moaning sounds. He stepped back from the door and kicked at the knob with his right foot. The door began to give way. He kicked again, and the door burst open.

He found Jerry lying on the floor immediately inside the door.

“Are you OK?” Ron said as he knelt down.

Jerry managed to raise himself to his knees. “I think so.” He grimaced with pain.

“Come on.” Ron grabbed Jerry under the right arm and tried to lift him to his feet. “We've got to get out of here. The police will be here any minute.”

Jerry struggled to his feet, and Ron assisted him out into the rain, around the cleaners, and across Main Street. They had just entered the front door to the jewelry-store building and locked it as three police cars with sirens sounding and blue lights flashing slid to a stop in front of the Holcombe & Reed offices.