Barker said, “We ne—.”
“Excuse me,” Jessica said, “I wasn’t done talking. Wait for your turn. Now, I ask you again, Special Agent Barker, what’s your goal? And do you feel like your current approach is getting you any closer to that goal? Because the way I see it, y’all were following us in the hopes you might observe us doing something of...interest. But I spotted you, so now you’re following us around trying to annoy us, which seems counterproductive to me. You want information. Even I can see that. So, y’all got two choices. One, get different guys to follow us with the hopes they will succeed where y’all have failed. Or two, figure out a better way of getting my husband to cooperate.”
Conley laughed, “Oh, I like her. Dr. McCain, you’ve got yourself a good one. Somehow, even when she’s telling us off because she’s annoyed with us, she’s still less irritating than you. McCain, you should be more like your beautiful wife.”
Jessica said, “Thank you, Special Agent Conley, for the compliment, but I feel I should correct you on one small flaw in your statement. Your behavior is not annoying me. Since I can’t think of anything my husband or I have done to warrant all this attention, then your presence interests me more than annoys me.”
Barker said, “We jus—.”
“There you go again. You are a rude one. No wonder my husband enjoys tormenting you. As I was saying, y’all need to come up with a different strategy.”
Conley laughed. “Alright, Mrs. McCain, you win. Dr. McCain, I was wondering if we could meet soon to go over some questions we have for you. At your earliest convenience, of course.”
“Sure. How about tomorrow after I get off work?”
“If you’re working until seven again, what do you say we do it on Tuesday before work?”
“I don’t work Tuesday. How’s ten a.m. sound? Tell me where.”
Conley pulled a card from his pocket and handed it to me. “Ten it is. Memphis Field office. The address is on the card.” He reached out and grabbed the remaining cocktail. “Now that that’s over, I’m off the clock. I’m going to try this drink, and Mrs. McCain, if your husband can spare you for one dance, I would consider it an honor.”
***
Special Agent Conley did not get his dance. Jessica and I found LeClair, thanked him, and left during the intermission. I was impressed with how well she handled the two FBI agents. If she ever wanted to switch professions, she could have a future as a dispute mediator.
Monday was uneventful. I thought I saw someone tailing me on the way home from work at one point; however, when I came to an unnecessary stop in the middle of the road, the car turned off, and I never spotted it again.
Tuesday morning, Jessica jokingly asked me if she needed to come along to keep the boys in line. I told her to go make us money.
The FBI Memphis Field Office was a large, unmarked five-story building near Shelby Farms Park, one of the largest urban parks in the United States. Five times the size of Central Park in Manhattan, it contains several lakes, natural forests, and wetlands that provided a natural habitat for many wildlife species. Hundreds of hikers, bikers, and rollerbladers could be seen there on any given day.
The FBI building looked like it housed hundreds of employees, a reminder of the size and scope of the nation’s premier law enforcement organization. An organization I was glad I had never tangled with before. Until recently, that is. I parked my vehicle and walked across the parking lot, hoping my visit would rectify that problem.
Special Agents Barker and Conley both greeted me in the lobby at exactly ten. Barker was cordial, which was a good sign. They led me down a hallway to an interior room with a heavy steel door. No windows to the room. A small metal table in the middle. Ugly metal chairs. Everything looked fastened to the floor. Barker stepped aside to motion me in.
“I don’t think so, Barker.”
“Excuse me. You agreed to be cooperative.”
“I agreed to meet with you. I said nothing about being cooperative. I’m here mostly out of fascination, but seeing this room has caused my interest to wane.”
“The room is standard procedure, McCain.”
“For you, maybe, not for me. I’m not willing to relinquish that much control. Have a nice day, gentlemen.”
I turned and walked down the hall while Barker protested. Conley remained quiet. I opened the door to the lobby before turning around to see Barker standing red-faced in the hallway. I paused for a second to give him a chance to fix his mistake, but he said nothing. Without a word, I turned, exited the building, and walked to my car.
My key was in the car door when I heard a faintly familiar voice behind me. “This doesn’t look like the car I heard about.”
I turned to see a pretty woman in her early thirties smiling at me. Average height. Fit. Dressed in a nice lady’s pantsuit with a well-tailored jacket. Dress shoes with sensible rubber soles. An FBI badge attached to her belt. And vibrant red hair.
“It figures,” I said to the annoying woman from the Thai restaurant.
“Nice to see you again, Dr. McCain.”
“You’re not a psychologist.”
“Sure I am, for the FBI.”
“They send you out here to talk sense into me?”
“No, I volunteered. For the record, I told them not to put you in that room, but I think Barker’s ego has been feeling a little damaged ever since he found out your wife spotted them on the first day they got down here from Chicago. Plus, that little bit of driving you did on Sunday didn’t help.”
“They don’t think a woman can spot a tail. Next time, I’ll let her drive, and they’ll find out she can out drive them as well.”
“I think I would enjoy seeing that. By the way, where’s the sports car?”
“At home. It doesn’t get out much. As for the BMW, I buy cars, fix them up, and flip them. It’s a hobby of mine. This one’s for sale if you’re interested.”
“A doctor, a martial artist extraordinaire, a real estate investor, and you work on cars. You’re quite the modern-day Renaissance man. Do you paint and write poetry, too?”
“I’ve been known to enjoy a good dirty limerick. Does that count?”
“Maybe in certain circles.” She paused before making intentional prolonged eye contact. “You should come back in, Dr. McCain.”
There it was — her pitch. It was well-timed. She demonstrated interest in me. Tried to create a bond. It was also well-delivered. Not a demand. No pleading. Said in such a way as to imply her offer could be mutually beneficial.
“I’ve lost interest in what they might have to say.”
“I know it irritated Barker that your wife brokered this meeting through Conley. Help me score another positive victory for women against chauvinistic men everywhere.”
“When you put it that way, sure. One condition.”
“No interrogation room.” My smile told her she had guessed right. “It’s okay. I already had a conference room ready for when they failed. Special Agent Marshall, by the way.”
I accepted her handshake and followed her back into the building. She led me to a modern, glass-walled conference room with an expensive conference table in the middle that could seat at least a dozen people. I chose a seat at the end of the table while Special Agent Marshall left to get me some water. Special Agents Barker and Conley followed her in when she returned, along with a gentleman who introduced himself as Assistant Special Agent in Charge Holderfield of the Memphis Field Office.
Barker did not look happy with me sitting at the end of the table but chose not to comment on it. He sat on my right while Conley and Marshall sat on my left. “You mentioned something about someone with a higher paygrade being present. I hope ASAC Holderfield is to your liking, McCain.” I was beginning to think he had a speech deficit that rendered him unable to say my last name without sounding like a jerk.
“Thank you.”
Holderfield nodded at me before sitting at the far end of the table, giving me the impression he was more
of an observer than a participant in the meeting.
“Before we get started,” I said, “We should all take a moment and thank Special Agent Marshall for coming up with these accommodations on such short notice.” I turned and thanked her before watching Barker to see if he would do the same. He did not. I cleared my throat to prompt him.
He turned to the female agent and said, “Thank you, Agent Marshall.”
“Okay, now that we’ve got that out of the way, why don’t you tell me why you find me so interesting?”
“We were hoping to ask you a few questions.”
“Ask, and I will attempt to answer.”
“Agent Conley and I are from the Chicago Field Office. We need to ask you about your possible ties to organized crime in Chicago.”
I stared at Barker without answering.
“Well, Dr. McCain,” Barker said.
“Well, what. Not to be rude, Special Agent Barker, but you haven’t asked me anything yet.”
“It’s like that, huh, McCain?”
I looked around the room at the other agents as if to silently ask them if I had missed something. All I got back were blank stares.
“I guess it is, Barker,” I said in a confused tone and manner. “Barker, why don’t you ask me a question.”
Barker huffed. “Alright, do you have any known associations with members of organized crime in Chicago?”
“Known associations? No.”
“Why did you stress the word known? Are you saying you have unknown associations with members of organized crime?”
“Unknown associations? That’s a trick question, right? It has to be.”
Barker realized his mistake. “Scratch the question, McCain.”
I continued, “Because it’s self-negating. Think about it.”
“Disregard the question, please.”
“It’s clever, though, Barker. Now you got me thinking about the question. Then, when you fire a hard one at me later, maybe I’ll be distracted and simply answer away because I’m still pondering your previous trick question.”
I saw Marshall turn her face to prevent Barker from seeing her smile.
“Dr. McCain, please forget the question. Let me ask you something else.”
“That’s the first time you called me Dr. McCain. You should try it more often.”
The clenching of Barker’s jaw was a dead giveaway of his level of irritation. “Dr. McCain, how often do you travel to Chicago?”
“As little as humanly possible. February was the last time I was there, and I have no plans to return anytime soon.”
“So would you say a couple of times a year?”
“I’d say I was there to see my mother in Chicago twice last year. She lives in Springfield full-time now, so unless I have a good reason to go back, I don’t care if I ever return.”
“So, a couple of times a year, then?”
“A couple of times last year. If you average it out over the last 15 years or so, then it is much less.”
“Why do I feel you are talking in circles?” Barker replied.
“I figure a circle is as good a shape as any. Do you prefer parallelograms? What exactly is a parallelogram anyway?”
“A four-sided figure with parallel opposite sides,” Special Agent Marshall replied.
Agent Barker shot Marshall an angry look, implying he expected her to remain quiet. If she was irritated by his disapproving stare, then she never demonstrated it.
Barker said, “Why can’t you answer the question, McCain?”
“Barker, why can’t you understand the answer? I was there in February, twice in ‘93 and once in ‘92. The last time before that, I was still in college, probably back in ‘79. Since you are so interested in averages, do the math.”
“Assuming 15 years, you are averaging one visit every 3.75 years,” Agent Marshall chimed in.
Barker cast her another disapproving look before turning back to me. “Your mother lived in Chicago for several years before her recent divorce. Are you telling me you didn’t visit her once during that time?”
“I am.”
“And I’m supposed to believe that?”
“I don’t know what you’re supposed to believe. Doesn’t mean I’m not telling the truth.”
“And after years of not visiting your mother, you suddenly start visiting her again. Why the long absence?”
“That is none of your business, Agent Barker,” I replied with a tone that said don’t test me.
Barker studied my face for a few seconds contemplating his next step. “Who do you know in Chicago?”
“My mother’s ex-husband, Scott Oswald Beyers. Some of the kids I went to high school with might live up there, but I don’t keep in touch with anyone from high school except my best friend Virgil, who lives in Alabama. In other words, there might be some unknown acquaintances.”
“No one else? No business associates?”
“I’m a doctor in Memphis. What kind of business associates would I need in Chicago?”
“You’re also in real estate.”
“I dabble in it...in Memphis. Recently, I turned all that over to my wife.”
“No outside investors?”
“None. Why the interest?”
“We’re asking the questions.”
“So you are,” I said.
Conley decided to speak up. “Why’d you leave the Navy early?”
“A multitude of reasons. Some of them I don’t feel like discussing.”
“The most common tour is eight years — three or four in active duty, the rest in the reserves. You did three active with no time in the reserves. How did you manage that?”
“I came into a large sum of money. Admiral Buie, my commanding officer, pushed for the Navy to waive the rest of my commission. It’s a fairly common procedure when someone gets that kind of money and wants an early out.”
“The money you mention. Financial records trace the money back to a bank account in Chicago. 1.27 million. Why a bank in Chicago?”
“I’m assuming that’s where Scott Beyers was storing my money. My father started a trust fund for me that was to become mine when I turned 25. Beyers was the attorney my father used to establish the trust.”
“Your father, he died when you were younger.”
“In 1975. Run over by a drunk driver.”
Conley paused for a few seconds, probably to run the dates over in his mind. “I’m sorry about your father.” He sounded sincere. “So, your father knew Beyers?”
“Yes, he was my father’s corporate lawyer.”
“Your father owned Borders Trucking at the time of his death?”
“Yes. My mother inherited it.”
Conley said, “Am I correct in assuming you are not a fan of Mr. Beyers?”
“You are correct.”
“Do you care to elaborate?”
“Sure. My mother married Beyers in ‘77. At Beyers behest, she sold Borders Trucking in ‘78. That did not go over well with me. My dad built that company. It was my goal to take it over when I finished college. Beyers was the driving force behind selling it.”
“Any other reasons for not liking Beyers?”
“Have you met him?”
Conley said, “No.”
“Spend two minutes with him, then come back and tell me if you like him.”
Conley tried to suppress a small smile. “I’ll see what I can do about that. In the meantime, do you have other reasons?”
“My mother suspected he was trying to find a way to cheat me out of the trust money. That’s why I got the money at 23 instead of when I turned 25 — Mom insisted.”
Barker said, “A trust? Left by your father?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have any evidence of this trust other than the money?”
“I claimed it on my taxes that year. Does that count?”
“I was thinking of something more official.”
“If the IRS is not official enough for you, then no. Okay, wh
at the hell is going on here? I’ve answered your questions, now answer mine. Why the interest in organized crime and my inheritance?”
Barker said, “That’s all we have for you right now, McCain.”
“You’re stopping right there? You’ve got to be kidding me. Someone should tell me what this is all about.”
Barker said, “It’s our investigation, not yours. We’ll stop when we decide to stop. That’s how it works, Dr. McCain.”
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you Barker? The little feeling that you know something I don’t know.”
He didn’t smile, but he did look smugly satisfied.
I looked around the table. Stopped on Agent Conley. “Care to share?” He said nothing. I stopped on Agent Marshall.
“Don’t look at me, Dr. McCain; this isn’t my show. They only let me sit in because I was able to get you back inside.”
Assistant Special Agent in Charge Holderfield hadn’t said one word, but I stopped on him anyway. It was worth a try.
He took the hint. “I got a question for you, Dr. McCain. How’d you do it?”
“Do what?”
“That thing in—.”
Barker quickly interrupted Holderfield. “Thank you for coming in, Dr. McCain. You are free to go.”
The little twerp loved that last sentence. As if he were giving me permission to leave.
“The pleasure has been all yours; I can assure you,” I said before standing up and moving away from the table.
Marshall said, “Dr. McCain, I will show you out.” I figured she would show me to the door, but she followed me outside. “Is your car really for sale?”
“It is.”
“Could I see it now?”
“I guess so.” I provided her with the details on the car and the asking price while we walked across the parking lot.
“That seems a little high.”
“It is. I’m often asked to take cars and make modifications. Make them faster; improve the handling. I’ve boosted the stock horsepower from 168 on the BMW to a little over 250. It’s got more horsepower now than the M3, and considerably more torque. And it’s still thousands cheaper than an M3, making it a bargain. Plus, this one’s a convertible.”
Deadly Promise Page 8
