***
Mansfield did not call security while I was in his office; however, the look I received from the two security guards in the lobby was a pretty good indicator he had called them after I left. I was leaving, so they left me alone, but their glare told me they would be waiting for me if I decided to return. They didn’t need to worry. I had no intention of approaching Mansfield at work again, no matter how bad I wanted to smash his face in.
Jessica didn’t sound the least bit surprised by Mansfield’s lack of cooperation when I called her from my hotel room to give her the bad news. “I’ve done a little more digging on him,” she said. “It’s amazing what you can learn at the library and on the Internet.”
“The Internet? That thing is actually useful?”
“It is if you know how to use it, how to refine your search parameters.”
“From what you’ve found so far, can you tell me who Mansfield hired Boyd to find?”
“Not for sure, but I have a pretty good guess. I think he hired Boyd to find his dead wife.”
“Excuse me? Why would anyone hire a PI to look for someone everyone already knows is dead?”
“Because not everyone knows she’s dead.”
“Jessica, maybe you need to start at the beginning of this whole kidnapping thing. Last night, you told me the wife was killed, that her body was recovered after Mansfield paid the ransom.”
“Legend, I’ve read nearly two dozen newspaper articles so far, and they all say approximately the same thing. Seven years ago, someone kidnapped Mansfield’s wife demanding a three million dollar ransom. Mansfield paid it. Days later, they found her body in a hotel room. Law enforcement had no leads. The articles all say the same thing. I’m paraphrasing, of course.”
“I’m not following you, Jessica. Did I miss something?”
“No, but you haven’t heard everything yet, either. Every article I read was very respectful in their coverage, leaving out any gruesome details. All but one. This particular article agreed the wife’s body was found and identified; however, it reported the body was missing a head and all its fingers.”
“Decapitated. What in the world?”
“Exactly,” Jessica said. “I discovered that information within the last hour.”
“Even with no head or fingers, the husband would have identified the body,” I argued.
“True, George Mansfield did verify the body belonged to his wife. Plus, the FBI did a hair analysis. Perfect match.”
“Hair analysis is based on junk science, so that doesn’t impress me. However, wouldn’t a husband know if the body in front of him was his wife, even it was missing a head? He’d have to know her birthmarks, her blemishes, her contours.”
“Maybe they weren’t intimate,” Jessica said.
“That’s a pretty big maybe, don’t you think? Was there something wrong with the wife? Was she physically disabled or something? I guess that would explain a lack of intimacy.”
“There’s nothing about that on the Internet. The wife, Shelley Baxter, was quite a bit younger than Mansfield and, from what I can tell from the pictures, very pretty.”
“So a trophy wife,” I interrupted.
“Because she was younger? I’m ten years younger than you. Is that how people see me?”
“Maybe, but not anyone we care about. All my friends think I hit the mother lode and couldn’t be happier for me. How much younger is Baxter?”
Jessica paused for a few seconds before answering. “Okay, she was a trophy wife. She was 23; he was 44 when they got married. That’s a whole person who can drink younger. Which brings me to the point I was trying to make before you brought up the trophy wife thing. Maybe Mansfield was so happy to have such a pretty wife he wasn’t as thorough as you.”
“You’re saying having his little trophy wife was so awesome he didn’t study every little detail of his wife?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know, Jessica. Seems kind of far-fetched to me.”
“Okay, I read that more than half of men over 40 have a significant drop in their sex drive. Maybe things weren’t sizzling in the bedroom. Maybe he’s a little fat lawyer who wanted the lights off so she wouldn’t be disgusted by his old, wrinkly skin.”
I could tell Jessica wasn’t going to let her theory drop. “I’ve met him. He’s not a little fat lawyer. Average in nearly every way, but I’ll concede it’s possible, even if it hardly seems plausible.”
“Legend, I’m trying to give you more information, so when you meet up with Mansfield again, and we both know you are gonna meet up with him again, then you can use that information to make him come clean about Boyd.”
“Thanks, sweetie. You’re right. Let’s think about your scenario for a second, Jessica. A young wife is kidnapped. The husband pays. Her body is found and identified by both the husband and the FBI. The kidnappers turned murderers got away. Seven years later, for reasons unknown, the husband hires a private investigator to look for the wife. The investigator finds the wife, and then the husband sends men out to do what — kill the investigator and the wife he wanted so badly to find. What the hell have we walked into?”
“I know,” said Jessica, “it sounds like a bad made-for-TV movie. Maybe, if we’re lucky, at the end of our investigation, we can reunite Shelly Baxter with the child she never knew she had. The one from her true-love in college.”
Leave it to my wife to interject levity into nearly any situation. I swore the woman was a grizzled old sergeant in a former life.
“Right,” I said, “because it was never a real kidnapping. The husband hired someone to kill her and make it look like a kidnapping gone bad so that no one would suspect him. Only the hired help couldn’t bring himself to kill her, so he kills a body double and cuts off her head and fingertips to help sell the story she was dead. And the husband so badly wanted to believe she was dead that he never suspected a thing.”
I don’t know which one of us started laughing first, but both of us were laughing at the absurdity of how our imaginations had gotten the better of us.
Jessica said, “Okay, possible, but not very plausible.”
“Jessica, I need you to find Mansfield’s home address. If I can’t approach him at work, then I have to find another way to get to him. D.C. has some of the worst traffic in the U.S., so the idea of grabbing him in transit doesn’t sit well with me.” I thought back to last year when I was involved in a car chase with the D.C. Metro Police. I had to ditch the car in traffic and hoof it on foot to get away.
“What are you gonna do in the meantime?”
“Go for a walk. Check out the parking and traffic situation around Mansfield’s office in case you can’t find the house. Maybe call Larry. See if he knows anything about the kidnapping.”
I hung up feeling a little better about the disappointing start to my day. I had a plan. And a plan gave me purpose and direction. And hope. No, not hope. Determination and conviction. Mansfield would soon find out he cannot hide the truth.
***
Special Agent Larry Armour of the Federal Bureau of Investigation was attached to the J. Edgar Hoover Building in downtown Washington, D.C. A year ago, I’d never even heard of Special Agent Armour. That changed when Ellen White, a Special Agent for the Environmental Protection Agency, investigated Jessica last year. Ellen ended up being an important ally in our fight against corrupt forces within the EPA. She was also Larry’s girlfriend. My friendship with Larry started after Boyd and I saved Jessica and Ellen from men working for a private security consulting firm who had kidnapped the women. Larry was grateful and became a strong ally in bringing down the people coming after Jessica. When Larry and Ellen got married a few months later, Jessica and I were at their wedding.
I called Larry from the hotel room, and after several transfers and a few minutes of holding, I finally got through. He was surprised to hear I was in town and immediately invited me to dinner that evening. When I declined his invitation, he insisted upon meeting for coffe
e at a spot near FBIHQ. I accepted his invitation, agreeing to meet in ten minutes.
Larry spotted me as soon as I entered the coffee shop. The burly FBI Agent jumped up and greeted me halfway with a handshake that morphed into a back-slapping man hug.
“I ordered a tea for you that I think you’ll like.”
Like my love of vegetables, my love of tea was well-known among my friends. I sat down and sipped the hot Asian tea. It was delicious.
“Knowing how much you detest this city, what brings you back to D.C.?”
“Sorry for not calling first. Jessica booked the flight at the last minute. I’m here to meet someone. I think I might need a favor.”
“A friend favor or a Special Agent favor?”
“I need FBI Larry? Boyd is missing.”
“Your sharp-shooting friend? The one who helped you save Ellen. How can I help?” His tone was urgent and enthusiastic, a sure sign of the thanks he felt toward Boyd’s role in saving his wife.
I explained everything to him, all the way back to the day we repossessed the horses from Marino, although I left out the part about throwing him in the trunk. I didn’t stop until I had described my visit with Mansfield a couple of hours ago. I even included my recent involvement with the FBI in Memphis.
“Before I say anything else, you made 25 grand repo’ing horses?” I nodded and smiled. “I’m in the wrong business. Alright, where do I come in?”
“Believe it or not, I think Jessica’s idea that Mansfield hired Boyd to locate his dead wife isn’t as stupid as I originally thought. I was hoping you could get more info on the kidnapping case.”
“I can look into it and get back to you. What else?”
“Any chance someone in the FBI might be willing to question Mansfield? See if Boyd was hired to find the wife.”
“If Mansfield hired Boyd to find his wife, then hired someone else to knock off Boyd and his wife, do you think Mansfield is stupid enough to open up and talk to us?”
“Probably not. But I find it hard to believe someone inside the FBI wouldn’t get a woody once you talk this one up.”
“Are you kidding; I’m getting a woody thinking about it myself. Solving a seven-year-old kidnapping case involving murder and three million dollars would be a nice feather in my cap. Especially if Jessica’s suspicions are right and the woman is alive. L.T., do you care about the kidnapping, or are you simply trying to get the FBI to help you find Boyd?”
“What do you think?”
Larry was practically salivating at the idea of solving the cold case. The type of case any investigator would love to have a crack at.
Larry said, “I realize this is urgent, so I’ll get started as soon as possible. I’ll even reach out to Officer Albert in Wisconsin.”
“Thanks. Any help the FBI can provide is appreciated. So you know, I’m moving forward on my own in the meantime.”
The look on Larry’s face meant he understood the implications of my statement. He finished the conversation with the promise he would see what he could do, looking both excited and doubtful at the same time.
I left the coffee shop and walked to Mansfield’s office building to determine if there were any spots to approach Mansfield. The underground parking garage seemed like a good place to start. There was a parking garage attendant, but he was only limiting vehicular access, not foot traffic, meaning I was able to get past him without incident.
It was a typical underground parking lot. Big. With lots of large concrete support columns. Numerous dark corners. Reserved spaces near the elevator. Probably for guys like Mansfield who could afford to pay a premium for parking. The elevator from the garage required a passkey. There were no cameras anywhere.
The parking garage was a possibility. Not ideal, but better than nothing if Jessica couldn’t find his home.
While exiting the parking garage, I rounded one of the large concrete columns and physically ran into a big man. Six inches shorter than me and maybe ten years older, but thick, like someone who used to lift weights years ago. He wore durable slacks and a thick tweed sports coat with patches on the elbows. Everything about him, from the haircut to the way he stood, the way he carried himself, said cop.
“Excuse you,” he said. His wording wasn’t lost on me.
Another man stood to his left — same height, little smaller, still around 200 pounds. Dressed in the same cheap, durable clothes, like a detective in a TV show.
“Yeah, okay,” I said dismissively with a small chuckle.
“I said excuse you,” he repeated.
I backed up a step to increase the distance between us. “I heard you the first time.”
“Then say it. Say you’re excused.”
“Okay, you’re excused.”
I stepped to my right to walk around the men. The smaller man moved to his left to block me. “My friend is talking to you. He wants you to say excuse me.”
“He wants me to say what?”
“Excuse me.”
“Okay, you’re excused as well, although you didn’t do anything.”
His face reddened. “You need to apologize to my friend for bumping into him.”
“Bug off, both of you.” I pointed to the bigger man. “You bumped me on purpose, and you know it. Let’s drop this before it gets any worse.”
“Worse for who?” he said.
“For you, of course.”
Part of me was wondering why I wasn’t trying harder to de-escalate. The other part of me already knew the answer. I had seen this too many times before. Someone wanted these two guys to send me a message.
“Tough guy, huh?”
“Very. Why don’t you guys get it over with? Give me the message Mansfield sent you to deliver.”
“Who’s Mansfield?” the smaller guy asked. “We’re just two guys who don’t like people walking around bumping into other people.”
“You mean like bad manners vigilantes? Are you two the secret love children of Batman and Emily Post? Well, everyone needs a goal in life, and I wouldn’t want you to go away empty-handed, so excuse me.”
I stepped to my right again. The smaller man stepped to his left. “That didn’t sound sincere.” He turned to his friend. “Did that sound sincere to you?”
“No, it didn’t.”
“You want sincerity?”
“Yes,” the smaller man replied with a smug look on his face.
“I sincerely hope I don’t find badges in your pockets if you force me to knock you guys out. Is that sincere enough for you? Now please, let me by.”
I stared at the men for ten full seconds, noticing the larger man appeared a little surprised I’d guessed he might be a cop. That didn’t mean he moved. Neither man moved. Neither looked away. No indication as to their intentions. I stepped to my right. The smaller man didn’t move this time. I tried to look grateful and started walking forward. I was nearly past the smaller man when he reached out and put his hand on my chest, shifting his body weight to prepare for a shove. Or worse.
I had a decision to make. If the men were cops, I could let them win their fight. Let them deliver their message so I knew for sure it was coming from Mansfield. Maybe let them get in a few good punches to really sell the idea they had won.
They have to be cops. Who else would wrap themselves in that much cheep tweed and Old Spice? But if they’re not cops. Damn it.
Losing the fight might have been the smart move, but my desire for self-preservation was too strong to allow a couple of bozos to hit me. I grabbed the hand on my chest, twisted it into a wristlock, and forced my assailant to his knees. He howled in pain. Anticipating the other man’s response, I spun the smaller man directly into the path of his onrushing companion, tripping the larger man and causing him to fall on his face with a meaty thud while never letting go of the wristlock. The wrist turned in an unnatural angle. It had to hurt. Too bad. With the larger man on the ground, I let go of the smaller man’s wrist and kicked him in the chest sending him rolling across the parking lo
t.
The larger man was up again. Red-faced. I couldn’t tell if it was from landing on his face or from embarrassment. Either way, he looked relatively unhurt. I almost had time to laugh out loud as he threw a big roundhouse punch at me. It was telegraphed for miles. Easy to duck. The momentum of his punch nearly turned him completely around, like a little kid swinging a bat that was too big for him. He might have been thick, but he had the grace of a drunk, three-legged hippo. My adversary caught himself and turned around just in time for me to deliver a devastating punch to his solar plexus. The blow was a real fight ender, causing the large man to double over at the waist as if he wanted to vomit. He wasn’t coming back from that punch.
I turned to see the smaller man advancing slowly. His pain-filled eyes were a sure-fire sign that he had already lost the fight, and he knew it, but he couldn’t stop. His partner was taking a beating, and he had to help. Apparently, even dirty cops had a code.
So far, I had avoided hitting either man in the head in an attempt to avoid leaving bruises on their faces. Cops who looked like they got their butts kicked might feel the need to come up with a story. They might say I had attacked them. As the smaller man approached, I shot in fast and low, getting inside his guard while grabbing his arm and pulling it over my head. His momentum carried him forward, bending him over my shoulders. Like a fireman carrying a body, I clamped the man across my shoulders, stood up to my full height, and then dumped him atop his partner. Both men went to the ground, one atop the other, and me atop both of them, pinning them both to the ground in the process while I patted them down for weapons. Thankfully, no weapons. Rummaging through the pockets of the smaller man, I located his wallet. He responded by yelling obscenities as I removed his driver’s license and stuffed it in my pocket.
“I don’t know how long you two have been following me, but you should know the guy I just met for coffee is an FBI Special Agent. If I see either of you again, if I even suspect I’ve seen you, then I’m giving him your ID. Do you understand?”
More obscenities followed by demands to get off of them.
Deadly Promise Page 14
