“As for the message you were supposed to deliver, I’m stamping it return to sender.”
CHAPTER 12
You are thinking about intelligence again. About adaptability being a measure of intelligence. About how that standard makes the cockroach one of the most intelligent creatures on the earth. What kind of idiot thinks a creature that lives off crumbs and droppings and whose sole defense mechanism is to scurry under the refrigerator when the lights come on is intelligent? You laugh at the absurdity. Intelligent people do not simply survive. They thrive. An intelligent organism rises to the top of its ecosystem. An intelligent person excels at whatever he chooses to do.
As your mother said, intelligent people respond to and manipulate any situation to their advantage. Those words have shaped your life. It is the code by which you live. You know you can harness any useful item, any useful person, any useful idea or strategy and employ it to your benefit. To see how to utilize those tools in ways the average person would never imagine.
Boyd Dallas is an example. He has a skill set you do not, one requiring physical abilities that do not belong to you. You accept you do not have those abilities in the same manner a crafty general realizes it is not his job to literally fight the war. It is his job to direct others to fight it for him. To win for him. To use their skills, to sacrifice themselves if necessary to fulfill the general’s quest for victory. Those under the general happily accept their role because they believe in the general, his goal, his brilliance.
You remember watching the movie White Christmas as a child. It was stupid and contrived, but you still remember how hundreds of soldiers traveled from all over the New England countryside at Christmas time to help a retired general and his financially struggling inn. Even Hollywood knew men would not have done that for a sergeant. Or a medic. Or even a colonel. It had to be a general.
So you use Boyd Dallas to help you with your cause because his skill set is exactly what you need. And he is extremely adept within that skill set. At the top of his game. In much the way a professional athlete excels at his sport. It doesn’t make the athlete a genius, but it does make him useful.
And Boyd Dallas will continue to help you because he wants to help. You know this because Boyd has already lied to his friends. Lying to those who care about him shows dedication to your cause. Boyd wants to bask in your brilliance in the same manner every man and woman wants to bask in the presence of the truly gifted. It is the way life has always been. It is the way life will always be.
CHAPTER 13
Sending men after me solidified what I already suspected about George Mansfield — he was behind Boyd’s disappearance. There was no doubt in my mind. And according to LeClair, Boyd was laying low because his client sent men after him. What more proof did I need? Besides, my theory fit well with what I knew about the wealthy attorney. Mansfield was a rich D.C. fat cat. Someone who believed he was special. Above the rest. Entitled. No wonder he practiced law in the nation’s capital. Being among politicians probably made him feel at home. Rich or not, sending guys after me was a bad idea. Now, I no longer felt compelled to be a nice guy. The gloves could come off, and I didn’t have to feel any remorse about it.
Jessica wanted to fly out to D.C. and help me once I told her about the two men in the parking garage, but I assured her I had it under control. Besides, she knew how to use the Internet; I barely knew how to turn on a computer. As promised, she found an address for Mansfield in Bethesda.
“It’s an older address, Legend, which means I still need to verify if he currently lives there. I should be able to do that tomorrow.”
I thanked Jessica and said goodbye. She told me to be careful and informed me she would be on the next flight to D.C. if anyone else assaulted me. After hanging up, I considered calling Larry to accept his invitation to dinner; however, I didn’t feel I would be a good guest and decided to work out in the hotel gym and go to bed early that night.
The next morning, Larry called me. “L.T., I might have someone who can help.” He sounded strange. Doubtful. Reluctant somehow. “They would like to meet with you.”
The J. Edgar Hoover Building was located at the 900 block of Pennsylvania Avenue in Washington D.C. The building occupied two combined city blocks, over two million square feet. Impressive in size if not aesthetics. Arguably one of the ugliest government buildings in D.C. A hideous concrete blight to the landscape. A building frequently ridiculed and condemned.
Rumor had it that FBIHQ was never finished. The story stated the original design called for the installation of beautiful marble panels over the exterior concrete. Marble that was already purchased and lying in stacks in the underground garage of the building but was never installed, or ever would be installed. The reason — payback. ABSCAM was an FBI sting operation in the late 1970s resulting in the conviction of six members of the House of Representatives and one senator on corruption charges. The FBI got their moment in the sun, but Congress defunded the improvements scheduled for the J. Edgar Hoover Building in return. A reminder that unearthing corruption on Capital Hill can come at a cost, especially among those who control the purse strings.
As I walked up to the visitor entrance of FBIHQ for my meeting, I recalled something Larry said on the phone an hour ago. More importantly, something he didn’t say. He mentioned some people wanted to meet with me; he did not say he would like me to meet them. Maybe it was nothing, but it was enough for me to change my mind about the meeting location. I decided to make them come to me and hopefully avoid another incident like what happened at the Memphis Field Office.
I walked to the same coffee shop where Larry and I met the day before and called him to reschedule. He seemed more than happy to comply.
I was already seated at a semi-private table when Larry walked in with two fellow agents 30 minutes later. One was older. Early fifties. A supervisor of sorts by the way he gestured to the other two. The way he glanced around the room, checking for exits, scanning the room for anything suspicious suggested he had years of experience as a field agent. Maybe he only recently became a supervisor. The other agent looked to be a couple of years younger than me. Fit. Cocky. Seemingly no situational awareness or too reliant on his boss’ instincts to use his own.
I waved them over to the table and stood up to shake hands. Introductions were made. Coffee was ordered. The older agent was Supervisory Special Agent Jim Sampson. He chose a seat directly across from me. The younger one, Special Agent Daniel Appleton, was to my left. Both agents worked in organized crime. To my right, sat a pensive-looking Special Agent Larry Armour.
SSA Sampson said, “Nice to meet the famous L.T. McCain. That was quite the shit you went through last year. Agent Gilman still talks about the shootout in front of your apartment. He says you might have saved them all that day.”
“Special Agent Gilman is being humble. He managed to shoot four guys while bleeding from a gunshot wound. All I did was run fast and draw fire. Oh, and I managed to get shot five times in the bulletproof vest he gave me. My heart stopped. I probably wouldn’t be here now if Gilman hadn’t shot the man who shot me. I married the girl who did the CPR on me. I understand Agent Gilman is already married, which saved me the trouble of asking him, too.”
My recollection of that fateful day brought a smile to the other men’s faces, especially Larry’s, who I happened to know was close friends with Agent Gilman.
“Not to be rude, but why do two agents specializing in organized crime want to talk to me about my missing friend and a seven-year-old unsolved kidnapping case? You work that case, Agent Sampson?”
“No. I do remember a little about it, though. The money was paid. The body was discovered several days later. No one ever found the killers.”
“It’s possible the discovered body did not belong to the wife.” Saying it aloud in front of two FBI agents made the idea sound more ridiculous than it had when I was talking to Jessica.
“Agent Armour hinted at that already. He tells us your friend was h
ired to find a missing woman. We don’t know if the woman is his dead wife. For all we know, Mr. Dallas could be looking for Mansfield’s long-lost love from college. You know, the one who got away.”
“The body was missing crucial identifying features, you know, like the head and all its fingers.”
Agent Appleton said, “Where did you hear that?”
“My wife read it in one of the articles she dug up. Apparently, the Internet is useful.”
Larry said, “The Internet? My God, what is the world coming to?”
Appleton said, “It doesn’t matter. The husband identified the body.”
“The husband might be the chief suspect. That makes his identification seem, well...suspect.”
“The FBI ran its own tests.”
“Hair analysis? Give me a break. The FBI has been pushing that crap as real science for far too long.”
“The FBI has been using hair analysis successfully for years.”
“Because no one had the temerity to challenge the FBI’s bullshit science. Now that DNA is being used, you guys are getting cases based on hair analysis overturned all the time. And it’s about time someone reigned that in. Your scientists should be ashamed of themselves for passing that subjective crap off as objective fact.”
“What makes you think you’re the expert?”
SSA Sampson looked at his younger agent. “Enough. I think arguing with a doctor about hair analysis and DNA testing might be a losing venture. He seems to know his stuff. Plus, that’s not why we’re here.”
“Yes, back to my original question. Why your interest in little ole me?”
Sampson said, “We hear you had an interesting visit with some agents in Memphis.”
It was making sense. Two agents from organized crime want to talk to me. They were probably hoping they could ask the same questions Agents Barker and Conley asked me in the hopes of getting a different answer now that I needed help from the FBI.
“Visit, yes. Interesting, no.”
“Having the FBI question you about your ties to organized crime and 1.27 million dollars didn’t interest you?” Sampson said wryly.
“Not in the least.”
“I find your lack of concern fascinating.”
“I gave it about 20 minutes of thought, then moved on. Sorry to disappoint you.”
“If I was to ask you again, would you still stand by your assertion that you do not have any associations with organized crime.”
“You want the known associations or unknown associations?”
Sampson smiled. He must have talked to the agents in Memphis or read the transcripts. “Known, please.”
“Define associations.”
Sampson looked at me as if he didn’t understand my statement.
“If association implies a personal relationship or a mutually beneficial relationship, then no. If association means encounters, then yes.”
“You’re telling us you’ve had encounters with organized crime.”
“You haven’t researched me? Two years ago. The Dixie Mafia. A big shoot out. Dead guys everywhere. Definitely not mutually beneficial.”
“The Dixie Mafia?”
“Oh, please tell me you don’t think La Casa Nostra and ethnic minorities are the only ones capable of organized crime. Is it written somewhere rednecks are too stupid to be organized?”
“That’s not what we’re saying.”
“No, you’re saying a bunch of white guys with Southern accents isn’t sexy enough for the FBI.”
“We investigate organized crime for the FBI; we might know a little bit about it.”
“One would hope. Why don’t you get to the point and tell me why everyone seems so interested in who you think I know in Chicago?”
Appleton said, “Straight to it, huh, Dr. McCain?”
“Direct and honest is the best way, Agent Appleton.”
Sampson said, “You told the agents in Memphis the only person you knew in Chicago is your former step-father, Scott Beyers.”
“He’s my mother’s former husband, not my former step-father.”
Appleton said, “Kind of the same thing.”
“Scott Oswald Beyers is his full name. I call him SOB for short. Does that sound like it’s the same thing to me?”
“So, you’re not close?”
“Bingo,” I said mockingly. “You guys still aren’t telling me anything.”
Appleton said, “No, we are here to ask questions, not tell you stuff.”
I motioned for the waitress to bring me my check. “No offense, but I’ve played this game before. I came here to see if Larry could open up the Baxter kidnapping case since it seems to relate to my friend’s disappearance. Now, you’re wasting my time.”
Sampson said, “Simmer down, Dr. McCain.”
“Don’t tell me to simmer down. I’m not angry. You’d know if I was angry. My wife says my anger is palpable.”
“Sorry, poor choice of words. Fine, how would you feel if you found out your name keeps coming up within certain circles of organized crime centered out of Chicago.”
“I’d wonder what you mean by coming up.”
Appleton said, “It seems like there are people in the Outfit who don’t like you very much.”
“That’s a crying shame. I thought everyone likes me.”
“There has been talk of retaliation against you for your actions last year.”
I looked at him as if I had no idea what he was talking about.
“Tony Genovese and Tony Mancini?”
“Doesn’t ring a bell.”
“You were involved in an altercation with them on November 11, 1993. You knocked Genovese’s eyeball out and broke Mancini’s jaw.”
So the FBI knew about the incident. That did not mean I was dumb enough to admit to anything voluntarily. “Says who?”
Sampson said, “That’s not important.”
“It’s important to me. I’d like to know who’s spreading rumors about me.”
“Are you saying you don’t remember the incident?”
“I’m trying to figure out why I’m hearing about this alleged incident eight months later. Surely, someone would have reported the altercation to the police. Someone would have questioned me earlier than today.”
“The men told the police they were unable to describe their multiple attackers.”
“There you go, multiple attackers. There’s only one of me.”
“We know the report they gave to the police differs from the factual encounter.”
“Let me get this straight. Someone wants to retaliate against me for an alleged incident involving two mobsters who got their butts kicked by some guys they can’t describe to the police. Yet, that somehow implicates me. Did anyone happen to mention a guy who managed to get his nose broken the next day?”
Appleton said, “Now that you mention it.”
“I take credit for that one. SOB brought two guys with him to a lunch meeting. One of them put his hands on me. I answered in kind. Maybe the FBI is getting their stories mixed up.”
Appleton said, “Your step-father brought two guys to lunch to...what...rough you up?”
“Once again, Johnny Appleseed, he’s not my step-father.”
“It’s Special Agent Appleton to you.”
“You say tomato; I say Johnny Appleseed.”
A red-faced Appleton turned to Sampson looking for help.
Sampson shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t think Dr. McCain appreciates references to Mr. Beyers as his step-father.”
“Thank you, Agent Sampson.” I turned to Appleton. “To answer your question, yes, it appeared he brought two men to rough me up, or at least, to intimidate me.”
“Why would he do that?” Appleton asked.
“Why don’t you ask him?”
“Why does it seem you’re always answering questions with a question?”
I leaned back in my chair in an exaggerated display of exasperation. “Do you think maybe it seems like I’m alwa
ys asking questions because, in fact, I am always asking questions? Have you considered the idea that you guys are taking too long to get to the point of this meeting? That maybe I’m trying to see your angle in this? Determine your intentions? Determine what it is you want from me? What the hell do you want from me in return for your help finding my friend? That’s all I want to know right now. I’ve played your little game long enough. Are you helping me or aren’t you?”
Appleton said, “Normally, people cooperate with federal officers when they ask questions.”
“I think you mean normal people cooperate with federal officers, not normally, people cooperate.”
“Okay, McCain. Maybe you’re right, but isn’t that an argument of semantics.”
“Not from where I sit. Think about it; you’ll see the difference.”
Sampson interrupted my interaction with Agent Appleton. “Alright, McCain, you win. You’ve established the point that you are not normal. We can’t mention any names until we find out if you are willing to help, but we’d like you to help us go after a high-ranking member of the Outfit.”
“Are you kidding me?” I stared hard at SSA Sampson, then at Larry. Larry looked back sheepishly. He hadn’t wanted to bring these men to me. He had been ordered to. “You’re not kidding me. You want me to help you with a mob boss. I’m politely declining your request.”
“I didn’t say a mob boss. I said a high-ranking member. And you haven’t heard everything, yet.”
“I’ve heard enough. I know how this works. I know one guy in Chicago — Scott Oswald Beyers, who may or may not be involved with organized crime. You were hoping SOB and I were close, but we’re not. I might cross the street to piss on him if he were on fire, but I wouldn’t take the time to find water. This means I’ve got nothing to give you. I have no information, nor will I ever have any information. The only thing I can do is irritate the mob enough that...” I stopped mid-sentence. Thought hard. “That’s it. You want me to offer myself up as bait.”
Sampson didn’t answer, but his face told me I was right.
Deadly Promise Page 15
