Farrance stepped out of the cab, then leaned back inside. “Welcome to your new life, McCain.”
I smiled and pulled the door shut. Welcome to failure, Special Agent Farrance, I thought to myself.
The driver was still turned in his seat staring at me. “Maybe I should ask you to leave my cab as well.”
“It’s your prerogative. I can get another cab if you like. If you will drive me, I would like to change my destination to the Bethesda Naval Hospital.”
A loud honk from behind prompted the Sikh to look forward and start driving. He stared back at me several times in the rearview mirror before speaking again. “You know of the Five Ks?”
“I don’t remember all the actual names, but I remember the five physical symbols of your faith — the uncut hair, the steel bracelet, the wooden comb, the kacchera, and the kirpan.”
“The other three are the kesh, the kara, and the kanga. Ever since those guys tried to blow up the World Trade Center last year with a truck bomb, it seems everyone sees this turban and thinks I am a Muslim. It is nice to meet someone who understands the difference. If I may ask, why is the FBI harassing you?”
I was not sure why I decided to share my story with the driver; maybe it was my knowledge of the warrior spirit and quest for justice shared by members of the Sikh faith. I found myself briefly describing my meeting with the FBI earlier that morning.
“Bringing your mother into the situation is wrong.” He turned around and offered me his hand. “I am Sundeep. I will take you to the Naval Hospital.” I shook hands with Sundeep thanking him for his help. The light turned green, and he started driving again. “I hope you have another plan to lose your FBI friends because they are following us.”
The FBI would not give up simply because I kicked Special Agent Farrance out of the cab. It was why I changed destinations. The National Naval Medical Center in Bethesda was one of the largest military medical facilities in the United States, with a history of serving numerous presidents and vice-presidents over the years. I had never been there before, but being a military installation, I figured it had security gates. I was using the idea Boyd almost used at Fort Leonard Wood, hoping the gates could create separation between me and my unwanted FBI tail.
Several minutes later, after nine miles in stop-and-go traffic, we pulled up to the main gate of the Bethesda Naval Hospital. “I cannot go through the gate unless one of us has the proper identification,” Sundeep said.
I reached into my wallet and grabbed my VA Health Identification Card. “I got this.”
The guard readily accepted my story about being referred to a specialist by the VA and ushered us through with incident. Sundeep dropped me off in front of the iconic Bethesda Naval Hospital Tower. The 20-story tower was designed from sketches by Franklin D. Roosevelt, and although it was an impressive part of the Bethesda skyline, it turned out to be a clinical nightmare. It didn’t take long for the doctors and staff to experience the bottleneck created by the shortage of elevators. One of the main reasons even the largest hospitals are limited to seven or eight stories.
“You’re plan seems to be working. The FBI is stuck at the gate.”
“It won’t hold them long,” I said. “Sundeep, thank you.” I pulled a fifty from my pocket and handed it to him. “Keep the change.”
“It is too much.”
“You might change your mind about that if they stop you.”
“In that case, it is not enough,” he said with a teasing tone and a smile.
I walked into the front of the Bethesda Naval Hospital as the FBI was pulling through the gate. Good luck trying to find me now. The sights, the sounds, the smells; I’m at home in a hospital. I couldn’t be sure if the FBI followed me inside since I never saw them. Twenty-five minutes later, I walked out a different gate, climbed into a taxi, and was on my way to the Bethesda Country Club.
Legend McCain — one. FBI — zero.
CHAPTER 14
The taxi dropped me off at the front of the Bethesda Country Club just outside the Capital Beltway nearly twenty minutes later. Mansfield’s home was located barely inside the Beltway north of Bradley Boulevard. Not a wealthy neighborhood, a rich neighborhood. One of the richest in the United States. Mansfield’s home was not one of the biggest, but it was still a multi-million dollar home. The Williamsburg brick colonial looked to be every bit of 7,000 square feet. Large corner lot. Well landscaped. Mature trees. An ornate metal security fence on a stone knee-wall with an electric security gate across the driveway. Losing three million in ransom money had not bankrupted him.
The first step in my plan was to ensure he didn’t have any live-in guests, such as a girlfriend not listed on the deed. That was easy — I rang the buzzer on the fence and waited. Nothing. It was a good start. Then, I looked for the best way to approach the house. I didn’t want to jump the wrought iron fence. The privacy fence along the back of the lot was an option, but it would have been easy for a neighbor to spot me.
I decided the best bet was the direct, dishonest approach. I reached into a pocket and ran my fingers over Special Agent Farrance’s FBI badge, the one I lifted from him while I was pushing him out of the cab earlier. Taking his badge was the biggest reason I had Sundeep switch my destination to the Naval Hospital. I knew not having the badge would slow him down at the gate. Now, it appeared it was coming in handy again.
The only problem was I had no idea when to expect Mansfield. Lawyers are known for their long hours. I assumed D.C. lawyers were no exception, even if they were one of the names on the firm. I couldn’t stand around for hours in a neighborhood like that without someone calling the police to check out the large, strange man milling around. I needed a car. No way around it.
I walked back to the Bethesda Country Club, called a cab, and an hour and a half later, I was driving a brand new Mercury Grand Marquis, Mercury’s version of the Ford Crown Victoria, the most popular police model vehicle in the United States. Next, came the part I hated — waiting. Boyd had told me he had briefly considered being a sniper when he was in the Marines. From what I had seen, he had the patience for it. Not me. My special gift was speed, both physical and mental. Patience wasn’t something that contributed much to my skill set.
After six hours and two trips to the nearest gas station bathroom, my waiting finally paid off as Mansfield drove past me and pulled into his driveway. Something about the way he parked told me he was leaving soon. Maybe changing clothes and heading out again to do whatever rich D.C. fat cats do.
I pulled the Grand Marquis up to the security gate intercom and pushed the button. Fifteen seconds later, Mansfield answered.
“Mr. Mansfield,” I said, trying to alter my voice slightly, “this is the FBI. I have a couple of quick questions for you concerning a visit you received yesterday from Dr. L.T. McCain.”
Mansfield sounded annoyed, although he opened the gate after informing me twice he was in a hurry. I parked behind Mansfield’s beautiful Mercedes-Benz S500, walked to the front door, and rang the bell, making sure to hold Special Agent Farrance’s stolen badge up to the hole in case he happened to check my identity visually.
The light of the peephole temporarily darkened. It was a good thing I used the badge. Mansfield turned the deadbolt on the heavy security door, the kind of door I wouldn’t have been able to kick open with a week of kicks. The door swung open to reveal Mansfield dressed in athletic attire holding a tennis racket. His look of mild annoyance was quickly replaced with a look of rage as he recognized me.
He attempted to close the door but was too late. I was inside and standing in his foyer before he even had a chance to protest. “Get out. Get out of my house. Now!”
“Shut up, Mansfield. You’re not calling the shots. I am. And I will get my answers this time.”
“Or what?”
I pulled the driver’s license I lifted from one of the guys in the parking garage and threw it at Mansfield. He didn’t catch it.
“Pick it up, Mansfield.” He
bent over, retrieved the ID, and stared at it for a few seconds. “I can see by the look on your face you’re surprised the message your little friends delivered didn’t take. I guess they never informed you of their failure.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Mansfield, don’t do this. Don’t play dumb with me. I’m not in the mood, and this time I don’t have to worry about security guards. It’s you and me and some unanswered questions.”
“What are you planning on doing if I don’t cooperate? Kill me because I won’t answer some questions? You do realize you will have to kill me, because if you only rough me up, then I’ll sink you. I’ll have you brought up on so many charges you’ll spend the rest of your life trying to recover from the hell I can bring down on you.”
Damn lawyers. Even when they’re beaten, they are still trying to call the shots. Trying to salvage whatever they can out of a losing situation. Bargain. Negotiate. No doesn’t mean no to them. It only means here’s my counteroffer.
“Before you try and get all lawyer tough, I want you to take a good look at the man standing in front of you. Look hard. Think hard. Use that Ivy League brain. Let me tell you what you see. I’m Boyd Dallas’ extremely dangerous friend. A friend who would kill for Boyd Dallas. A friend who has killed for Boyd Dallas. More than once. Three times if my math is correct. One I stabbed in the heart with a knife, the second I shot with an AK-47, and the third I drowned in a river with my bare hands after he shot me with his AK-47. It’s what I do to people who threaten my friends.”
Mansfield’s tough resolve was fading quickly as he mentally weighed the threat in front of him.
“I’m not sure if this helps your decision-making, but Boyd left a message stating his client sent men after him and the woman he was hired to locate. Even though he never mentioned you by name, I was able to figure it out on my own. You are that client, which means you are Boyd’s enemy. That makes you my enemy. You still want to play tough guy with me, or do you want to cooperate?” Jessica once told me I could glare so intently that the devil would think twice about messing with me. That was the glare I directed toward Mansfield the entire time I was talking with him.
“Fine, let’s not get carried away,” Mansfield said. “I know Mr. Dallas. I hired him to find somebody. But I didn’t send anyone after him. I promise.”
“Pardon me, but you’re a lawyer who lives in Washington, D.C., the land of liars. People here are so good at it that other people vote for them based on their lies. You need to convince me you’re not lying. Otherwise, I’m sticking with Boyd’s account.”
“How do I convince you of a negative?”
“Don’t get lawyerly with me. I’ll tell you what; I’ll go first. I’ll tell you what I know so far.” I started at the beginning. From Boyd’s mention of a big case to his failure to call me back as promised. The trip to Wisconsin. The bullet-ridden car. The phone call to LeClair. “I’ll end my story by telling you that sending those two men after me in the parking lot yesterday was a bad idea. Dispatching them was child’s play and only served to increase my level of irritation.”
Mansfield looked considerably less defiant than a few minutes ago. “I don’t know any more than you do, McCain. The last time I talked to Mr. Dallas was last Tuesday, the same day you talked to him. He told me he thought he was close to finding the person I hired him to find.”
“There’s a good place to start. Who’d you hire Boyd to find? Did you hire him to find your dead wife?” One look at Mansfield told me Jessica had been right all along. “Well, I’ll be damn.”
“I thought Mr. Dallas didn’t tell you anything?”
“He didn’t. I used to be an officer in Naval Intelligence. I have ways of finding things out.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“Frankly, I don’t care what you believe. It’s obvious you were never in the military. When Boyd mentioned his current case, he told me nothing about it because I didn’t have a need to know. Need to know is a big concept in intelligence.”
“And now you feel the need to meddle in my business.”
“Circumstances changed. My friend is missing. Now I have a need to know.” I glared intensely as I spoke, hoping we could move the conversation forward. “So, why look for a dead wife, Mr. Mansfield?”
He let out a big sigh. A good sign that he was resigning himself to defeat. “Would you mind if we sit down?”
“No problem. In the living room, not the kitchen.” Mansfield looked at me strangely. “I want to sit where I have no problem seeing your hands.”
“Oh, sure. Follow me.”
The living room reeked of opulence. Leather furniture. Expensive wooden flooring polished to a sheen I could almost see myself in. Dark wood molding. Expensive end tables. An ornate bookcase with leather-bound books. I wondered if he actually read any of them or he only bought them for the look. Some modern art, not my taste. Mansfield plopped down into one of the leather chairs while I sat across from him on a very comfortable white leather sofa.
“You will understand why I wanted to keep this a secret once I say it out loud.” I motioned for him to continue. “I’m convinced my wife is still alive. That she faked her own kidnapping and death to rip me off for three million dollars.” Mansfield stared hard at me to gauge my response, looking worried and relieved at the same time. “Nothing?” he asked. “No comment?”
“No. I figured you thought she was still alive, or you wouldn’t have hired Boyd. Maybe you better start at the beginning, Mr. Mansfield.”
Mansfield took in a deep breath, settled back in his chair, and began his story. Shelley Baxter, Mansfield’s wife, was born into an average middle-class family in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma. The daughter of a plumber and a university librarian. Both deceased. She had one sibling, a brother living somewhere in Iowa. She was a child prodigy who graduated high school at 16 before finishing her degree in electrical engineering and her law degree from the University of Texas at Austin by the time she was 21. She started working at Dornbracht, Mansfield, and Villeroy as a patent attorney the same year.
“She was amazing at her job. Patent lawyers not only help draft up the patent and run it through the process, but they also help to make sure the inventor hasn’t re-invented the wheel, that they haven’t infringed upon someone else’s patent claims. With the required technical degree or experience, it’s not a job every lawyer can do. I had been reluctant to hire someone so young, but I saw something in her. A rarefied genius. Unlimited potential. So much like me at that age.”
“Yes, she was young.”
“I can tell by your tone that you’re wondering how a guy my age got involved with an employee 21 years younger.”
“I’ve been told she was pretty.”
“Pretty is such a mundane word. Shelley could have walked onto a Hollywood red carpet, and everyone would have thought she belonged there. Beautiful red hair, perfect creamy skin, slender yet curvy where it mattered, green eyes, the most unusual smile. No, a smirk, not a smile. Maybe a little crooked. Hell, it totally worked for her.” Mansfield looked relaxed. Maybe talking about his wife, sharing the memories, was cathartic.
“Brains and beauty. Who couldn’t resist?”
“No, it wasn’t like that. A guy like you wouldn’t understand.”
“Guy like me?”
“Don’t play dumb with me. Girls look at a guy built like you and wonder what you’d be like in bed. I was captain of the chess club, not captain of the football team. Guys like us don’t get even with guys like you until we get older and established, then our success, our money, our power becomes the aphrodisiac for women wanting security. Our brains, our intellect, wins in the end. It gives guys like us the true staying power since physical ability only lasts so long.”
I knew he was trying to rub his success and money in my face. I didn’t care as long as it kept him talking.
“Are you saying she pursued you?”
“Yes, but it was still a s
urprise. Shelley was only twenty-three, not thirty-three. Not exactly the age women start thinking about security. She invited me to dinner to ask for advice on something. I don’t even remember what the topic was now. We ended up at my place. The girl practically attacked me.” He was smiling as he mentally recounted his story. “Look at me, trying to take you down memory lane when all you want to know is what happened to your friend.”
“I did ask you to start at the beginning, sir.” The ‘sir’ seemed like a good touch to his ego.
“I guess you did. I proposed within a couple of months, and Shelley insisted on a short engagement. Everything was good. She seemed happy. I know I was.”
“If all was well in paradise, then why the domestic abuse charge a few months before her kidnapping?” His eyes widened in surprise. “I, too, have a beautiful, intelligent wife. She did her homework looking into you. She’s the one who told me where you live. And, Boyd was the co-best man at our wedding, so she’s pretty fond of him as well. In fact, you should be more scared of her than me. I’m here to do the heavy lifting.”
“Congratulations on your wife.” He sounded sincere. “To answer your question, we fought after she told me she was seeing someone else since I was unable to keep up with all her physical desires.”
“Okay, I could see how that could escalate into a fight. But you patched it up?”
“We did. Shelley told me she had made it all up because she was feeling insecure about our relationship and wanted to test me. To see if I was devoted. She felt horrible and guilty afterward. So much so that she asked to work fewer hours at the firm so she could concentrate more on our marriage. I’m the boss, so I let her work fewer hours. The next three months were the best three months of my life. Right up until the kidnapping.” There it was. A quiver in his voice. True, real emotion. The man in front of me was hurting, even after seven years.
Deadly Promise Page 17
