Deadly Promise

by Brian Crawford

  “Mansfield, how did the kidnapping go down? All I know is what we found on the Internet.”

  “Why do you need to know that to find your friend? I’d rather not relive that if you don’t mind.”

  “Because you hired my friend to look for a woman whom you told everyone seven years ago was dead. I’m not saying I don’t believe you; I’m only trying to understand how you came to that conclusion. Start where you left off, the best three months of my life.”

  Mansfield looked as if he might refuse to cooperate for a couple of seconds, then changed his mind and began. “On a beautiful Sunday in April of ‘87, my wife woke me for some early morning, well, you know. Afterward, I left to play golf. When I came home, there was a stenciled note on the kitchen table with a very simple, very straightforward message: $3,000,000. 5 DAYS.”

  “Nothing else? No instructions?”

  “Lying next to the note was my wife’s wedding ring...still sitting on her severed ring finger.”

  “Shit,” I said.

  “I said much worse, but yeah.”

  “You called the police?”

  “Of course. The kidnappers didn’t say I couldn’t. The police brought in the FBI. They set up all kinds of equipment in my house to trace the call for the inevitable ransom instructions. That call never came.”

  “Wait a minute; we read that you paid the ransom.”

  “The instructions came, but not in the form of a call. The instructions arrived by courier Monday afternoon on a cassette tape. The kidnappers made Shelley dictate her own ransom demands. You could hear the fear in her voice. She started by reading that day’s newspaper headline. Something about Gary Hart running for president in ‘88. You know, before he was caught with Donna Rice. The instructions were as simple as the note. Three million dollars in hundred dollar bills in a large, black shoulder bag. No mention of non-sequential bills. No drop instructions. I could tell the FBI was perplexed.”

  “They had nothing to work with,” I said.

  “Exactly. Inevitably, the FBI looked at me as a suspect. It only made sense. They found out about the arrest three months earlier and did what cops do. They threw out accusations. Raising the money and agreeing to pay the ransom shut up a few of the accusing agents. The ransom drop itself shut up the rest.”

  “What was so special about the drop?”

  “Truthfully, I don’t think they thought I was intelligent enough to pull it off.”

  Something about the tone of his voice told me Mansfield was offended by anyone thinking he wasn’t smart enough, even if the idea he wasn’t smart enough worked in his favor.

  “Friday morning, the kidnappers called for the first time. Once again, they used my wife to deliver the first set of instructions. One FBI agent was to take the money to the southern aspect of Dupont Circle and wait for instructions. Any deviation from the instructions and the wife dies.” Mansfield paused and looked at me unblinkingly. “Everyone in the room could hear the fear in Shelley’s voice. No one doubted the sincerity of the threat against her.”

  I couldn’t tell if he was trying to convince me or convince himself. He appeared to be retelling the story as if he believed his wife to be dead, as if telling the story was causing him to relive the events of that day in his mind, all the way down to the emotions he felt at that time. He sounded nothing like a man who hired a private investigator to find a woman he believed ripped him off for three million dollars.

  “From there, it was like you see in the movies. The kidnappers called a payphone, which directed the agent to a park bench in Dupont Circle with instructions taped to the bottom of the bench. The agent was directed to several more locations. Sometimes he got the instructions by phone, sometimes the instructions were already in place and stenciled like the original note. At the end of every set of instructions, he was told, “Do not deviate from the plan” either verbally or in writing. After six different locations, the agent was directed to take a cab to the Iwo Jima Memorial. Taped to the bottom of another park bench was a picture of Shelly holding that day’s Washington Post, along with a claim ticket to a dry cleaner out in Falls Church. That’s in Virginia. And even though they were getting the money, I guess the kidnappers felt the need to make sure the FBI agent was committed to his cause and knew the severity of any failure to comply, because the manila envelope also contained Shelley’s left big toe. Bastards.”

  “Except, now you think Shelley is alive.”

  Mansfield’s look told me he was irritated with my interruption. “Well, it was someone’s big toe. Anyway, he gave the dry cleaner the ticket and received a large black duffel bag. The receipt listed an address to another location, where the agent received a final call directing him to put the money in the black duffle bag before proceeding to a local flight school. He was to introduce himself as George Mansfield. Three weeks earlier, someone claiming to be my brother had paid for a 60-minute introductory flight for my birthday.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Yeah, they didn’t want to say it, but I could tell the FBI was extremely impressed with how well the kidnappers thought everything out in advance. Maybe you can guess what happened.”

  “Someone radioed the plane and ordered the agent to drop the money.”

  “Right. The pilot was following a specific flight route he was told had sentimental value. The radio contact surprised both the pilot and the agent, but the agent had no choice, so he did as ordered. Days later, Shelley’s body was found in a sleazy hotel in Annapolis. There was a note. It said, ‘I told you not to deviate.’“

  Mansfield slumped back into his chair as if he were exhausted.

  “Was there ever any deviation in the plan?”

  “Not that I’m aware of unless the FBI did something stupid like put a tracker on the money or something.”

  “All this time, the FBI has never had any leads?”

  “No. Their guess was the kidnappers were former military, but that’s as far as they got.”

  “Why former military?”

  “First, the planning, the attention to detail. Then, the bag the kidnappers had the agent transfer the money into. The FBI agent said it looked like an equipment bag you might expect the military to use. Maybe special forces. Finally, the last set of instructions was handwritten. One of the agents said the writing reminded him of what you might expect in military logbooks. A kind of standardized style the military uses.”

  “I know the style. We were taught that in boot camp.”

  Mansfield leaned forward in his chair and glared at me. “You’re an ass for making me relive that.”

  “Maybe, but I’m not finished. My wife read the articles, which means I know about the state of the discovered body. The one problem in all this is that you identified the body. Surely, you wouldn’t have made a mistake about something like that.”

  “Yeah, you wouldn’t think so, but here we are. I’ve hired a private investigator because a friend swore they saw Shelley in Chicago. The hair was brown instead of red, but otherwise, my friend was sure it was her.”

  “They say everyone has a twin somewhere. Maybe you want to believe she isn’t gone.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong. After seven years, if Shelley Baxter ripped me off like I think she did, then I would prefer to think she is gone. Otherwise, I’m right and my whole marriage was a set up from the beginning. The ultimate long con game. When you’re as successful as I am, when your whole life you’ve been the best at everything you’ve ever done, valedictorian in high school, top of your class in college, partner in a prestigious law firm by 35, then getting bested by a 26-year-old junior lawyer is damaging to the ego. Even if she was a beautiful nymphomaniac.”

  Mansfield was a mess. One minute, he seemed to be mourning the loss of someone he truly cared for; the next minute, he appeared angry and hurt, like a man who wanted retribution. I couldn’t tell if he missed her, if he wished to verify she was dead, if he hoped to find her alive so he could try to get her back, or if he wished
to find her so he could exact revenge.

  “You think I’m crazy, don’t you? I can see it on your face.”

  “Crazy? No. I do understand your desire for secrecy, though.”

  “What now, McCain?”

  “Here it is, Mansfield. My one-time offer. And it’s a good offer. I will help you.”

  “I neither want nor need your help.”

  “I don’t care about your wants or needs in this matter. I don’t like you, Mansfield. But you’re stuck with me because helping you will help me get closer to what I want, which is to find Boyd. I’m not expecting anything in return, such as remuneration. All I want is cooperation. It’s a win-win for both of us. Unless I find out Boyd was telling the truth, and you did send men after him. If that’s the case, you will need to hide. Sell your house, liquidate your assets, change your name, and run. Don’t look back. Not even once. Because I will end you. You will never be the best at anything ever again. Your intelligence won’t save you. The only sign you ever lived on this earth will be a two-by-two spot in the ground where the flowers grow especially well. That’s a promise.”

  ***

  I wasn’t sure if re-doubling my threat against Mansfield was the best idea since Mansfield was talking. It’s hard to say with an interrogation. Some argue you only change your technique if your current approach isn’t working. Others like to keep the target completely unsettled. It’s a judgment call and not one with which I had a lot of experience. The nuances of interrogation were mostly foreign to me. Interrogation doesn’t suit my personality. Like waiting on a stakeout, I lacked the patience to do it well, preferring to threaten my target and make him believe my threat was a real possibility. Which it probably was because if things had progressed to the point I needed to make threats, then I likely meant the threats. Maybe that was why Mansfield didn’t object to helping me after I threatened him; he was smart enough to realize I meant what I said. That I was committed to my cause.

  That, or he’s playing me like a fiddle.

  Mansfield provided me rudimentary information about Shelley Baxter’s brother. It seemed Evan Baxter lived in Oklahoma City until shortly after Shelley’s death. After that, he moved to Dubuque, Iowa, and opened a bar. Mansfield also told me Boyd had already met with the brother but had not found him to be particularly helpful.

  After leaving Mansfield, I returned the Grand Marquis to the rental agency and grabbed a taxi back to the hotel to discover Agent Farrance waiting for me in the lobby, looking quite angry. I crossed the lobby to the agent, pulled his badge out of my pocket, and flipped it in the air to him. “Agent Farrance, you dropped this in my cab earlier.”

  He caught it, glancing at it to make sure everything was intact. “You stole that.”

  “Prove it.”

  “You’re not even denying it.”

  “Why bother. You’ll believe whatever you want to believe. Instead, you should focus on the positive.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You got it back, dumb ass.”

  “You’re playing with fire, McCain.”

  “Fire? Hardly. I don’t even see any smoke.”

  “You should cooperate.”

  “I don’t think so, Agent Fair Ass,” I said purposefully mispronouncing his name. “You work for an agency with a tainted moral compass.”

  “We are the FBI. There’s nothing tainted about us.”

  “Fidelity. Bravery. Integrity. The essence of the FBI. What a joke. Your boss asked me to offer myself up as bait to a crime boss. When I refused, he threatened to open up previously closed investigations and hinted at using my mother as leverage. If you were unaware of the threats against my mother than I apologize for my animosity. If you were aware of the threats, then go screw yourself. Maybe you can form a friggin’ circle jerk with Sampson and Agent Appleseed.”

  Something about Farrance’s face told me he was following orders and didn’t know about the threats. Either way, he backed off and let me pass with only a mumble about seeing me soon.

  Back in my hotel room, I called Jessica and told her about my trouble with the FBI and began to tell her about my visit with Mansfield.

  “Congratulations, by the way, Jessica, you were right about the wife.”

  “I told you so.”

  “Yes, you told me so. Maybe you should have been the one talking to Mansfield. You might have this thing solved by now.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to make it sound like I was rubbing your face in it, but I friggin’ told you so.” Her laugh was so sincere I couldn’t get angry with her. “What else did you find out?”

  I finished telling her the rest of Mansfield’s story and the threat I made at the end.

  “It sounds like you believe Mansfield,” Jessica said.

  “Honestly, I don’t know what to believe other than at one time he was quite fond of Shelley Baxter.”

  “You mean the human lie detector couldn’t read him?”

  “I’m off my game, Jessica. I couldn’t read him.”

  “Now, I truly am starting to worry about you. Tell me what you do know, then.”

  I huffed, unable to hide my frustration. “I know Mansfield’s fear of me was real. His feelings for his wife were real. His feelings of betrayal and anger and hurt were real.”

  “Meaning you could read him.”

  “Something seemed disingenuous. I know it. I can’t be sure, but he seemed to craft his answers in a way that avoided having to lie.”

  “Well, he is a lawyer. They love that whole thing about neither confirming nor denying anything. They probably teach that in law school.”

  “They teach that crap in spy school, too. Regardless, Mansfield is smart. Careful. Crafty. I never had him on his toes.”

  Jessica had no good response to my dilemma. No good advice. She ended the call with a promise to have me on a flight out of Washington, D.C. the next morning. It was the best she could do at the moment.

  CHAPTER 15

  You are a genius. One of those rarities of nature whose IQ is at least three standard deviations above the normal, meaning less than three people out of a thousand can expect to score as high as you on an IQ examination. Your mother was even smarter. Yet, for all her intelligence, her accomplishments were limited. You attribute that to her inability to follow her own advice. If truly intelligent people can solve problems that baffle the ordinary, if they can overcome obstacles because they are not bound by the same limitations as lesser men, if they know how to harness every available item and manipulate every useful person, then why was her life so mundane?

  That question has haunted you for years. Why was your mother so content when she should have wanted more? Why? And why do you not know the answer? Or do you know the answer and realize you don’t want to believe it is true? That is the most likely truth.

  You force yourself to focus on the present instead of contemplating the past, while also realizing she wouldn’t know how to help you with your current problem — what to do about L.T. McCain.

  You were warned about L.T. McCain’s resourcefulness. You did not believe the reports. Really, how good could McCain be? He was only in Naval Intelligence for three years, leaving the Navy more than ten years ago. And it was Naval Intelligence. What an oxymoron. Like honest politician, or temporary tax increase, or congressional ethics. Or your favorite — marital bliss. McCain’s presence in Wisconsin, followed by his presence in D.C., proves you underestimated him.

  The question is not how McCain does what he does. Like Boyd, McCain seems to have a valuable skill set. Similar to a bird dog sniffing out game. Simple but undeniably effective. No, the question is what to do about McCain. Do you let him continue down his path of discovery hoping he fails? That puts too much reliance on chance. Intelligent people do not rely on chance. Do you send men after McCain like you did Boyd? That did not work with Boyd, and if everything Boyd has said about McCain is true, if he is as dangerous and resourceful as you have been told, then it is highly unlikely you know anyone
that can help you. At least, not anyone you could trust.

  At one time, you thought about making McCain an asset like you have Boyd. Now that you have seen him, you know McCain is too much his own man. In your life, you have encountered only a small handful of people like McCain, people that, for an unknown reason, are immune to your charm, and you have learned to steer clear of them, to not waste your time on them. Avoiding McCain might not be so easy. He wants answers. He will not stop until he finds them. The situation creates a dilemma requiring more thought, more planning. Another wrinkle.

  In the meantime, Boyd needs attention. Your hold on him is tenuous, and you know it. It doesn’t matter. You only need him for a little longer. Then, when his task is finished, when he is basking in his accomplishments, you will eliminate him yourself. And all will be well again.

  CHAPTER 16

  Special Agent Farrance wasn’t waiting for me in the lobby the next morning. He had been replaced with what I referred to internally as fresh meat. The young special agent eyed me eying him, neither of us pretending not to notice the other. I waved and smiled. Gave him a big thumbs up. He stared ahead as if he were looking past me. I walked over and asked him if the FBI would give me a ride to the airport since we were both heading in the same direction. It would make his job easier. No response.

  The young agent followed my cab to the airport, where he continued to follow me until I boarded my connecting flight to Atlanta. The layover in Atlanta was long and boring, and I didn’t arrive in Memphis until shortly after five in the afternoon. A whole day lost on traveling. Jessica had already warned me she wouldn’t be able to pick me up due to a meeting with an electrical contractor, so I exited the airport, flagged down a cab, gave the driver my old address, corrected myself, and settled in for the ride home. As expected, there was no sign of the FBI in Atlanta or Memphis. My guess about Sampson being unable to get funding for his little venture seemed to be accurate.