“Jessica, this is a cul-de-sac. I want you turned around, ready to head out before I try to bait them into following me. That should give you an easier time getting away.”
“Don’t make it too easy on me. Girls just wanna have fun, you know.”
Jessica turned around at the end of the cul-de-sac and stopped as directed in front of an apartment building. The building itself was random, the whole thing a ploy for the FBI’s benefit. I exited the vehicle, looked back at Jessica motioning for her to wait there before walking up to the nearest apartment building pretending to ring the bell of one of the ground floor apartments.
The Crown Vic was parked at the entrance of the cul-de-sac facing us. I pretended to look irritated that one was home inside the apartment before shrugging my shoulders as if to say what now. That was our signal. Jessica smiled at me and mouthed good luck. I smiled back.
Now or never.
Without warning, I sprinted away from the apartment building toward the center of the apartment complex, hoping it would draw the FBI agents further into the cul-de-sac. I heard the subdued roar of an American V8 and knew the first part of my plan was working.
I had picked this particular apartment complex because I was familiar with it. A doctor friend of mine used to live there. Up ahead on my right was a swimming pool. Further to my right, past the swimming pool, was a tennis court.
As I made it to the swimming pool, I heard the Crown Vic hard brake to a stop and glanced over my shoulder to see one of the agents jumping out of the car to chase me on foot. Jessica took that as her cue; I could hear her 300-plus horsepower motor accelerate, tires squealing hard as she exited the cul-de-sac. The Crown Vic roared after her. Or maybe he was trying to get in front of me to cut me off. He was bound to be disappointed either way.
I ran alongside the swimming pool, startling the only two people using the pool on a Friday morning. A couple of seconds later, I could hear the FBI agent’s footsteps on the concrete patio. He was faster than expected, but he hadn’t seen me at full speed either. I hurdled a piece of patio furniture and a small shrub before running 20 yards to the tennis courts. Ran through the open gate, closed it behind me, and noticed the agent was 15 yards back.
I ran to the other side of the tennis court and got my first surprise — only one way in, meaning only one way out. I could have sworn there were two gates, one on either end. Crap.
The FBI agent opened the gate, smiling as he realized my dilemma. I swore I heard him say gotcha.
Yeah, that’s what you think, I thought to myself. Watch this.
I ran at the twelve-foot-high chain link fence jumping up at the last moment with my right leg extended, using it to catapult me high enough to grasp the top bar of the fence. I hoisted myself over the top, catching my shirt on the chain-link as I went over. Ripping the shirt in the process but otherwise landing on the ground safely. I glanced forward looking for the FBI’s Crown Vic, saw nothing, and started a hard, fast sprint across a small child-sized baseball field. One hundred yards later, I was sitting safely inside LeClair’s Cadillac.
LeClair was laughing hysterically as he sped away from the area. “Doc, you should’ve seen that poor white boy tryin’ to scale the fence behind you. By the way, I thought you were gonna run out the other gate, then lock it behind you with the cable tie stickin’ out of your pocket.”
“The damn tennis court only had one way in.”
For some reason, that set LeClair’s laughter off again. “Who says white men can’t jump. I sure as shit saw you just do it. And you’re not exactly a spring chicken anymore.”
“Not you, too. Jessica keeps calling me old man.”
“You ain’t old. I’m old. But you are closer to 40 than you are to 30. Past your prime. Still, that was a nice bit of jumpin’. You must’ve got that from your old man, the football player.”
“No, Dad was an offensive lineman who couldn’t get a foot off the ground. I got my leaping ability from Mom, the prima ballerina. She was known for her gravity-defying ballet leaps.”
“You don’t say. Wherever you got it, take it from me, you won’t want to try that in another five years. Somethin’ about 40. You’ll see if you live long enough.”
“You say that like my reaching 40 is not a foregone conclusion.”
“The way you get into shit all the time. I’m surprised you’ve made it this far.”
I endured a couple more minutes of teasing from LeClair while he drove around, making sure we didn’t have anyone tailing us. Once we were satisfied, he drove me back to my house. I thanked LeClair for his help, got a “no problem” back from him, and entered the garage. Earlier, I had loaded our luggage into the BMW instead of the Supra, and it was packed and ready to go.
Ten minutes later, I parked in an alley behind a used car lot in East Memphis and waited. And smiled. And worried. I knew Jessica had the superior car, and it was unlikely the FBI could drive as well as her, but law enforcement does have radios. And everyone knows you can’t outrun the radio.
The owner of the car lot, George March, was a friend who let me sell my cars there on consignment. When I told him of my plan earlier, he had been happy to help. If Jessica was unable to lose her FBI tail, he was supposed to escort her inside and let her slip out the back door. A quick dash across the alley and she would find me waiting for her.
I glanced at my watch. Two minutes to go. If Jessica was late, I was to leave without her. With one minute left, Jessica walked out the back door of the building smiling, climbed into the BMW, and told me all was well.
McCain family — two. FBI — zero.
***
No mother wants her son to grow up and be a spy, but Ingrid McCain was pretty sure her son had done just that. She knew he had worked in Naval Intelligence years ago, and he couldn’t tell her what he had done for those three years. “It’s classified” was his usual response. Followed by “it’s not as interesting as it sounds.” She was pretty sure he was telling the truth with the first comment and lying about the second. It was 1994, and she only recently learned of Legend’s fight for survival in the Cambodian jungle after surviving a helicopter crash in 1982. Once again, it was classified was his excuse. He might not have ever told her if she hadn’t seen the ugly bullet scars in his thigh. She demanded an explanation, realizing she would have to be content with the redacted version he provided.
Ingrid knew something about spies. She was nine years old when the Nazis invaded Norway in 1940. Her father was a wealthy lumber supplier in Norway before the war. During the war years, he sold lumber to the Germans, appearing to understand the Nazis were in control and he was willing to collaborate if it meant saving his family and lumber business. Little did they know, but he was gleaning information to give to the Milorg, the main Norwegian resistance movement during World War II. To throw the Germans off his scent, he even ordered attacks on his own shipments.
Her latest evidence that Legend had been a spy was his plan to get her out of the house unobserved. It is so simple, yet adequately odd and implausible that only someone like a spy could have thought it up. The implausibility of the plan also gave her perfect faith in her son.
The only thing bothering her was the reason behind the need for a plan. She couldn’t understand who in their right mind would see a 62-year-old woman, a former ballerina, and former wife of the Lt. Governor of Illinois, as a threat.
But she trusted Legend. If he said she might be in danger, then it was possible she was in danger. If he said the FBI wanted to use her as a pawn in a sick game of chess, then he was probably right.
For her part, Legend had told her to go to the bank and withdraw enough cash for her to survive off the grid for at least two weeks. He also advised her to have a destination in mind. She had already done what her son had asked and was packed and ready to go. Soon, a tow truck driver would arrive. Legend had hand-picked the driver, and she had to admit he was a good choice. Lenny Parsons had been a mechanic for her husband Marcus at Borders Truckin
g years ago before quitting to open a towing service. She was pretty sure Marcus had not loaned Lenny any money to get started, but she knew he had made some calls. Set him up with the right bankers. Vouched for him. And she knew Lenny never forgot her husband’s generosity.
The front doorbell rang. Ingrid smiled, shaking her head at herself for agreeing to Legend’s plan, but also admitted it was exciting in a way.
She opened the front door to greet Lenny, realizing at that moment she had not seen him since her husband’s funeral 19 years ago. He had aged well over the years. She told him so.
“Thank you, Mrs. McCain. It’s been a long time. I wish I felt as good as you think I look, but we all know old father time sits still for no one.”
“I want to thank you for all this, Lenny.”
“No problem. L.T. told me a little bit about your situation. Now, we all know I’m crazy enough to help, but how’d you let your son talk you into such a crazy idea?”
“Oh, you know, it’s stupid enough to work.”
“You got that right. You ready?”
“I am, Lenny. As soon as I crawl into the trunk, I’ll open the garage door with the opener, and then you can haul me out of here.”
“Okay, Mrs. McCain. Are you sure you’ll be alright in there? I’m gonna pull your car onto a flatbed. That’s quite an angle. Make sure you’re braced.”
“Thanks, Lenny. I’ll be alright.”
“I’m taking you all the way to our lot before disconnecting. Is that okay?”
Ingrid nodded before pulling her wallet out of her purse only to have Lenny interrupt her before she had a chance to speak. “Mrs. McCain, you put that back right now before you offend me. McCain money is no good in my office. I’d haul you anywhere in the darn country before I’d let you give me a blasted cent.”
Ingrid put her wallet back in her car and smiled, suddenly realizing her husband had indeed loaned Lenny money to get started. Her 290-pound teddy bear of a husband and man of her dreams had been gone 19 years and was still surprising her with his generosity and kindness, his compassion and love of his fellow man. She closed the door before Lenny could see her eyes well up. Nineteen years and she still missed him. He could still make her cry.
Nearly an hour later, she felt the angle of her vehicle change as Lenny lowered it from the back of his flatbed truck. All things considered, her ride in the trunk had gone better than expected. As soon as her vehicle was back on flat ground, Lenny opened the trunk with a concerned smile on his face.
“Mrs. McCain, I’m sorry that took so long, but to be honest, that’s the slowest I think I’ve ever driven. Partially because you were up there in the trunk, and partially because I figured if I drove slow enough, then anyone following us would stand out like a sore thumb. By the way, no one stood out. I’m pretty sure if anyone was watching your house, they figured I was towing your car to the shop, especially since L.T. had you pull the ignition wire and try to start it with the garage door open so the whole world could see if they wanted.” Ingrid nodded appreciatively. “Now let me fix that ignition wire and you can be on your way. Your son sure thought of everything.”
Yes, he had. Overkill in her mind, even unnecessary, but effective.
She tried to offer Lenny money one more time before leaving. He looked offended by the offer, and she knew better than to insist, settling on giving him a hug and a sincere thank you.
It was four hours to the resort in Osage Beach, Missouri, where she planned on spending the next several days until Legend fixed things with her ex-husband, Scott. Surprisingly, she found herself not caring how Legend took care of the problem. Seventeen years of marriage to Scott Beyers, a month short of the amount of time she was married to Marcus McCain, and she felt nothing for the man. Scott Oswald Beyers had inflicted enough harm to her little family. It was time for him to go down. Whatever Legend decided to do with Scott, she could live with. She’d help her son dig the hole if need be.
CHAPTER 17
A smile spread across my face as I realized for the second time in three days, I had lost an unwanted, undeserved, and unappreciated FBI tail. Jessica picked up on the smile, using the opportunity to teasingly take back calling me an old man as she visualized me scaling the 12-foot fence. An hour into our trip, we had more reason to celebrate when Mom paged me. My plan worked, and she was on her way to a resort in the Ozarks of Missouri, cash in hand. McCain family -three. FBI - zero. All in all, a good day, albeit a day necessary only because the FBI was completely unreasonable.
Nine hours from Memphis to Dubuque, Iowa, gave us plenty of time to plan our approach on Evan Baxter. Mansfield gave me the brother’s name. while I was in D.C., as he had given it to Boyd weeks earlier. According to Mansfield, the two siblings were very close. Oddly close. Not only because they talked on the phone several times a week, but because there appeared to be no secrets between them. No topic considered taboo. To the degree it made Mansfield uncomfortable at times.
Mansfield had provided me with little information on the brother other than he was a plumber in Oklahoma City at the time of the kidnapping. A year after his sister’s death, he moved from Oklahoma City to Dubuque, Iowa, to open up a bar. The rest I would have to figure out on my own. I was mad at myself for not pushing Mansfield harder for more information. The name of the bar would have been a nice start.
Bringing Jessica with me meant my chief Internet researcher was sitting next to me instead of in front of a computer. We needed another person to help. LeClair was not an option. I could turn on a computer and click some icons, type something into Microsoft Word, and get it to print. LeClair wouldn’t even know how to do that. Mom was not an option.
“What about, Larry?” Jessica asked. “And before you mention plausible deniability, I say screw it. If he wants the credit, he should share in the burden.”
She had a point. Twenty minutes later, from a gas station payphone, I reached Larry at work. He sounded excited to hear from me. “I’m glad you called. It seems you were right. The FBI, at least here in D.C., has lost interest in you.”
“Larry, Jessica says I’m to tell you plausible deniability is overrated, and you need to help us find Boyd. If you don’t, she’ll kick both of our butts. What’s the FBI’s criteria for reopening a cold case?” I asked.
“There’s no official criteria. Usually, all it requires is a change in the case. New evidence. New witnesses. A change in a witness’s previous story. Maybe an improvement in forensic techniques. Or someone threatening to kick my butt,” he replied with a laugh.
“Then, we’re in business,” I said, “we’ve got several of the criteria you mentioned. How hard can you work on this?”
“As hard as I want if it doesn’t cost the FBI anything. Now that those organized crime idiots have given up on you, my immediate supervisor has permitted me to work it as long as it doesn’t interfere with my other duties, and he’s not allowing any overtime expenses. Why?”
“If you still have a woody for this case, then I have a list of things I need you to do.”
“Oh, I’m still in. Tell me what you need?”
“Shelley Baxter has a brother, Evan Baxter. He lives in Dubuque, Iowa. I need his contact information.”
“Why?”
“It’s called contact information, obviously I want to contact him.”
“Alright, smartass. What else?”
“I was also wondering if the FBI has ever tried to locate the ransom money. Surely, they have a way of tracking it.”
“Way ahead of you. The ransom money was photocopied, and all the serial numbers were entered into a database. It’s been seven years and not one bill has shown up in circulation. Nada. Zilch. Nothing.”
“Seven years and nothing. Does that seem odd to you? Because it seems odd to me. What good is three million if you don’t spend the money?”
“I agree, L.T. Even if the kidnappers used a professional money launderer, something should have popped by now.”
“Next, I want yo
u to look for any unsolved disappearances from 1987 involving young red-haired women.”
“You mean in case the body they found seven years ago was not Shelley Baxter?”
“We have to consider the possibility Boyd found Baxter. He told my friend he did, and the last time I talked to Boyd, he implied he was close to solving his big case. And Mansfield went to all the trouble to hire Boyd.”
“Alright, that makes sense.”
“One last thing, Larry, how are you’re interrogation skills?”
“I’d like to think better than average. Why?”
“Someone with a badge needs to visit George Mansfield and feel him out. Get him to tell you who told him about seeing Shelley Baxter in Wisconsin. Then, follow up with that person. Basic grunt work. Do you think you can handle that?”
“Why didn’t you get that information when you talked with him?”
“Because my interrogation skills are average when I’m not allowed to threaten the target with great bodily harm.”
“Anything else? That’s hardly an interrogation.”
“I want you to try to rattle him. Mention the FBI has new leads in the case. Bring up new phone records or something. I know, tell him the FBI has a strong lead on the money.”
“I can do that, but why am I trying to rattle Mansfield?”
“Did you know some of the FBI agents considered Mansfield a suspect?”
“That makes sense considering his arrest for domestic abuse three months earlier.”
“Mansfield told me most of those agents changed their tune once he agreed to pay the ransom. Then, he said something strange, or more importantly, what he said was said strangely.”
“What did he say?”
“He said the method for the ransom drop shut up the rest of his accusers. He felt they didn’t think he was smart enough to pull it off. You should have heard him, Larry. He was offended by the idea.”
“What are you saying, L.T.?”
“I’m saying there’s something wrong with Mansfield.”
Deadly Promise Page 20
