Deadly Promise

by Brian Crawford

  I glanced around the rooftop at the other customers. Several were looking in our direction, looking at me in disgust. They didn’t know what happened, but they knew in their hearts I was the problem. Marshall’s act was undeniably convincing, and she hadn’t even said anything yet.

  “Don’t!” It was the only word she said before walking away from me and heading straight toward the bar.

  I sat there looking stupefied; it was not an act.

  Marshall gestured toward Evan Baxter, who had been watching our little act with the alertness you would expect from a concerned bar owner. Except his expression changed to one of confusion, or was it recognition — it looked like recognition — as he focused on Marshall. I couldn’t hear what she said but could tell she was asking to use a phone. Baxter asked her something before turning toward the other bartender to discuss something. Then, Baxter came out from behind the bar, glared at me, put his hand on Marshall’s shoulder reassuringly, and lead her away. Marshall gave me one last defiant look and left with Baxter, her right hand behind her back, fingers crossed.

  Like Jessica had said more than once before — Special Agent Ann Marshall was crafty.

  CHAPTER 18

  Special Agent Marshall may have majored in psychology, but she must have minored in drama. Jessica looked understandably confused. I smiled meekly at her and the rest of the customers staring at me, got up from my table looking as embarrassed as I figured I was supposed to look, wiped my face with a napkin, and left. Walking to my car, I couldn’t help but smile as I noticed Baxter’s Land Rover was gone.

  Two minutes later, Jessica joined me in the BMW. “What the hell was that, Legend?”

  “A trust exercise.”

  “Excuse me.”

  “That’s what she called it before throwing the drink in my face. Plus, she wanted to see how well I act on my feet.”

  “So, that was all an act?”

  “Yes.”

  Jessica was quiet for several seconds before nodding and smiling in a show of mild awe. “Oh, she’s crazy, Legend. Like a damn fox. One drink, one little episode in the bar, and she walked out of the bar with Evan Baxter within 30 seconds. I barely got ten words out of him in two hours.”

  I started up the BMW and drove away from the bar back to our hotel. “Two hours of nothing?”

  “Yeah. Agent Marshall told the truth earlier about Baxter when she said he liked to work the bar and flirt. But there was something about his flirting that seemed off.”

  “What?”

  “He didn’t seem too interested in results if you know what I mean.”

  “No, what do you mean?”

  “He was charming, polite, witty, engaging. He seemed to enjoy himself thoroughly, but I’m telling you, he wasn’t trying to score with the women.”

  “Any chance he’s gay?”

  “Well, there’s always a chance now isn’t there, but I didn’t get that vibe. It was more like he wasn’t interested. Like maybe he was already accounted for.”

  “Yet, Marshall walked out with him in less than a minute. Were you close enough to hear what she said to Baxter?”

  “Yeah, she asked if he could call her a cab. Then, his face went funny for a second before volunteering to take her home. She said thank you, and they left.”

  “You noticed the weird look on his face, too?” I asked.

  “Sure did. I thought it looked like he had seen a ghost for a second.”

  “A ghost. That’s it.”

  “What’s it?”

  “I thought Marshall looked different somehow at the bar. The hair, the makeup. She made herself up to look like Shelley Baxter.”

  “That’s cold. And unbelievably effective. She is crazy like a fox. Now what, Legend?”

  “We go back to the room and wait to hear from Marshall.”

  “Meaning we’re at her mercy now,” Jessica said.

  “It appears so.”

  We drove back to the hotel and got ready for bed, both of us wondering how Marshall was fairing with Evan Baxter. I was torn between hoping she was successful and hoping she failed as the idea that any part of our investigation lay in the fate of an FBI agent that irritated me immensely.

  I was crawling into bed when someone knocked on the hotel door.

  “Speaking of the devil,” I said.

  “Just in case, throw me my purse,” Jessica said.

  I tossed her purse across the bed and waited for Jessica to grab her pistol. The pistol was a reminder of the closeness between Jessica and Boyd. My friend looked long and hard for a pistol that “fit” Jessica before settling on a 9mm from CZ, a gun manufacturer out of the Czech Republic. CZ wasn’t a model I was familiar with, but I quickly realized it was a great gun. Probably better than my Glock. One thing was for sure, Jessica was more accurate with her CZ than I was with either of my Glocks, especially after she received shooting instructions from Boyd on numerous occasions.

  “Earth to Legend.”

  Jessica’s voice snapped me back to the present. “Who is it?” I asked.

  “Ann. Ann Marshall.”

  I turned to look at Jessica. “By the way, she insists we drop all the special agent crap and call her Ann or Marshall.”

  “Whatever,” said Jessica. “She still doesn’t get to call you Legend.”

  Jessica got out of bed to put clothes over her lingerie while I donned pants.

  Marshall was standing in the hallway looking like she had at the bar, only she was holding a six-pack of a popular German beer. “I come bearing gifts,” she said as she walked through the door.

  “Legend doesn’t drink, but I’ll take one, Spec...Marshall.”

  Marshall studied me through squinted eyes. “At all?” I shook my head. “I didn’t see that one coming. Oh well, your loss.” She screwed the top off one beer, handed it to Jessica, then opened another for herself.

  Jessica and I sat on the bed while Marshall sat in one of the chairs. She took a large swig of beer, plopped the bottle on the table, and started in without any mention of barging in on us ten minutes before midnight. “Evan Baxter is hiding something. He donates money to a charity that helps women who have been the victims of domestic violence. Probably because of what happened to his sister. Then, I made myself up to look as much like his sister as I can, you know, major psychological manipulation, and staged that incident at the bar. I got to him. I could tell. Enough so that he volunteered to drive me home instead of calling me a cab. I didn’t come on to him, but I offered to thank him properly. A drink. A coffee. Anything. But he clammed up. He looked like he regretted ever volunteering to drive me back to my hotel in the first place.”

  Jessica said, “That was quite the stunt at the bar.”

  “Please, Mrs. McCain, I hope you don’t mind that I threw a little drink in your husband’s face.”

  “He’s a big boy. No one’s feelings got hurt. But you could have given him a little warning first.”

  “Sure, but where would the fun be in that? Plus, his look was so genuine the way I did it. I ask you, could he have faked that if he knew it was coming? I find most men overact when working undercover. They try too hard.”

  “He’s not exactly new at this, Ann.” Jessica called her Ann as she wished, albeit in a snide tone.

  “No, I guess he isn’t. Sorry, Dr. McCain. Next time I throw a drink in your face, I’ll let you know it’s coming first.” Her tone was equally as mocking.

  I said, “Ladies, thank you, both of you, for thinking of my feelings. But what I want to know is whether you got anything useful. This was a trust exercise, remember. Give us something that gets me closer to finding my friend. If you do that, I can guarantee we will trust you.”

  Marshall said, “McCain, professionally speaking, are you a fan of statistics?”

  “Professional speaking? You mean, do I use statistical analysis when making clinical decisions?” Marshall nodded. “Not really, Marshall. People are not a statistic.”

  “I love statistics. There
are eight major crimes the FBI uses to produce its annual crime index: murder and non-negligent manslaughter are grouped together, then rape, aggravated assault, robbery, burglary, larceny, motor vehicle theft, and arson. Here’s an interesting statistical fact: 80 percent of all major index crimes are solved at the crime scene, meaning by actions of the responding officers, forensic evidence left behind by the perpetrator, or by information about the perpetrator supplied by the victim or witnesses. Only three percent of index crimes are solved by investigative efforts provided by detectives. And clearance rates of crimes are declining. For example, 91 percent of homicides were solved in 1965. The clearance rate today is 63 percent. Advances in DNA might improve that rate in the future; we will have to wait and see.”

  “Your point?”

  “Detectives get most of the glory on television, but classic investigative techniques rarely work. What do we look for when investigating a case? On the broadest level, we look at means, motive, and opportunity to help us determine a list of suspects, knowing all along these three elements are not sufficient to convict. This isn’t the movies. We need evidence.”

  Jessica said, “I agree with Legend; what’s your point?”

  “My point in all this is that normal detective work doesn’t really, uh, work. The FBI closed this case because the husband identified the body, and the FBI used hair analysis to match hairs found in the hotel room where they found the body to hairs found in Baxter’s home. Your friend says he found the dead wife. Do you believe he did?”

  I paused for several seconds before answering. “Yes. It’s either the dead wife or someone who looks like her. Maybe even claims to be her.”

  This time Marshall paused for several seconds. “Interesting answer. I had not considered it was someone claiming to be Shelley Baxter. Maybe Mansfield lied to you when he said a friend thought he saw the wife. Maybe someone is trying to blackmail Mansfield. Or maybe someone is trying to expose Mansfield for what he did to Shelley Baxter seven years ago.”

  I said, “Be careful, Marshall, you might end up down the rabbit hole before you’re done speculating. Jessica and I were laughing at all our possibilities before we finished speculating. Come back from the rabbit hole, Marshall, and tell us what point you were trying to make.”

  “I was saying normal detective work rarely produces results.”

  “Three percent, according to your statistics. We already got that.”

  Marshall said, “I’ve read about your exploits in the last two years. You are good at what you do. I also know you don’t work for the FBI.”

  I suddenly thought I knew what Marshall was alluding to. “Which means I’m not bound by FBI restrictions.”

  “And now you know my point. The FBI will never solve this on their own. I doubt they will even try. That’s why I want to team up with you so badly.”

  Jessica said, “The FBI has been a thorn in our side for the last week. Why should we work with you?”

  “I have a confession to make,” Marshall said. “The FBI is done with you. They pitched their offer to you, and you told them to go to hell. That pissed them off, so they tried to intimidate you. Which also didn’t work. Unless they have something else to hold over you, such as figuring out how you convinced Marino to give up the horses, they won’t bother you again. There’s no money in the budget to harass a non-willing civilian who doesn’t know a damn thing about what they want. I got that straight from ASAC Holderfield’s mouth.”

  Jessica said, “Then what the hell are you doing here, Special Agent Marshall?”

  “I am on vacation. With permission from Holderfield to investigate the case on my own.” Her trademark smirk was muted as she awaited our reaction to her confession. “I’ve got two weeks.”

  ***

  Jessica and I asked Marshall to give us until morning to think about her offer. For the first time since I’d met her, she looked humble and unpresuming. No threats. No warnings. No head games. Not even a smirk. She stood up, thanked us for our time, and left. I knew how much Jessica disliked Special Agent Marshall, so I already knew her answer. Plus, when Jessica and I disagreed, I normally lost the argument. It was too bad; I thought having an FBI agent on board could be extremely useful.

  Jessica got up to lock the deadbolt behind Agent Marshall, turned, and blurted out, “I say we strongly consider her offer.”

  “What,” I said with undisguised surprise in my voice.

  “We both have to admit she’s smart.”

  “But you don’t like her.”

  “Do you?”

  “No.”

  Jessica sat down next to me. “Do you trust her?”

  “No, not really. Sort of. I don’t know.”

  “Legend, I think she’s telling the truth about being here on vacation. And she confirmed what Larry said about the FBI giving up on you.”

  “You know that means she was lying to us two nights ago.”

  Jessica said, “Maybe she wasn’t lying then. Think about it. The FBI tried to follow us yesterday. Maybe that was their last-ditch effort before giving up on us, which means she could have been telling the truth two nights ago.”

  “Are you saying you want to team up with her?”

  “Legend, I don’t like Agent Marshall, I don’t necessarily trust her, but I don’t see any reason not to use her.”

  “Jessica Ann McCain, you are sounding more and more like a spy every day. You want to turn Agent Marshall into an asset?”

  “Why not. We turned Ellen last year, and that worked out well. It beats having her as a liability.”

  Jessica’s argument was valid. Plus, we didn’t even need to turn Special Agent Marshall. She was volunteering to work with us.

  “You say use her; I’ll use her. That doesn’t mean we should trust her.”

  “How far do we let her in, then?”

  “I don’t know. I guess we’ll get a better idea if she is forced to do something that puts her neck on the line. That way, I’d know she isn’t trying to set us up. You know, hoping I’ll do something the FBI can hold over me to get me to help them in Chicago.”

  “You think that’s a possibility?”

  “You said yourself she’s smart, so yes, I wouldn’t put it past her.”

  Jessica said, “I don’t think she’s here acting on the FBI’s benefit.”

  “That doesn’t mean she wouldn’t decide to be opportunistic if we break the law in front of her.”

  “Legend, I think I’ve still got a lot to learn before I’d be a good spy. I’m afraid I’m still taking things on face value without looking at all possible ramifications. I need to remember this is like a chess game.”

  ***

  I couldn’t fault Jessica for not thinking the worst of someone. For not realizing someone like Special Agent Marshall might be opportunistic, or purposefully setting us up. I didn’t want her to become that jaded with life. With people. It’s best to see the good in the world, to trust people, to hope their intentions are pure. To not see everyone as an opponent looking for an advantage, looking for leverage. Not because she was a woman, hell, the girl had true grit. She shot and killed someone last year who was attacking me. She never looked back. She never regretted her decision. No, I didn’t want it for her because she was my wife, pure and simple. I loved her, which meant if I could shield her from some of the evil of the world, then I would.

  Besides, it was already too late for me. I wasn’t a pessimist or a fatalist. In fact, I referred to myself as an optimistic realist — I saw the glass as half full, but I wondered who stole the other half. I knew life was not fair. Losing my father, the epitome of the term gentle giant, at 16 taught me as much. Bad things can, and do, happen to good people.

  For some reason, unbeknownst to me, helping people survive bad things had become part of my life-long job description. It started with bullies in grade school. No one got picked on during my watch. My first taste of real danger came at 16 when I helped a young woman who was being beaten by her husband. The m
an had 50 pounds on me and pulled a knife. I’d been wrestling since I was four, a civilized yet highly physical and grueling sport. Fighting for someone’s life was not civilized. Something I learned when I broke the man’s hyoid bone in a chokehold nearly killing him. That’s what it took to stop him. I never once felt bad for the man. If bad things can happen to good people, bad things should happen to bad people as well.

  Those were the thoughts swimming around in my head as I drifted off to sleep.

  When I called Special Agent Marshall to ask her to meet us for breakfast in our hotel, she sounded as if she already knew what we had decided. Given her ability to guess my moves over the last week, it wouldn’t have surprised me if she knew all along what I would say. After breakfast was ordered, I slid a piece of paper across the table to Marshall. “That’s the number for Special Agent Larry Armour in D.C. He’s expecting your call. You might not like it, but I already promised to give him anything I found out about this case.”

  Marshall smiled as she accepted the paper. “So, I’m in?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m expected to share my success with Agent Armour?”

  “Yes, if you don’t like it, tough shit.”

  “Cool down, big guy. I’ll share. What is it you want us to do?”

  “First off, you can tell him what we are doing on a broad scale but no specifics. He’s to have as much plausible deniability as possible.”

  “But not me?”

  “Sorry, but that luxury does not belong to you. You want to work in the trenches; then you need to accept the fact that your hands might get dirty.”

  She didn’t look the least bit fazed by the idea of potential ramifications. “What are Agent Armour and I supposed to talk about?”

  I explained my conversation with Larry from two days ago to Marshall, detailing the list of items I wanted him to look into, including meeting with Mansfield.