Jessica said, “He wouldn’t do that. Boyd’s got too much integrity to work for the other side.”
“I don’t know your friend, but I do know sociopaths. They can be unbelievably charming and manipulative. Shelley has the added advantage of being extremely intelligent, a genius actually, and uncommonly pretty. Combine that with a lack of conscience, and you get, well, you can imagine what you get.”
“A class A manipulative bitch,” Jessica replied. “A modern-day siren. Someone tailor-made for luring vulnerable men to their doom.”
“There’s only one problem in this whole sociopath idea,” I said. “Boyd said he found the woman, and the husband sent men after them. In other words, Boyd feels like George Mansfield, the man who hired him, is the criminal element in this whole thing. Maybe Shelley Baxter ran away from her husband seven years ago. Maybe the kidnapping was her way of getting away from a sadistic husband, and now Boyd is laying low with her while he thinks of a new plan.”
Marshall said, “Then who’s the lady with the missing head and fingers? And who did that to her?”
“I don’t know, Agent Marshall.”
“We’re back to Agent Marshall now because I think Boyd flipped.”
I walked across the room away from Marshall in disgust, implying I didn’t want to stand next to someone who so easily thought the worst of my friend. I knew Boyd. Probably better than most guys know their brother. He was not evil.
“I’m not saying he’s bad, McCain, I’m saying he’s been infected.”
With a dismissive wave of my hand, I let Marshall know I wanted her to shut up. I needed to think. To get alone with my inner voice and argue with myself. To run through all the possibilities. But my inner voice was gone, meaning I might be gone awhile.
“I’ll be back,” I said as I walked to the hotel door.
“Where are you going?” Marshall asked.
Jessica said, “Let him be. He’ll be back in ten, maybe less.”
Agent Marshall stepped aside so I could exit the room.
I didn’t hear Marshall ask Jessica anything, but I did hear my wife as the door was closing. “Don’t worry, Marshall, he might not understand crazy, but trust me, Legend’s in his ele—.” The door closing cut her off.
Jessica was getting ready to say I was in my element. God, I hoped not. Understanding the mindset of criminals was not something I ever aspired to be good at.
I walked down the hall to the stairs, thinking while I exited the building. What did I know? Shelley Baxter was alive. Boyd was with her. Evan Baxter knows how to reach his sister, and he knows Boyd is with her. Those were the indisputable facts, along with the fact that Boyd did not want my help.
What did others want me to believe? Marshall wanted me to believe Baxter was a shameless, guiltless, manipulative sociopath who flipped Boyd. Mansfield wanted me to believe his wife conned him out of three million dollars. Boyd wanted me to believe he was fine even though Mansfield had sent men after him.
What could I speculate? Boyd’s bullet-ridden rental car led me to believe he had been involved in a gunfight with someone, and from the sounds of things, he won. That worried me, because if Boyd won the gunfight, then there had to be dead men lying around somewhere. I could assume Boyd was working with Shelly to keep her alive or to help her in some other manner.
That brought me back to other things I knew. For one, Mansfield was rich. And being rich in Washington, D.C. meant...
703 area code. Holy crap, I’ve figured this out.
I re-entered the building, ran up the stairs skipping two or three at a time, sprinted down the hallway, and started pounding frantically on the door.
Agent Marshall opened the door, quickly moving aside, so I didn’t knock her over as I burst into the room.
Jessica was smiling at Marshall. “I told you he’d figure it out.”
I said, “Sweetie, do you remember the hotel we stayed in last year in Arlington?”
“Sure. How could I forget it.” Jessica’s smile widened as she recalled our time in the Arlington hotel. She remembered our first real kiss.
“Do you remember the area code?”
“It was 703,” Jessica replied with a knowing smile.
“You already figured it out, didn’t you?” I said.
“Yeah, I put it together shortly after you left.” She turned to Agent Marshall, who still hadn’t put it together. “703 is the area code for eastern Virginia.”
Marshall said, “Virginia. That means they are closer to Mansfield. Wouldn’t it be smarter to put more distance between them and their perceived enemy?”
“Not in this case. Think about what we know about Mansfield. He went to law school at Columbia. Marshall, you are a lawyer, what can you tell me about Columbia Law School?”
“It’s Ivy League. Considered one of the top five law schools in the United States. Numerous notable alumni. Supreme Court justices. A couple of presidents. Senators. Representative. Governors.”
“In other words, join a secret society at the college or the right fraternity, and you could be extremely well connected to the movers and shakers of this country.” I paused again. “You figure it out yet?” I asked.
Marshall didn’t answer.
“Okay, I tell you what I suspect. I believe Shelley Baxter flipped my friend. Maybe she’s a sociopath. Maybe she’s not. It could be she’s a woman who married a rich, powerful D.C. lawyer only to find herself in an abusive relationship. So, she found a way out. She’s been hiding out successfully for seven years, but now she knows her secret is gone. She’s desperate. She’s smart. Very smart. She’s seen what her husband can do. She’s seen what Boyd can do. She’s seen how Boyd can handle himself.”
Marshall stared at me, wondering when I was going to get to the point.
Jessica got tired of waiting for Marshall to figure it out on her own. “Legend is trying to tell you that George Mansfield is in serious trouble.”
Special Agent Marshall finally figured it out a second later. “Your friend, Boyd, he’s dangerous like you, L.T.?”
“With a gun, especially a rifle, Boyd makes me look like a pussycat.”
“Holy shit.” It was Marshall’s turn to use Jessica’s favorite expletive of the day. “We have to call Agent Armour. Warn him. Have him send the FBI to the address belonging to the number we called.”
I said, “They won’t be there. I’m sure they packed up the second Boyd hung up the phone.”
“I know that, but we have to start somewhere. They got careless once, and they might get careless again. Maybe the FBI will get lucky.”
“Evan Baxter got careless. And even then, he didn’t count on someone breaking into his friend’s house. Trust me, that’s the last mistake they will make.”
“That’s it; we give up. We let Boyd take out Mansfield and let Baxter get away.”
“No, we call Larry. We involve the FBI. But don’t expect much from them. Larry is being allowed to work this case as long as it doesn’t interfere with his regular workload, meaning unless we have real proof, we both know the FBI won’t get involved.”
“They have the word of an FBI agent — me.” Marshall threw her hands up in the air in disgust. “You’re right. If I tell the truth about what I heard, it won’t be enough. Do we bother warning Mansfield?”
“Sure, but our best hope in stopping Boyd from making a big mistake is to get to D.C. as quick as possible and stand with Mansfield. Once Boyd sees we are working against him, he should come to his senses.”
“And Evan Baxter, what about him?”
“I don’t care about him. I doubt he will be useful any longer.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know what you meant, Marshall. My goal has always been to find Boyd. Do with Evan whatever you feel you legally need to do. As for Jessica and me, I figure we got a three-hour drive to O’Hare where we’ll grab a flight to D.C.”
“Your goal is?”
“I told you already — save Boyd
from himself.”
“This is where we split ways for now. I want to stay and put pressure on Evan. I’ll call the closest field office and have him picked up. Maybe we can squeeze something out of him. Damn it!” Marshall yelled.
“What?” I said.
“The Field Office covering Iowa is in Omaha, Nebraska, which is on the other side of the state. Screw it. I’m not hanging out here all day, waiting for someone to show up. I’ll call Holderfield and let him figure out what to do with Baxter. I’m coming with you guys.”
CHAPTER 22
Boyd didn’t want to answer the phone. He was sure it was Evan Baxter calling again. Last night, Evan had called in a panic with a story about an FBI agent and a reporter from the Washington Post confronting him. They told Evan they knew Shelley Baxter was alive because Mr. Boyd Dallas had told the reporter he had found her. No matter how much he had tried, Boyd wasn’t sure he convinced Evan the people he met with were lying. He told Evan he didn’t know any reporters. And given the trouble L.T. was having with the FBI, he couldn’t see them helping L.T. with anything.
Evan also said the agent claimed to have a lead on the ransom money. For some reason, that information seemed to rattle Evan the most. It made no sense, though. Why would Evan care anything about the ransom money? Shelley asked her brother the same question out loud last night, which must have worked in calming him down because he got real quiet for several seconds and never brought up the money again during the call.
Evan claimed someone in a BMW convertible followed him after his meeting with the FBI agent and the reporter. The last time Boyd visited his friend, L.T. wasn’t driving a BMW. However, L.T. was always fixing up cars and selling them, so nearly any car was possible. After losing the tail, Evan drove to a friend’s house and made the call to his sister’s hotel room.
For seven years, Evan had been holding his sister’s secret. Shelley said he had been unbelievably reliable and steadfast during that time, so she was surprised by his reaction. It took her several minutes to calm her brother down and reassure him she had everything under control.
Now, it was the next morning, and Boyd knew it had to be Evan. It was impossible to tell, but Boyd swore the ring had a nervous quality to it. He considered not answering the phone. On the sixth ring, he changed his mind. “Hold on, man, I can’t find your sister at the moment,” he said into the phone before Evan could have a chance to talk. He was doing his best to avoid any conversation with Evan.
“Boyd! What is going on?”
Oh, crap, that’s not Evan. That’s L.T.
He stared at the phone, wondering what to say. “You shouldn’t have called here, L.T. You are gonna mess everything up.” Then, Boyd hung up.
Shelley entered the main room from the motel bathroom wearing nothing but a towel wrapped on her head. “Boyd, who was on the phone?”
“It was L.T.” Shelley’s face barely registered a response. Boyd swore the woman had ice water running through her veins. Being on the run from her abusive husband for seven years must have toughened her. “I told you he was good.”
Although it was not his first choice of professions, Boyd Dallas loved being a private investigator. He joined the Marines directly out of high school in 1978 with the desire to be a Military Policeman. His goal was to see the world on Uncle Sam’s dime, then return to Huntsville, Alabama four or eight years later to join the police force. A helicopter crash in 1982 put an end to that dream, the result of a fractured ankle requiring multiple surgeries. After years of work as an electronics technician, he figured being a private investigator was the next best thing. Besides, he was good at it, and it more than paid the bills. In fact, with the high profile clientele he had worked for in the last year, he was making considerably more than he ever would have as a cop.
In the last two years, he had seemingly done it all: helped defense attorneys with litigation support, performed bug sweeps, helped assess intruder protection protocols on both a corporate and a personal level, performed insurance investigations, discovered cheating spouses, performed background investigations, worked as a process server, and helped to find missing persons.
Kent Rutherford had been an unexpected customer. Boyd first met the rich oil executive last year when he was hired to collect 40,000 dollars in gambling debt from him for another rich Texas businessman. For reasons that would never make sense to Boyd, several Texas millionaires thought it would be fun to purposely renege on bets and then challenge their friends into finding them to collect the debt. The idiots even made up rules — no violence and no approaching anyone at home. It was the stupidest thing he had ever heard. And the most profitable six weeks of his life.
Rutherford had been his most difficult target. Unlike all the other participants in the idiotic game, Rutherford refused to pay once Boyd found him, using two bodyguards to run Boyd off and challenging him to return with bigger men. Boyd did as advised, getting L.T. to help him collect.
The whole experience impressed Rutherford. Once he found out about Boyd’s work experience with a company that designed and installed high tech security systems, he hired Boyd to do a threat assessment on his home. That morphed into performing a few background checks on some prospective employees and testing the vulnerability of one of the officers in his oil business to industrial espionage. Boyd did so much work in Texas that he had to get a second private investigator license in the Lone Star State. Rutherford also introduced him to George Mansfield, who had a delicate situation requiring extreme confidentiality.
Boyd didn’t like Mansfield. The rich lawyer was too smug, too condescending. If the case had not been so intriguing, then he probably would have passed simply because of his distaste for the unlikable attorney. But looking for a woman believed to be dead for seven years, a woman the husband believed had conned him for years before ripping him off, a woman who had fooled everybody including the FBI; who wouldn’t be intrigued?
L.T had a saying, “The awesome thing about truth is that truth might lose a battle, but it never loses a war. Truth always wins in the end.” Boyd knew that was L.T.’s version of Proverbs 12:19 — Truthful lips endure forever, but a lying tongue lasts only a moment. Two major truths helped Boyd find Shelley Baxter.
The first truth was that not many people in the U.S. owned a brand-new BMW 7 Series. Boyd’s first step after accepting the case was to meet with Mansfield’s friend, who first alerted him to the idea Shelley might be alive. He joked about spotting a woman who looked a lot like Shelley in Chicago climbing into a BMW 7 Series with Wisconsin plates.
To be fair, Shelley had been smart. She didn’t buy the car in Wisconsin. Nor did she buy the BMW in Chicago, a city she visited frequently. She bought the car in a BMW dealership in Des Moines, Iowa, nearly five hours away. At least, one of the salesmen believed it was her from the picture Boyd showed him. However, the salesman refused to give Boyd any further information, which slowed down his progress. Fortunately, the computer system at the dealership was poorly protected. Boyd didn’t even have to break in to access the computer. All he had to do was inform his computer hacker friend of his dilemma. Two days later, he had a list of everyone who had ever bought a 7 Series from the dealership in the last five years. The hacker was working on the list when Boyd took a break on the case to repossess the horses for Mr. Rutherford.
The second truth that helped Boyd find Baxter was the opposite of a popular Southern expression, “If you put lipstick on a pig, you still have a pig.” Shelley Baxter tried to disguise her beauty by dying her vibrant red hair to a dull brown. She added glasses, dressed conservatively, and did nothing in the way of makeup. In the end, she was simply too damn pretty.
Boyd followed her for a couple of days before deciding to call Mansfield to inform him he was 90 percent sure he had found his dead wife. Truthfully, he was 100 percent sure when he talked to Mansfield, but he wanted an excuse to observe the woman a little longer before making contact.
The initial contact was simple. It happened on a
Wednesday at a coffee shop where Shelley, who was living under the name Mollie Chrisman, frequented. He walked up to her as she sat at a table alone, and placed his card on the table, along with a wedding picture of her from nine years ago with George Mansfield. “Would you like to talk?” he had asked. She nodded tentatively. Without saying a word, she wrote a time and place on the back of Boyd’s business card and slid it back to him. Then, she stood up and walked out of the coffee shop without ever looking back or saying a word. Boyd had expected more. More surprise. More fear, or at least apprehension. Anything but the cool calm she had exhibited.
It was the same look on her face now after learning L.T. had called their room.
“You did warn me he was good, Boyd, so I guess this was inevitable. I love my brother, but I’ve put too much on him the last seven years. More than a sister should expect, so we can’t blame him.” Shelley put on her robe as she spoke. “If Evan knew you like I know you, it might be different. All this time, it’s been the two of us. Now, having someone else involved he doesn’t know and trust like I do, well, it’s upsetting to him. I’m sure it’s caused him to panic and get a little careless.”
“He probably didn’t even screw up, Mollie. L.T. is good, I tell you.”
“You make it sound like he’s superhuman or something, Boyd. Besides, I have you, and you have me. And I did manage to outsmart my rich, powerful, and extremely well-educated husband years ago when I discovered he was trying to kill me. I even made him believe he had been successful. And you are no slouch. You found me in less than four weeks after being hired, when the FBI hasn’t been able to find me in seven years.”
“I appreciate your confidence in my abilities, but I don’t think the FBI even knew they were supposed to be looking for you. They believed you were dead. And the two guys who Mansfield hired to kidnap you, the two you convinced not to kill you, well, Mansfield double-crossed them and had them killed before they could screw up and tell him you were still alive. In other words, no one was looking for you.”
Shelley stopped to look into Boyd’s eyes. He could see the anguish in her eyes as she recalled the past.
Deadly Promise Page 26
