“I’m sorry for bringing that up again, Mollie. I know thinking about that poor woman still haunts you.”
“She was innocent, Boyd. Her biggest misfortune in the world was being a natural redhead who was similar to me in body type and age. When I convinced my kidnappers not to kill me, I never thought they would kill someone else to take my place. Mansfield planned on double-crossing them anyway; I only wish he had done it before they killed her. It is my biggest regret in all this. And Boyd, for the last time, call me Shelley. It is my given name, and we both know I’ll have to dump my Mollie Chrisman alias once this is all over.”
“I hate lying to my friends, Shelley. I’ve been through a lot with L.T. All the shit we went through helping his wife last year, well, it made me realize how powerful and how corrupt people in D.C. can be. They hired private security consultants to come after us last year. Do you know what private security consultants are? Hired guns. Your own little personal set of mercenaries. And people in power know where to find them and can afford to hire them. It’s because of my friends that I realize why you have chosen to hide for the last seven years instead of calling the police. I shudder to think what would have happened to you if Mansfield had hired that kind of men to kidnap you. There’s no way you would have been able to appeal to their emotions.”
“Boyd, if I thought we could predict your friend’s response, then I would say tell L.T. everything. But you said it yourself that you can’t predict L.T.’s response 100 percent. I’m not even sure I could have convinced you to help me if those men, the ones my husband sent after us, hadn’t attacked us the night I agreed to meet with you?”
Boyd looked down, unable to look Shelley in the eye as he realized she was right.
“It’s okay, Boyd. I know you are an honorable man. I know you would have told Mansfield you’d found me. And if he hadn’t been so stupid, so arrogant, and so impatient that he ordered a hit on us that night, he could have killed me at a later date. You, too, for that matter.”
Shelley reached out to hug Boyd, pulling him in strongly and passionately, not caring that her robe was open. She kissed him with more vigor than any woman had ever kissed him before. My God, when it comes to love and passion and sex, this woman has only one gear — full speed ahead.
Later, as they lay spent and exhausted on the bed, Shelley said, “I know your friends are in Iowa, but we better get out of here and find a new base of operations. You know, in case they can call the local FBI branch to check out this location.”
Boyd got up from the bed and started to dress. “I’ll have us packed in ten minutes.”
“God, I love that Marine efficiency.” She reached out and grabbed his crotch through his jeans. “And I love that Marine can-do attitude. Thank you for both. For everything.
CHAPTER 23
The great thing about having our own personal FBI agent was the amazing treatment we received at Chicago’s O’Hare International Airport. Marshall showed her badge, told an airport employee where we needed to be, and within minutes the employee had a flight lined up for us.
We called Larry while we waited to board the plane to see if he had any luck tracking the phone number we used to find Boyd. He traced the number to a hotel in McLean, a town close to Washington, D.C. on the Virginia side of the Potomac. Larry visited the hotel himself only to discover he had missed Boyd by about an hour. The clerk informed Larry that someone fitting Boyd’s description had been there with his wife for the last three days. He had not seen the wife, only Boyd.
“Any idea what they’re driving?” I asked.
“An off-white, maybe silver, Chrysler minivan of all things. The clerk seems to remember Kentucky plates. The records at the motel are not exactly complete.”
“A minivan. Nice. Like you can’t find one of them on every corner. Now that we have more solid proof Baxter is alive, any chance the FBI will jump on board now?”
“I doubt it. Your evidence is still very thin.”
I disagreed that my evidence was thin but didn’t feel like arguing the point. “What about Mansfield?”
Larry said, “What about him?”
“Do we tell him he might be in danger?”
“You can if you like. The FBI won’t bother notifying some Joe Blow civilian that he may or may not be in danger from his dead wife and the guy he hired to find her.”
“That’s what I thought you’d say. I figure I’ll let Mansfield fend for himself for now. I’ll decide later whether to tell him anything.”
“Fair enough. Do you and Jessica want to stay with us tonight?”
“Sure. It will probably be near eight o’clock by the time we get a rental and drive into the city.”
“Bring Agent Marshall if you like; she can sleep on the pullout. Have a nice flight. And don’t worry about dinner, we’ll have something for you.”
“Thanks.”
We arrived at Larry’s house a few minutes before eight. Marshall wanted to meet her fellow Special Agent in person, plus saving a couple of hundred dollars a night in hotel fees sounded good for a Special Agent on vacation without a per diem. Larry’s wife, Ellen, met us at the front door. She hugged me and then Jessica before shaking hands with Marshall and whisking us inside frantically. “Larry’s in the kitchen on the phone. He’s got news for you.”
Larry was hanging up the phone as we walked in. “Today’s Labor Day, you know. You two sure know how to ruin a guy’s day off,” he said with a knowing smile. He shook my hand and hugged Jessica. “Marshall,” he said with a nod.
“Armour.”
“Dinner is staying warm in the oven. Baked chicken and plenty of veggies for you, L.T. Plates and silverware are on the counter next to the stove. Help yourself, and I’ll be there in a second.”
We helped ourselves to the meal. Larry was right about the vegetables.
Larry walked in as we were sitting down. “I was talking to Officer Albert in Wisconsin when you guys arrived. He verified that Boyd rented the car they found. They also think they might have found the three guys who shot it up.”
Jessica said, “That’s great. Maybe Officer Albert can get them to shed some light on things.”
“Doubtful.”
“Crap,” I said. Jessica looked at me and immediately realized what I was thinking.
Larry continued, “You guessed it. All three are dead.”
“What happened?” I asked.
“They are still trying to sort everything out. It seems there was a massive shootout near an abandoned gas station that’s been empty for years. Two of the bodies were found inside the gas station. The third body was found outside.”
Marshall said, “Can they tell from the crime scene what happened?”
“Officer Albert said it’s too early to tell. They are calling in forensics guys from Madison to help expedite the investigation.”
I said, “That makes sense. Did Albert have any preliminary ideas about what happened?”
“I asked him the same thing. This was Albert’s first major crime scene, but he said the whole thing seemed hinky to him.”
“Hinky?” I asked. “He actually used the term hinky?”
“Yes, hinky.”
“Alright, I’ll bite. What was so hinky?”
“Anyone else want to use the word hinky before I answer L.T.’s question?” He paused and looked around the room before settling on Jessica.
“Don’t look at me,” she said, “I would lose my reputation as a potty mouth if I ever used a dumb ass word like that.”
Larry chuckled before resuming. “To answer your question, Officer Albert said it was obvious the two men found in the garage were moved postmortem. There were no shell casings around the men, or anywhere inside the garage for that matter. Both men had numerous entry wounds on the front of their bodies, but no blood splatter inside the garage anywhere. No guns lying near them, although there was a 9mm pistol lying on a table inside.”
Marshall said, “And the third guy?”
“Lying outside in the dirt. Stabbed in the abdomen and shot once in the head. A twelve gauge pump shotgun was lying near him and a Sig Sauer 9mm in a holster on his hip. Albert said the third guy was loaded for bear. Multiple magazines. Tactical holster. Back up pistol on his ankle. Body armor.”
I said, “Stabbed through the body armor?”
“I didn’t ask.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
Larry said, “That’s why I didn’t ask. Most body armor isn’t both bulletproof and stab-proof anyway.”
“Shit,” Jessica said, “that does sound hinky. Any idea who the unlucky bastards are?”
“Three white males in their late twenties or early thirties. No identification.”
Marshall said, “Someone removed their ID after they were killed?”
“It looks that way.”
“What the heck?”
“Once again, L.T., I have no idea. It gets weirder.”
“Yeah, how?”
“It seems the two men inside the garage share similar features to a certain kidnapping case from seven years ago.” Jessica’s mouth opened like she wanted to say something, but nothing came out. “No, the heads are still on this time, but two of the bodies had their fingertips removed.”
***
Jessica stared at me for several seconds in a state of disbelief and confusion. I knew how she felt. The fact that two of the dead men were missing fingertips linked them to our case. The postmortem mutilation was too coincidental to think otherwise. Finding the bodies also seemed to validate what Boyd told LeClair on the phone about Mansfield sending men after him and Baxter. But who removed the fingertips?
“That kind of shoots our theory about Shelley Baxter being innocent in all this, huh?” Marshall said.
I didn’t respond to her question, not wanting to give the idea of Boyd working alongside a sociopath any verbal credence.
Jessica said, “I know where you are going with this. You heard Officer Albert say it’s too early to tell what happened.”
“Come on, Jessica. Shelley Baxter is a bad apple.”
“I can hear the tone in your voice. Just because Boyd’s working with Shelley Baxter doesn’t mean he’s gone over to the dark side, Ann. You don’t know who removed those fingertips.”
“I made no such conclusions, Jessica. Now that you bring it up, what are we supposed to think about the postmortem cleanup?”
“Now you’re implying he removed the fingertips. He wouldn’t do that.”
“I’m not saying he did, but someone did, and he was most likely present when it happened. I’m wondering why. I’m also wondering why Boyd didn’t stick around. If it was self-defense, then he should have stayed around to talk to the police. Now, he’s as much a fugitive as anything else.”
“Screw you, Special Agent Marshall. We’ve played that game before. You know, last year when it seemed the whole damn world was coming after me because of a damn report. I’m sure Boyd is wondering who can be trusted right now.”
“It seems not even his best friends have made that shortlist.”
“Screw you, Marshall!” Jessica stormed out of the kitchen.
Marshall saw me staring at her. “What?” she said.
“Come on, Marshall. You know they’re tight. If I hadn’t asked Boyd to be my co-best man, she probably would have made him co-maid of honor.”
“I know Boyd is your friend. From your viewpoint he is a good man, the kind of man who would never fall for the bullshit spun by an evil sociopath, but someone cut off those fingertips. If it wasn’t Boyd, then it was Baxter, and he didn’t stop her. I’m just saying.”
“I hear you, Marshall. But remember it isn’t always what you say, it’s how you say it.”
Out loud, I was chastising Marshall, but inside I knew she was right. Finding the dead men only provided further evidence that Boyd had flipped. No other explanation made sense. Surely, he had a good reason. The poor guy probably thought he was helping an innocent woman, and maybe he was. Then again, maybe she wasn’t so innocent after all. Maybe Mansfield was right about her conning him out of three million dollars.
Yet, it seemed Mansfield sent men after Boyd and Baxter. Three dead men were proof of something. Boyd seemed convinced Mansfield sent men after him, and it was unlikely Baxter sent men after herself. But I couldn’t wrap my head around Mansfield’s motive for sending the men, though. It made no sense. Not if Mansfield merely wanted the truth and his stolen money back.
I was missing something, a key part of the puzzle that prevented me from seeing the truth. Something that would seem so obvious once I finally saw it. Until then, I needed to focus on what I did know.
I knew Boyd was in Virginia. I knew he was still with Shelley Baxter. And I was 99 percent sure he was not in immediate danger. That should have given me more relief. It didn’t. Because I knew my mission had taken a different focus. I still wanted to find Boyd, that had not changed. What had changed was why. I wasn’t trying to save Boyd from Chicago gangsters or men sent by Mansfield. Now, I was also trying to save my friend from himself before he walked down a dark path of no return.
“Special Agent Marshall,” I said, “tomorrow morning, you will use your badge to get me in to see George Mansfield at his office. I realize the FBI has no obligation to tell him he might be a target, but I’d still like to tell him his wife is still alive and she’s currently in the area. His reaction should tell me a lot.”
***
Special Agent Marshall saw no reason to talk to Mansfield, claiming there was no tactical advantage to the situation, and it wasn’t the FBI’s job to inform civilians they might be in danger. In the end, she agreed to help for no other reason than to see me in action with Mansfield. She said watching me might prove intellectually interesting.
Early Tuesday morning, I drove our rental car to Mansfield’s office in downtown D.C. and parked in the same garage where the off duty cops confronted me exactly a week earlier. The security guards recognized me immediately and tried to prevent my entrance to the building. They easily gave way when Marshall presented her badge.
Although not a word typically used to describe a woman, handsome was the word that came to mind when I pictured the receptionist at Dornbracht, Mansfield, and Villeroy. Meticulously dressed. Poised. Well-groomed. A short, curly salt and pepper bob framing a well-formed face. Strength in her posture and her speech. She spotted me immediately. “Mr. Mansfield will not see you,” she said firmly before I’d even had a chance to speak.
Marshall motioned for me to step back. Her way of saying, “I got this.” She pulled out her badge and showed it to the woman. “Special Agent Marshall, FBI. We need to have a word with Mr. Mansfield.”
“I will page him, Agent Marshall. You might have to wait.” Not the least bit fazed by an FBI Special Agent. The perfect front-desk receptionist for a successful D.C. law firm.
And wait is what we did. A few people arrived and were escorted back by the receptionist after checking in. Other people left, usually after stopping by the front desk to schedule their next appointment. I entertained myself reading a movie review of Forrest Gump in People Magazine. It sounded interesting, something to see with Jessica. Agent Marshall was telling me about Speed with Keanu Reeves and a relative newcomer, Sandra Bullock, when a tall, lean man in his late forties or early fifties entered the lobby from the office area unescorted, eyed us briefly, then left. He wore a gray linen suit. No tie. Crisp white shirt. The shoes were the real giveaway. Leather wingtips made in Britain. Dressy enough to go with the suit. Yet, shoes known for their comfort and function, meant to be worn by men who didn’t sit behind a desk all day. I snickered quietly as the man exited the front door of Dornbracht, Mansfield, and Villeroy, which prompted Marshall to ask what I found funny.
“I’ll tell you later.”
After another five minutes, the receptionist escorted us to Mansfield’s office. Mansfield was standing behind his desk as we entered. He forwent shaking our hands. “Dr. McCain, you�
�ve brought a guest..”
“Meet Special Agent Ann Marshall of the FBI,” I said.
“Yes, my receptionist informed me.” Mansfield’s look and tone told us he was not impressed. “To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure? Or is this the time you tell me to run and hide?” His voice dripped with a syrupy sarcasm, the kind it seemed only rich people ever used.
Mansfield remained standing behind his desk. As if to imply our time with him was limited. He seemed less afraid of me than at our last encounter. “Special Agent Marshall of the FBI, did he tell you of his previous threats against me?”
“He mentioned your earlier meeting. I understand promises were made.”
“Threats, not promises.”
Marshall replied, “You can file a complaint with the local police, Mr. Mansfield. Maybe you should start with Officer Scott Simpson. I have his badge number and precinct written down in my notes if you’d like me to get that for you.”
Some of the spirit drained out of Mansfield’s face as Marshall mentioned Scott Simpson, the name on the ID I lifted from one of the officers who attacked me in the parking garage.
“Are you finished?” I asked Mansfield in an irritated tone.
“I figured the FBI agent should be aware of the threats.”
“Promises, not threats,” I said to Mansfield. “Never mind. Special Agent Marshall, on my last encounter with George Mansfield, I made him a promise. I told him if I discovered he’d hurt my friend, then I would turn him into flower fertilizer.” I turned to Mansfield. “Are you happy now?”
He did not respond.
“On my last visit,” I resumed, “I told you about Boyd’s rental car, about police finding it shot up in Wisconsin days after Boyd reported to us that you sent men after him.”
“I told you I never sent anyone after Mr. Dallas.”
“Simply telling me doesn’t make it so, Mansfield,” I replied gruffly.
Mansfield looked at Agent Marshall but was rewarded with her best poker face. “I told you last time, McCain, I can’t prove a negative, nor am I required to do so. Therefore, why don’t you tell me why you’re here, then be on your way.”
Deadly Promise Page 27
