Witness Rejection

by David R Lewis

  “Crockett, this ain’t kosher, son,” Cletus said.

  “What isn’t?”

  “This whole Phillip Metzger thing. This ol’ boy was convicted of jury tampering, money laundering, racketeering, and a bunch of RICO violations. Just missed a couple of conspiracy to commit murder convictions. Sent his ass to Marion.”

  “Jesus.”

  “You got that right. Not a nice place. ‘Bout two years ago, for no reason that I can locate, the sumbitch gets transferred to a minimum-security country club in upstate New York. Then he disappears.”

  “What?”

  “Yep. I can’t find a release date, I can’t find out if he’s still in the joint, I can’t find out shit. Officially the Federal Bureau of Ignorance never heard of him. No files available after the move from Marion, no record of appeal, no record of judgment, nothin’. It’s like he doesn’t exist. Our own personal Area 51. I even got a hold of a ol’ boy in the witless protection bunch that owes me big time. Got a big fat ‘no comment.’ Sorry, Crockett, I can’t find out shit. I even tried to get a hold of some of the transcripts from the trial. Supposed to be public record. Not available. Tried for standard investigative reports, known associates, habits, stuff like that. Not available. Best I can tell you is that there’s some kinda cover-up in progress, and it goes way above my pay grade. Denial ain’t just a river in Africa.”

  “Metzger must have some juice.”

  “More than me,” Clete said.

  “Need one more favor.”

  “Go ahead on.”

  “Check back with your guy in witness protection and see what you can find out about either a Mary Lou Shaffer or a Carson no-middle-name Bailey.”

  “Carson Bailey?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That name rings a bell.”

  “One of Ruby’s friends. I’m doing her a favor.”

  “There ya go, goddammit.”

  “What?”

  “Crockett, do you ever mind your own goddam bidness? Yer gittin’ old enough now that if you fall offa that big white horse a yours, yer liable to bust a hip.”

  Crockett grinned. “I didn’t know you were so concerned about me, Texican.”

  “I ain’t. I’m concerned about me. Ever fuckin’ time you git a burr under yer blanket, I wind up gittin’ shit all over my boots! You git in a pile an’ then drag me right in there with ya.”

  “You gonna help, or not?”

  “A course. I ain’t no smarter than you are. Least it don’t sound like they’s no haints mixed up in this mess.”

  “That accent of yours is getting awful thick, Cletus.”

  “Well kiss my diction, son. I’ll be in touch.”

  Crockett was left grinning at a dead phone. He called Satin.

  “Could I interest you in a dirty weekend under the Peculiar water tower, little lady?”

  “I’ve spent several dirty weekends with you, Crockett, and every damn one of ‘em was peculiar. What do you want?”

  “I need a really big favor.”

  “This involve whipped cream or WD-40?”

  “Nope.”

  “In that case, what can I do?”

  “You can hide a damsel in distress in your apartment for a while. I’ve got her out here with me right now, but it’s just a matter of time before this location’ll be blown. She needs help, Satin.”

  “What’s the trouble?”

  “Don’t wanna go into it over the phone. Thought maybe you could come out Friday and hang for a while. Take her back in with you when you go.”

  “This an old girlfriend?”

  “No.”

  “This a new girlfriend?”

  “No.”

  “You gonna have Hawk help you with this, Spenser?”

  Crockett grinned. “Hawk’s in Bangladesh. It’s just us, Susan.”

  Satin sighed. “You’re getting ready to be a hero again, aren’tcha?”

  “God, I hope not.”

  “Sure you are. It’s your nature, sweetheart. It’s just one of the reasons that I love you.”

  “What are the rest of them?”

  “Don’t wanna go into it over the phone,” Satin said. “She needs help, she’s got it. You, on the other hand, I’m not so sure about.”

  “Thanks, Satin. I owe ya.”

  “No, you don’t. You just watch your ass, Crockett.”

  “I’d rather watch yours.”

  “Leave my ass outa this. I’ll see ya in a couple of days. Love you.”

  “Likewise.”

  She hung up.

  Carson came through the door carrying her empty glass. She had one of Crockett’s big bath towels wrapped around her waist.

  “I put the cover on the tub,” she said. “More tea?”

  “In the fridge. Got you set up with a different place to stay.”

  “With your friend, uh…”

  “Satin,” Crockett said.

  “Satin,” Carson echoed, her head inside the fridge. She poured a fresh glass of tea and held the pitcher up in his direction. Crockett shook his head. She returned it to the refrigerator and sat down across from him at the dinette.

  “Don’t be offended at what I’m going to say,” she said. “Okay?”

  “Sure.”

  “You’re doing a lot for me. Can I hire you?”

  “Hire me?”

  “You know, like a bodyguard, or a detective, or something?”

  “Sure. Ten dollars a day, plus expenses.”

  “C’mon. I have money.”

  “No, you cannot hire me.”

  “Why not?”

  “’Cause then you’d be my boss. I ain’t workin’ fer no woman, little lady. It ain’t natural.”

  Carson grinned. “You can be a real asshole sometimes. You know that?”

  “Part of my charm.”

  “You really won’t let me pay you?”

  “In lieu of monetary reward, my dear,” Crocket said, bumping his eyebrows, “I am prepared to offer you plan B.”

  “Oh, shit,” Carson said, and headed for the rear of the bus with her iced tea.

  Crockett lit a Sherman, got a Guinness out of the fridge, and returned to the dinette.

  In the quiet, he heard a low chuckle waft out of the bedroom.

  After a lunch of tuna salad sandwiches and potato salad, Carson, looking a little haggard, retired to the bedroom for a nap. Crockett went through a box of his stuff, found his old Justice Department ID, badge, diver’s license, and credit card, all under the name of Daniel Beckett, that Clete had provided him after Rachael’s murder. The paperwork had all expired. Only the badge remained viable. He was contemplating the right approach to use on the Texican to get everything valid again in case he needed it when his cell phone rang. It was a realtor from Johnson County, Kansas. The townhouse he and Ruby had created was sold and where would he like the funds deposited.

  Shortly after he’d moved to the area, Crockett had opened an account at the Platte Valley Bank on Highway 169 in Smithville. He gave the realtor the information, then phoned the bank and told them what to expect. Jesus. He’d made enough off his portion of the townhouse to pay for the land, the cabin, and have half again that much left over. He’d never been more solvent in his life. He was contemplating the chubbiness of his monetary worth when his house phone went off. It was Clete.

  “Son, I don’t know what the hell you have got yourself into this time, but this here is a bag a rats.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Mary Lou Shaffer’s unknown to the Feebies. At least that’s the official story. My guy in witless projection had heard of her. I could tell by the way he paused before he gave me the company line. Carson Bailey is also unknown. That’s another lie. I’d feel a lot better about all this if he just said that he couldn’t tell me. A fibbin’ Feebie gits my ruff up. A U.S. Marshal lyin’ to me makes it worse.”

  “For being unknown,” Crockett said, watching Carson yawn her way out of the bedroom, “the Feebs sure got at least one
agent watching her.”

  “No shit?”

  “No shit. Young, short hair, light brown suit off the discount rack, black shiny shoes. So inconspicuous he might as well have been wearing an armadillo for a hat.”

  “Just one?”

  “How many armadillos does a guy need?”

  “Just one agent, goddammit.”

  “Just one that I saw,” Crockett said. “Hang on a minute.” He turned to Carson. “You remember any of the FBI agents that put you in the protection program?”

  Carson thought a moment. “The special agent in charge was a guy named Joseph Beckner. The other two called him Joe.”

  “How old was he?”

  “Fifty, maybe fifty-five.”

  “This was twelve years ago?”

  “Give or take a few months.”

  Crockett directed his attention back to the phone. “Fella named Joe Beckner was her case agent until thay passed her over to the witness program. He’d be into his 60’s by now. Probably not even with the bureau anymore.”

  “I’ll see what I can find out about him,” Clete said. “What the hell is going on, anyway?”

  “Carson is being watched. At least she was. I got her out of sight with me for now. Moving her to a safe house in a couple of days. Could be that Metzger is loose. If he is, she could be in real danger. She helped the F, B, and I put him away while she was married to the guy. In open court, he swore he’d kill her. She believed him.”

  “You need me on site, wherever the hell that is?”

  “I don’t know. A suave sophisticate like you just might go stir crazy out here among the seed pines and all. What I do need is Daniel Beckett resurrected. Justice ID, driver’s license, credit card, the whole ball of wax. Could you do that for me?”

  “Could the Lone Ranger ride a horse?”

  Crockett grinned. “Why, yes,” he said. “I believe he could.”

  “I’ll git that stuff in the mail to you. Care to share your address?”

  Crockett gave it to him. “Thanks, Texican.”

  “You be careful, Crockett. Could be a rattler in this can a worms.”

  “I have the strength of ten because my heart is pure.”

  “Ten what? For that matter, pure what?”

  The phone went dead.

  “Who was that?” Carson asked.

  “My research assistant,” Crockett said. “We detective bodyguards all have research assistants. Or secretaries. Usually blond, short skirts, big…eyes. You know the type, doncha, sweetheart?”

  Carson’s eyes got spacy and round. She fluffed her hair. “Oh, Mike,” she breathed. “Call me Mona.”

  Crockett laughed. “Miss Michigan, huh?” he asked.

  Carson blinked a few times. “I just want to thank my mom and dad,” she said, “and ask everybody to pray for whirled peas.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Getting to Know You

  The damn thing about asking questions was, Crockett had noticed, that questions were more likely to lead to more questions than they were to answers. He was so engaged in his recliner after a late dinner of small baked potatoes and tilapia, when Carson finished clearing away the dishes and flopped on the couch.

  She peered at him. “You awake?”

  “Thinking, Mona. My mind is awash in fleeting nodes of deep examination.”

  Carson crossed her legs Indian style and leaned back. Nudge levitated to lay beside her, his purr stopping only when he paused to clean more of the left over fish juice off his face. Dundee was asleep beside the driver’s seat.

  “Any conclusions?” she asked.

  Crockett snorted. “I don’t get it. I don’t get why the Feebies would shut off all information on your ex, twelve years into a mandatory twenty-five, unless he’s loose. I don’t get why somebody convicted of all the stuff he was convicted of would be turned loose. I don’t get why he’d be dumb enough to come after you after threatening you in front of a courtroom full of witnesses. I don’t get why the Feebs would put a hold on any information about you or Mary Lou Shaffer. I don’t get why, if you no longer exist, some weenie in shades and a hundred dollar suit was standing outside your store in ninety-five degree heat. And I don’t get how, when it is usually not the case, your ex could find you anyway. The witless injection program works. Those boys know how to keep a secret.”

  “Is there anything you do get?”

  “When all possible answers to a problem are discarded except one, that one, no matter how unlikely, is probably correct. Then there’s the Principle of Parsimony.”

  “There’s what?”

  “The Principle of Parsimony. If you’re standing outside in the driveway and you hear hoof beats, think horses, not zebras. Go for the most uncomplicated answer. You know, Occam’s Razor.”

  “Whose razor?”

  “Occam. Occam’s Razor. The simplest solution is almost always the best.”

  Carson smiled. “Oh, yeah?”

  “Sure,” Crockett said. “For instance, why does a hummingbird hum?”

  Carson shrugged and shook her head, playing along. “Golly,” she said. “I don’t know. Why does a hummingbird hum?”

  “’Cause he had to hock his clarinet.”

  Carson picked up a pillow beside her and threw it at him. “Know why they call those throw pillows?” she asked.

  “Lemme think,” Crockett said.

  Carson smiled. “Bedtime,” she said, standing up. “I appreciate what you’re doing for me, Crockett. I really do.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. But not enough to accompany me to the dump and slug rats with Skinny Doogan.”

  “Maybe tomorrow night,” she said, and Crockett watched her walk away down the hall.

  Disturbed from his sleepy-eyed feline contemplation, Nudge lashed his tail and “myrrphed.”

  “You got that right, old man,” Crockett said.

  Crockett awoke shortly after daybreak, still fully dressed, still in the recliner. Across the room, Carson was stretched out on the couch, lightly snoring under the top sheet she’d removed from the bed. Nudge sat on the back of the couch, his ears owled, and stared at her. Dundee wiggled her butt by the door. Stifling a groan, Crockett lurched to his feet, his right hand pressed against the small of his back, and gimped to the door to let the dog out, then quietly eased down the hall to the bathroom. Thirty minutes later, freshly showered and shaved, he finished rubbing Absorbase into the end of his leg and slid a clean cotton bootie over the stump. He put on his appliance, slipped into a pair of light denim peasant’s pants, put on a tenni-runner to match the one on his after-market foot, donned a light blue bonefishing shirt he ordered on line from Cabela’s, and went to the kitchen, his ponytail still damp.

  To avoid waking Carson with the noise of the grinder, he got some dark roast Columbian out of the cabinet he’d prepared the afternoon before for just such an occasion, put water on to boil, and dragged out his French press. He whisked four eggs with a dash of cream, added a little dill and cilantro, a handful of shredded white cheddar, two finely chopped deli slices of Black Forrest ham, some diced sweet red pepper, and left it on the counter to warm up. He cut off about eight inches of French bread from a long loaf atop the fridge, sliced it most of the way through in four pieces, added real butter, freshly cracked pepper, and chopped garlic out of a jar, wrapped the whole thing in foil, and turned the oven on three-fifty. He then poured himself some thick Jamaican from the night before, added a little water, and put the cup in the microcave. A minute later he took a sip, winced, added cream, and returned the coffee to the mic for another thirty seconds. Cup in hand, he revisited the recliner, put his feet up, and sighed. He was most of the way through the coffee, when Carson stirred and opened one eye as she snuggled underneath the sheet.

  “Morning,” she said, her voice raspy with sleep and her face awash in butterscotch hair.

  “Back atcha. You okay?”

  Carson’s nod was exaggerated and jerky. “Uh-huh,” she croaked, stretching a bit and g
runting lightly. “Had to sleep out here,” she went on. “Too alone in the bedroom. Needed to be closer. That all right?”

  Crockett smiled, catching a glimpse of Mary Lou. “That’s just fine,” he said, resisting the scent of morning woman.

  “I’m sure messing up your life,” Carson went on, pulling the cover up over her head and stretching again. “No privacy and stuff. You snore.”

  “Don’t get mouthy. You’re a guest here. Act like one.”

  Carson chuckled, swung her feet to the floor, and swayed into a sitting position. The cover fell from her face and she stared blankly at nothing, her chin supported in her hands braced by elbows propped on knees. She was wearing a Mickey Mouse t-shirt, men’s pajama bottoms, and white sweat socks. “I feel like I’m hung over or something,” she said.

  “You are. Don’t you remember how much you had to drink last night?”

  Carson peered at him through errant locks.

  “I had no idea you could tap dance like that,” Crockett said. “And then, of course, there was what happened later. It was the most wonderful night of my life, Mary Lou. Seriously. Wanna go to the spring mixer with me?”

  “Sorry,” she said, creaking to her feet. “I’m pinned to an AKL. Last night was just a horrible mistake.” She staggered away toward the bathroom.

  “Breakfast in fifteen minutes, baby,” Crockett said. “Left over pizza from the party last night. Looks pretty okay except you already ate off all the pepperoni.”

  Carson hunched under the sheet and disappeared into the bathroom without reply.

  “Those were great eggs, Crockett,” Carson said, wiping the corners of her mouth with a paper towel. “A hot shower, clean clothes, and a marvelous breakfast. I’m a new woman.”

  “Couldn’t find much wrong with the old one.”

  “A lot more than meets the eye,” Carson said, stacking their plates and avoiding his gaze as she created busy work.

  “Look,” Crockett said, “I’ve gotta go into town for a little bit. I need to talk to the Hartrick police chief. I’ve also gotta get down to the bank and square some stuff away. You be okay for a while?”