Tertiary Effects Series | Book 3 | Bite of Frost

by Allen, William

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  “Where exactly did you say you’ve been storing these bills, Mr. Hardin?” Mrs. Bisby asked, wrinkling her nose as she quickly fanned through the next stack of twenty dollar bills. Her distaste didn’t cause her to miss a trick, though, and she rapidly produced ten stacks of assorted currency, almost all of it in twenty or hundred dollar denominations. Ten thousand dollars total in cash.

  “Well, that’s actually a funny story,” I started, the lie we’d concocted mixed with enough truth to make it believable. “You may not know this, but I grew up just over in Jasper County. In fact, my late wife,” I paused, swallowed, before continuing, “my late wife’s family still resides there. After her passing, I was surprised to find out her parents were trying to join in the wrongful death suit I filed against the drunk driver that caused the accident.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Hardin,” Mrs. Bisby replied reflexively. “I never knew…”

  “Thank you, but I’ve had almost five years to get used to it,” I explained, then drew a calming breath as I continued. “Colette’s family also tried to challenge her will, claiming I’d exerted undue influence. We were each other’s only beneficiaries, with our son Charlie as the sole beneficiary if we should both pre-decease him. Anyway, it was a bad time for me. Their lawyer managed to get my assets frozen for a short time, and when everything was said and done, I decided I didn’t want to ever have all my funds tied up in the bank if something like that should ever happen again.”

  Every word I said was the truth. I hated like hell to dredge up those hateful memories, but I did it anyway. We needed to move some of this tainted cash before it became so much kindling, so what better way to launder the funds than to pay it out to the county? Plus, we already literally ran it through a wash once, to remove some of the cocaine trace from the bills. I wish I could say I came with the idea, but Nikki was the one to suggest it not long after we claimed the cash from Sheriff Landshire’s vault. Not in the washing machine, actually, but using an old foot tub and scentless clothes detergent. That left the bills wrinkled, and we stuffed them in cracked Mason jars to get the right texture after they dried.

  So, the next step required a cover story. And again, part of it was true. I did learn from my unscrupulous former in-laws and decided to keep a large stash of dollars on hand in case of lightning struck twice.

  “So that’s why they’re all…curled?”

  “I stuck them in jars and left them in somewhere out of the way. I guess I didn’t seal the lids tight enough, so with this humidity, they ended up like that. Still legal tender, though.”

  “Yes, I guess you are correct. Now, that takes care of the down payment,” Mrs. Bisby concluded. “And for the rest?”

  Mike and I both produced our check books for accounts at the local bank and wrote out the agreed amount. That pretty well drained my personal funds at the bank, but that was okay. We’d just made sure we wouldn’t acquire any threatening neighbors in our little community, and that peace of mind was priceless. Now all we had to do was hold onto what we had.

  Mrs. Bisby wrote out receipts for all three separate payments, and I gave her a list of the names to appear on the deed to the property once it had been prepared. All would receive an undivided interest in the Fitts property.

  “Thank you for your help,” I said to Mrs. Bisby, and she thanked us for our business, no mention of the irregularities in the transaction, and informed us the necessary documents would be ready on Tuesday. That made me pause, but Mike put his hand on my shoulder and whispered, “It’s Friday, Bryan.”

  I nodded, not wanting to admit I’d lost a few days in there somewhere, and we trooped out of the old brick building, then cut an angle for Mike’s truck. We could have walked to the Sheriff’s office, but I agreed with Mike that keeping a close eye on the truck was paramount, so we parked in front of the building and crawled back out of the truck.

  “Got to get those holes fixed,” I chided Mike, “This weather is too cold to be driving around with the air conditioner going full blast.”

  “Ha. Ha.” Mike replied testily as we pushed through the front door and strolled into the entry vestibule. The truck was his baby after all, and the moisture getting in must be hell on the heated leather seats.

  “Hey, you can’t bring…Oh, hey Bryan, Mike. Sorry, come on in,” the desk sergeant called out, and he buzzed us through the side door past the front foyer.

  Other than a few straight-back chairs, the front room of the office was bare down to the cracked linoleum except for those four lightweight wooden seats. The desk sergeant actually sat at what I thought of as an old fashioned bank teller window, with what I presumed to be ballistic glass walling off his part of the front end of the Sheriff’s Office from the rest of the public area. If you wanted behind the curtain, you needed someone to buzz you in.

  Frank Ruffalo was the new desk sergeant, and one of the nicer members of the department even under Landshire’s watch. He was in his fifties, with salt and pepper hair and a neat goatee that came to a point at his chin. He’d come over to the office after working for years on patrol, and according to comments made by Corporal Tanner the day before, no one had been more upset to find out about their former sheriff’s criminal activities than Ruffalo. He’d been Tanner’s training officer, and you could tell the young African-American officer looked up to the old veteran deputy.

  “Hey, Frank,” I waved back as we emerged through the other side of the thick metal security door. “Can you keep and eye on our ride out front? As you can see, it’s already seen too much attention.”

  “Got you covered, Bryan. Glad to see you’re okay after that mess yesterday. Getting shot at on the highway into town? That’s just crazy.” Frank lowered his voice, and I leaned closer to hear his next question. I could see he had something serious on his mind. Just from what little I had been around him, I gauged that Ruffalo might be an excellent source of information. His job clearly placed him right in the middle of everything.

  “Do you think they were targeting you because you’re with the department? Anything on your truck to show you as a reserve deputy?”

  I shook my head. “There’s a light bar on the front of Mike’s truck, but you can’t see it unless you’re up close. Nah, just bad luck.”

  “Bad luck for them is what I heard,” Frank retorted with a bit of a snicker in his voice. “I heard the Sheriff’s ‘special deputy squad’ went after that murdering pack yesterday. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you, counselor?”

  I held up my hands in mock horror. “That sounds like something outside my area of expertise, sergeant. My brother-in-law has some tracking skills, and he came out to look over the site, then reported what he saw to Captain Cromwell.”

  “Yeah, right back at you, sergeant,” Ruffalo countered. “Yeah, I know Terry made you a reserve sergeant, Bryan. I’m not one for talking out of school, but good job anyway.” He went on in congratulation. “I imagine that bald-headed brother-in-law of yours would say he knows nothing as well?”

  “That would likely be correct,” I responded carefully, eyeing Mike, then I had a question of my own. “You hear something about deputies being targeted somewhere?”

  “Yeah, up in Kilgore. City cops, though. Yesterday, somebody hit three of them in two hours. Sniper work. Just getting the details in time for roll call this morning. Sheriff has everybody who’s out on patrol wearing their vests.”

  Mike and I exchanged a look, and I could tell the news was not something he’d known about. I felt a chill at the idea, because I’d already been targeted enough even without a badge.

  “They catch ‘em?” I asked, unable to resist the urge.

  “You bet. Some white supremacists who got displaced out of Lumberton,” the older sergeant explained. “Two of them, taking shots at African-American officers. Ended up in a standoff until the SWAT guys showed up.”

  “Jeez, Sergeant, that’s bad for their families,” I replied wi
th sympathy. “I hope we don’t see any of that kind of stuff around here.”

  “Bryan, I’ve only been here in the office since Terry, I mean, Sheriff Bastrop, brought me in for this gig. You know as well as I do that its only a matter of time before the wheels come off.” Sergeant Ruffalo lowered his voice, then continued. “People are already acting crazy. Like that demonstration yesterday at the school.”

  “You mean the draft protest thing?” I queried.

  “They’re just getting the rolls updated, but half those people over there think the government is going to march their baby boy out in the field on Day One with a rifle and expect them to start shooting Mexican soldiers. Just plain ignorant.” Frank Ruffalo explained with a disgusted snort. “Most of those boys would benefit from either a swift kick in the posterior, or a little discipline from a drill instructor. Just my opinion, though.”

  Mike laughed, and I had to hide my own smile when I heard my brother muttering, “Bunch of snowflakes.”

  “I think the idea is to get them some of that discipline you mentioned, and likely weed out any malcontents from those temporary displaced persons facilities.”

  “Refugee camps are a dangerous breeding ground for future trouble,” Mike chimed in to agree with me, more serious now. “We saw plenty of it in Iraq, and Pat has talked about them in other places, too. We need to get those young men some kind of an outlet for their energy, or we’re liable to see more riots.”

  “Above my paygrade. That’s for the bigwigs decide,” Frank conceded. “Anyway, go on back. The Sheriff already left word to send you in when you got here.”

  “Thanks, Frank. You watch yourself out there, too.”

  Frank grinned and leaned back to tap the glass. “Unless they got an RPG or something in 50 caliber, I think I’m going to be fine.”

  I started to say something about having to go home at some point, but swallowed my words. After the hurricanes, who knew if the man had a home anymore. He might be one of the deputies bunking in the temporary barracks the Sheriff opened up in the old part of the building for some of the suddenly homeless deputies.

  Instead, I followed Mike back further past the front of the two-story building and back to the windowless suite of offices that Sheriff Bastrop claimed as his nerve center. No county officials were lurking today, but I saw Buddy Cromwell seated at one of the secretarial bays, banging away on a desktop keyboard and muttering under his breath as he worked.

  “Oh, sweetie, can you run and get us some coffee? One cream and two sugars,” Mike sassed, and Captain Cromwell looked up with a stormy frown. Mike didn’t really know the former chief of police that well, but the two of them had hit it off after the shoot out in the Wilson Feed parking lot. Like Mike, Buddy had spent time in the Army, but as an MP, and the shared background served to give them a basis for giving each other grief.

  “Is that some kind of attempt at sexist humor, Deputy Hardin? I’m going to have to assume you’ve read the Human Resources Handbook…” Buddy started, but I held up a hand in surrender and glared at my brother for his smart remark.

  “Some other time, boys. I’m too tired for the floorshow today. Sheriff in?”

  “Yeah, and I just brought him his coffee. You’ll have to get your own.”

  “Thanks, Captain,” I replied, tipping my hat to him as I opened the office door and found Sheriff Bastrop bent over a sheaf of papers, half-moon reading glasses perched on the bridge of his nose.

  “Not bothering to knock any more? I might have been busy with something important, you know.” The sheriff grumbled, reminding me of his subordinate in the outer office.

  “If you couldn’t hear our voices outside Sheriff, it might be time to get a hearing aid to go along with those cheaters,” I shot back, mustering a tired smile as I spoke.

  “Well, if you’re here, you might as well come on in and grab a seat. Is that your brother I hear outside, bugging my Captain?”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll grab him,” I responded, and did just that, dragging Mike into the office and shutting the door.

  As Mike and I settled into the hard wood chairs, I took a moment to look around the large office. The desk was all metal, and looked like it had been purchased at a second-hand store. The wood panel walls showed where numerous plaques and hangers had been removed, and I sensed rather than knew that the space had been purged of any reference to the previous occupant. I hadn’t noticed any of this on my previous visit, but then I’d had other things going on at the time.

  “I understand you received a tip yesterday regarding those hijackers, Sheriff. Did you find out anything?” I began, opening the delicate dance. For his part, Sheriff Bastrop snorted and shook his head.

  “Still want to play games, counselor? Okay, we can have it your way. Yes, we received a tip. Officers responded and found the remains of sixteen suspected hijackers, as well as the three eighteen wheelers that were stolen. As near as we can tell, the cargoes were intact, though some of the loads had been moved around. No weapons were recovered from the scene, but we found communications gear and a laptop computer that our computer tech is busy vacuuming for leads. It might interest you to know that we found shipping invoices for four other missing trucks in addition to the three that were recovered. What I don’t have are any prisoners to interrogate. Care to comment?”

  From his seat next to me, I heard Mike mutter under his breath, “Sixteen?”

  “I’m sure if you check the bodies, you will find all of them likely suffered serious gunshot injuries inflicted as a result of the fight. I’d wager none were executed or tortured.”

  “I thought your, I mean, my understanding was there were only seven or eight hostiles on site,” Sheriff Bastrop probed.

  “I’m sure I cannot say, sheriff, but it was likely they received last-minute reinforcements to serve as escorts. I’m sure whoever took on those desperados were equally surprised at the numbers.”

  “Okay, let’s quit playing games, Bryan. What the hell happened?” Sheriff Bastrop demanded, and I could see he was concerned about something. I decided it was time to drop the act.

  “Alright, Wil didn’t see the newcomers arriving from his vantage out back, and we didn’t find out until we were already engaged,” I admitted. “We really did try to take prisoners, but between our frontal assault and Pat’s flanking maneuver, we caught them in a vise. More importantly, none of them tried to surrender. What’s got you riled up, Sheriff?”

  “When we ran the fingerprints, almost all of them were flagged. That’s what.”

  “Who flagged them? And why?” I asked, nervous now of attracting any official interest outside our little circle of trust.

  “Don’t know who, and don’t know why. They popped up with DOJ tags, but that’s it. Hell, we almost missed it. Anyway, twelve of the sixteen had felony convictions. The other four were inmates up until a month ago. Early release. But those twelve, I couldn’t find anything on their current whereabouts until the showed up in that barn.”

  “Maybe they were more early releases after the quakes?” I asked, doubt in my voice.

  “No way. Not these boys,” Sheriff Bastrop scoffed. “Has the stink of a prison break, but they aren’t in the system that way.”

  “What exactly were they in for?” Mike asked, now fully engaged in the conversation as he started pulling puzzle pieces together. “The ones that were early release, I mean.”

  “Computer fraud, and identity theft. Part of some big ring, apparently. The others, before you ask, had a laundry list of violent offenses ranging from aggravated assault to murder, but there were also some other links. Known associates, other lockups together. But, the last confirmed location for all twelve was ADX Florence.”

  Seeing the looks of incomprehension on our faces, Sheriff Bastrop rewarded us with a grim smile of triumph. “Finally, something you don’t know. That’s a Federal Supermax prison in Colorado. That’s where the feds send the worst of the worst. The real hardcases. And…wait for it…gang soldiers and
their bosses.”

  “Well, hell. You mean to tell me these characters were all members of some prison gang? Or organized crime group? And the feds are looking for them, too?” Mike lamented.

  “What ID we found all linked back to around Baytown or Pasadena, sheriff. Does that mean anything to you? Because if you remember, the one clue I got out of that survivor from the hit on Wade’s place said there was a militia group out of Baytown in the area,” I continued, picking up the thread from Mike’s comment.

  “Yes, I haven’t forgotten that little tidbit. I’ve got guys looking over all the county property records, trying to identify some kind of location where these guys might be operating. Losing that many men is either going to cripple their plans, or…”

  “Piss off the bosses enough to come looking for the source of their pain,” I said, finishing the Sheriff’s thought for him. As we sat there, I thought more about what the Sheriff said, and the geography of the supposed refugees from the Gulf Coast.

  “What about drugs? Or ATF violations?” I asked, almost to myself, but the Sheriff picked up on it.

  “What are you thinking? Smugglers of some sort? That would fit their MO for sure.”

  “Proximity to the Port of Houston,” Mike said, summing up our supposition. “You think the gang or crew was involved in moving contraband through the Port, don’t you?”

  I had to shrug. “Those that were on walkabout from the Supermax facility together, they were all tied together, weren’t they?”

  The Sheriff gave me a hard stare.

  “That’s my read on it. And no, the known associates list doesn’t clue us to who the real boss might be. I’m sure the Feds know, but you might be surprised to know how little the share with small town sheriffs.”

  “Shocking,” I retorted, deadpan. “Though, given your predecessor, maybe not the worst idea.”

  Sheriff Bastrop had the decency to wince at my words, but he couldn’t complain, and he knew I was busting his chops from what I said. Still, I sensed it was still a sensitive subject, so I moved on.