UnderCover

by David R Lewis

  “Where these people gettin’ their coke?”

  Crockett smiled. “From me,” he replied.

  Pelmore’s eyebrows twitched. “Where the hell you gettin’ it?”

  “From other members of the constabulary. The deal is set. You can see why delay might bring some sort of action against me and my sisters. That would be bad.”

  Pelmore grimaced and munched some fries while he stared at the tabletop. “I’ll have to get a warrant,” he said. “You a reliable informant?”

  “Yep.”

  “You’ll testify?”

  “Nope.”

  “Then what fuckin’good are ya?”

  Crockett reached into his jacket and removed two CD’s in jewel cases. “That is the original and a copy,” he said. “These disks contain the individual in question and his main man discussing their nefarious activities, the murder of one of their employees, and the hiding of your undercover operative’s body on public land in Hart County.”

  “Where in Hart County?”

  “They didn’t say.”

  Pelmore looked at Crockett. “Who the fuck are you?”

  Crockett laid his Justice Department ID and badge on the table. Pelmore took a bite of his sandwich, picked up the ID, and peered at it for a moment.

  “Again,” he said. “No shit?”

  “None,” Crockett replied.

  “Okay, sweetheart,” Pelmore went on. “Why me? Why us? You guys got the means and manpower, even if this is a little out of your scope. How come you’re bringing this to me?”

  “Because this is off the books,” Crockett said. “We’re doing this on our own time and with our own resources. This is a favor to a widow, Sarge. A widow with two children whose husband, a state cop once assigned to your division, has been dead for four years. A young woman who has received no closure and none of the benefits to which she is entitled. A widowed wife with lots of questions and no answers, with lots of need and no assistance, because your division, has, for whatever reason, ignored the death of Paul McGill. Meanwhile, a few people with no connection to this travesty except the widow’s needs, have been risking their lives to see that justice is served. Does the term justice mean anything to you, Pelmore?”

  Pelmore flared. “Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to, asshole?”

  “I am talking, to the one man who can change things. The one man who can make a difference. The one man who can help Paul McGill’s widow and children.”

  “Damn right you are,” Pelmore said. “Gimme a number where I can reach you. I’ll get on it and call you tonight for details.” He glanced at the sky. “I assume you got a ride ahead a you. It was me, I’d get on the road. Looks like rain.”

  Crockett stood up. “Thanks, Sergeant,” he said.

  “Won’t hurt my career none,” Pelmore replied. He turned to Stitch. “Air-Cav, huh?”

  “Hop ‘em and drop ‘em, Chief. In an’ out, never a doubt,” Stitch grinned. “I love the smell of napalm in the mornin’.”

  They rode the last thirty minutes of the trip home in the rain.

  It was evening after a light dinner of tuna salad sandwiches and tomato soup. The group sat in the living area as Clete and Crockett sipped scotch and watched Stitch roll a small marijuana cigarette, or in his words, twist up a pinner. Crockett grinned as Clete interrogated Stitch.

  “Do you gotta do that?” Clete asked.

  Stitch smiled. “Drink your booze, man,” he said.

  “Son, that there ain’t exactly legal.”

  “Nope,” Stitch said, laying his tiny accomplishment on the coffee table and closing the plastic bag. “Neither is your sister, man, but I don’t hassle her.”

  Clete watched him lean back and relax. “You gonna smoke that or what?”

  “Lettin’ it dry a little, dude. These are cannabis papers, man. Cannabis papers are made outa reefer an’ they ain’t got no glue. I wanna smoke dope, ya know? I don’t wanna smoke paper an’ glue.”

  “Why doncha use a pipe?”

  “I ain’t gotta pipe,” Stitch said. “You writin’ a book?”

  “Just conductin’ a little research on the behavior of members of the drug counter-culture.”

  “Far out,” Stitch said. He lit the joint and took two deep hits while Crockett and Clete watched, then licked his fingers, extinguished the glowing tip, and put it back on the coffee table.

  “That all?” Clete asked.

  “Yeah. This is some premo shit, dude. I don’t wanna get fucked up. I just wanna mellow out, ya know? Same thing you guys are doin’ with the scotch. Don’t wanna get drunk, just kick back. Dig it.”

  Crockett’s satellite phone rang. “That’ll be Pelmore,” he said. He grabbed the phone and left the room.

  It was nearly an hour before Crockett returned. He flopped into the recliner like he hadn’t slept in days. “We’re set,” he said. “Tomorrow night, ten o’clock, at Leoni’s Cycles, through the back overhead door.”

  “Pelmore squared away?” Clete asked.

  “Yeah. He and his guys’ll be in town around noon to get the lay of the land. He’ll call me late in the day to finalize things, then I’ll call him just before we leave to do the deal. We’ll be watched. We go in, make the sale, and leave. They’ll give us ten minutes or so to get out of the area before they hit the place.”

  “At least, that’s the plan,” Clete said.

  “Pelmore’s got a no-knock warrant and five guys. We’ll be the dealers that got away. No trace of us to be found.”

  “Who’s us?” Clete asked.

  “Stitch and me,” Crockett replied. “Wook and Leoni know us. I don’t want to add a new player at this point. You stay home.”

  Clete nodded. “Makes sense,” he said. “You fellers have a good time.”

  Stitch grinned. “Should I, like, take my grenade, man?” he asked.

  “That’s something else,” Crockett continued. “I don’t think we’ll be in any real danger. We have greed on our side. If we were walking in there with three or four million dollars’ worth of shit, things could get hinky. Big chance to keep the money and the dope. But we’re not. It’s not worth it for Leoni and Wook to screw up what they believe to be a kick-ass connection for just a quarter of a million dollars. Too much to be gained as time goes by. They know me, they know where I live, they know what I drive, they know what I ride. Same with you, Stitch. You can bet they’ll be watching this place tomorrow and tailing any of us that go anywhere. They have visions of fifty to a hundred grand profit every month or two. They do not want to fuck that up. Therefore, handguns only, no wires, nothing.”

  “So I lay low and stay outa the way,” Clete said, “while the two a you go off and be heroes.”

  “That’s the way it is in logistics an’ supply, dude,” Stitch said. “Somebody else gets all the glory.” He picked up the joint and his lighter, leaned back into the couch, and grinned at Clete. “Two-thirds a this pinner left, man,” he went on. “Want some smoke, dude?”

  “Far out,” Clete replied, and moved to the couch.

  Crockett snorted and headed for his bedroom.

  The following evening, oddly enough, things went as planned. Stitch and Crockett, with ten kilos of cocaine, arrived at the cycle shop on schedule, the exchange was made without incident, and they were back at the A-frame less than thirty minutes later with two hundred fifty thousand dollars in a briefcase. Very early the following morning, Crockett’s satellite phone went off.

  “It’s done,” Pelmore said.

  “How’d it go?”

  “Got the coke, got around six kilos of what appears to be smack, got one dead motherfucker that’s hairy as hell, got Leoni and some guy named Benny under arrest, and none a my guys got hurt.”

  “Good work, Sarge. Clean sweep.”

  “I brought a couple a feds along for the ride,” Pelmore went on. “Leoni and Benny are fuckin’ outa here before the day is over. Those little girls are scared shitless. Leoni’s ready to deal his c
onnections and suppliers all the way to Afghanistan. He told us about some guy named Beckett from California. Just moved to the area a month or two ago. Deals coke. Bought a bike from him. Ring any bells with you?”

  “Not me. Never heard of him. Any word on the McGill kid?”

  “Leoni’s shovin’ all that on the hairy stiff. Wook is it?”

  “Yeah. Wook. His real name was Steven Hillman. Had a record.”

  “He says Wook did it all. Don’t know where he stashed the corpse. That could be true. You know the drill. Eventually the feds’ll get what he does know outa him. Got those recordings you gave me. It’ll take some time for that to happen, and more time for the widow to get her due, but I think everything’ll work out in the end. Be nice to have a body, but that probably ain’t in the cards. Too many years, too many lies.”

  “It’s all up to you and the feds, Sergeant. Me and my people are out of it.”

  “So what now? Now you gonna vanish like a cloud in the breeze?”

  Crockett chuckled. “I’m just the little man who wasn’t there.”

  “Yeah. Don’t worry. I ain’t gonna ask you about any quarter of a million dollars, sweet thing. Godspeed. If ya ever need anything I can provide, you know how to reach me. Thank the rest of the ladies. It’s been a pleasure.”

  Pelmore hung up. Crockett sighed. Jesus, he felt old and tired.

  Crockett knocked on the door of Cheryl McGill’s house around nine that evening. She seemed surprised.

  “Mister Crockett! Hello. Please come in.”

  “Thank you. Good to see you Cheryl.”

  “It’s good to see you, too. The girls are in bed. I have some reasonably fresh coffee.”

  “No thanks. I can’t stay. I just wanted to drop by for a moment. There has been some progress on Paul’s case. The man responsible for his death is in custody and, even though it’ll take more time that it should, you’ll receive the benefits to which you are entitled. Probably retro-active.”

  Cheryl sank to her couch and began to softly cry. Crockett, feeling like an ox in an outhouse, put down the briefcase he was carrying and sat beside her, his arm around her shoulders. When she finally began to settle down, not knowing what else to do, he went into the kitchen and got her a glass of water. She accepted it and looked at him through bloodshot eyes.

  “You did this,” she said.

  “Yes, I did,” Crockett confessed. “Getting water for pretty young women is my specialty. The next step is tequila.”

  A short laugh forced its way through her tears. “Stop it,” Cheryl said. “You know what I mean. If it weren’t for you, nothing would have ever been done.”

  “Well, nothing had been done,” Crockett said. “Let’s leave it at that.”

  “I saw a story on the news that there was a drug raid or something at a motorcycle shop up near Smithville last night. A man was killed.”

  “The times in which we live,” Crockett said.

  “You’re not going to tell me anything are you?”

  “Plausible deniability,” Crockett replied, setting the briefcase on her coffee table. “I do have this, though.”

  “What’s that?”

  “College fund for the girls,” Crockett said, opening the case. “And a little something to tide you over until you get your benefits.” He leaned down and kissed the stunned woman on the cheek. “You need me for anything,” he went on, “you’ve got my number. Have a nice life, Cheryl. Tell the girls I said hello.”

  Crockett loafed on the drive back to the A-frame and took it easy. Tomorrow he’d be busy packing up. It was finally time to go home.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  During the summer, Satin moved in with Crockett on a permanent basis, but left most of her stuff at her apartment above the Hartrick Post Office. Danni took over the apartment, continued to work at the café, and began classes on-line toward her veterinary assistant goal, with plans to reclaim her daughter by the end of the year. After August’s searing heat and humidity had departed somewhat, Crockett took it upon himself to clear a larger space for a yard. That effort lasted a day or two, until he gave up and called the dozer guy that had put in the pond. While the dozer was on hand, Crockett contacted in a surveyor and it was determined that, with a relatively minimal amount of work, the pond could be enlarged to well over twice its original size, complete with Crockett’s coveted island.

  Mid-morning on one day in late September, Crockett and Satin sat in the porch swing discussing life its ownself. The sound of the dozer’s motor rumbled in the distance.

  “We could get married in June,” Crockett said. “That’s kinda customary.”

  “What, now you’re a customary kinda guy?” Satin said.

  “We gonna fight about this, too? You make me sick.”

  Satin smiled. “June would be wonderful, dear,” she said. “I also agree with your idea to add the two story mudroom and bath on the rear of the cabin.”

  “You do?”

  “Except…”

  “U-huh. I knew it.”

  “Except,” Satin went on, “maybe a little larger so I could have a small office back there and get out of the second bedroom. That way, we could use that bedroom for our granddaughter when she comes to visit. That would give us a really large closet and bath on the second floor. Plus, when we build the garage I think we should set aside some space so you can have a workshop or something.”

  Crockett’s startled reply was interrupted by the ringing of his cell phone from the kitchen. He got up and limped inside.

  “Crockett.”

  “Carl Saunders, Crockett. How are you?”

  “Carl! Nice to hear from you. I’m fine. You okay?”

  “Oh, quite. I’ve been meaning to call you for some time now, but only this very morning did I received sufficient motivation to do so.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  “Firstly, allow me to congratulate you on resolving the situation for the McGill family. Cheryl and I spoke of it earlier in the summer.”

  “Thank you. She’s a great kid. I’m glad it worked out.”

  “As am I, Crockett. That brings me to the motivation for this call. I had a rather unusual dream last night. Not actually a dream, I suppose. More of an epiphany upon awakening, I should think.”

  “Oh?”

  “It relates to the McGill matter.”

  “Really.”

  “Yes. I feel strongly that additional information is at hand, Crockett. A discovery of some sort, perhaps. Or a realization. I’m afraid I can’t be more specific than that, except to say that you are more heavily involved in the matter than you know.”

  Crockett surprised a small shudder. “Thanks for the, uh, warning, Carl.”

  “Yes. Well, do let me know if something unusual transpires, won’t you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Perhaps at another Hereford House luncheon.”

  Crockett smiled. “Sounds good to me, Carl. I’ll be in touch.”

  “Very well, Crockett. Take care and be happy. ‘Bye.”

  Crockett refilled his coffee and returned to the porch. The distant sound of the bulldozer had stopped.

  “Who was that?” Satin asked.

  “Carl Saunders.”

  “The psychic?”

  “Yeah. Something about another discovery in the whole McGill thing coming up. I don’t know what the hell he was talking about. Carl’s a little strange.”

  Satin’s attention was diverted to the draw in front of the deck. Crockett looked to see the dozer operator, trotting through the weeds toward the house. He panted his way to the porch.

  “What’s the matter? Dozer trouble?”

  “Mor’n that, Mister Crockett. You need to come see this.”

  “What is it?”

  His eyes flickered to Satin and back. “Just come with me, okay?”

  Crockett followed the man down a dozed trail toward the rear of the land all the way to the base of the old logging road where he’d encountered
the Boggs brothers when he first bought the place. The dozer sat quietly with the blade raised a couple of feet off the ground. The guy walked to the front of the machine and pointed to the freshly disturbed earth.

  “There it is,” he said.

  Crockett looked to see what seemed to be some filthy and rotting clothing. Closer inspection revealed what appeared to him as a portion of a ribcage and hand.

  “Holy shit,” he whispered, and knelt down.

  With a small stick he carefully removed a few bits of earth and leaf-litter. A skull and displaced lower jaw were partially revealed. Beneath the jaw was a glint of something metal in the soil. Crockett bent to look more closely.

  It was a silver chain that looked just like a tiny primary chain from a motorcycle, although in miniature. A hand crafted gift, still worn by what remained of Paul McGill.

  “Aw, Jesus,” Crockett said and, suddenly covered in gooseflesh, settled to his backside on the ground.

  “You okay?” the dozer guy asked.

  “Yeah,” Crockett said. “I’m okay. But I owe Carl Sanders lunch, that’s for sure.”

  “Huh?”

  Crockett carefully clambered to his feet. “You stay right here,” he went on. “Keep an eye on this spot and don’t touch or disturb anything. I’ve gotta go back to the house and make a couple of phone calls.”

  Fifty miles away, Cheryl McGill smiled out the kitchen door as she watched her daughter walk back to the house after feeding the fish. Mandy stomped inside, returned the food to the cabinet all by herself, and turned to her mother.

  “Gramma’s gone, Mom,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Gramma’s gone.”

  “Gone?”

  “Yep.”

  “Where’d she go, honey?”

  The little girl shrugged. “Just gone,” she said.

  “Will she come back?”

  “Nope. Not anymore.”

  A numbness took her legs, and Cheryl sank into a chair and leaned on the kitchen table for support. “Are you all right, sweetheart?”