He hurriedly unloaded his saddlebags into his backpack and gathered everything he thought he would need. He didn't know when he'd return to retrieve his bike although he sensed it wouldn't be anytime soon.
Ten minutes later Kaplan rejoined the two men, who were still standing in the driveway and made an attempt at introductions. "Jeff, Tony. Tony, Jeff."
"We have already introduced ourselves," said Tony.
Jeff nodded in agreement.
"How's Kam?" Kaplan said, referring to Jeff's wife.
"Curious, as I am."
"So you told her?"
"Not much I can keep from Kam. I told her as much as I know. Which is nothing more than whatever's been blasted across the news and your cryptic phone call. How about we go inside and you can explain what trouble you and your friend have gotten into."
Kaplan moved toward the door and said, "He is not my friend."
"Amen to that," Tony mumbled.
The three men went inside where Kaplan introduced Tony to Kam and noticed her reaction when she saw Tony's bloody face.
"Your nose has been bleeding," she said. "Are you okay?"
"I am now, thank you for asking," Tony replied in a sarcastic tone. He pointed at Kaplan. "And no thanks to him. He hit me with his elbow after he hit me in the head with a rock. He says he was trying to save my life but—"
"Shut up, Tony or I'll hit you again." It only took his glowering stare to stop the old man from running his mouth.
Kam walked toward the kitchen. "Anybody want something to drink?"
Kaplan nodded, "Would you mind making some coffee? Might be a long night."
"You got it. How about some chips and homemade salsa? Jeff made it fresh today."
"That would be great," said Kaplan.
Kaplan recounted the night's events with numerous interruptions and embellishments from Tony.
After hearing the remarkable story, Jeff and Kam were quiet, almost as if shell-shocked. They sat next to each other on one of the two leather couches in the family room.
Finally Kam said, "Let me get this straight. After you evaded the car following you and rode into the quarry, a helicopter miraculously located your position and started shooting at you? Don't you find that odd?"
"Yes, as a matter of fact, I do," Kaplan said. "It was almost as if they knew we were there."
All three turned and looked at Tony.
He raised both hands palm up. "What?"
"Oh, so now you don't have a thing to say? Your Italian tongue tied?" Kaplan said. "I think you have some explaining to do."
11
Moss climbed down the air stair of the Beechcraft King Air turboprop. The flight from Chicago was mostly smooth until they got closer to Little Rock and the pilots flew through some of the left over clouds from the day's thunderstorms.
He carried with him one bag and a briefcase, more than enough to get him by for a few days—which was all the time he planned on spending investigating this case.
Deputy U.S. Marshal Jon Hepler was waiting for him inside the fixed base operator. Hepler was a few inches shorter than Moss, had thinning blond hair, and a snappy, albeit juvenile, sense of humor. He usually wore long sleeves to cover the tattoos on his forearms, a permanent reminder of his days as a police officer in a small Florida town. Tonight however, he wore short sleeves and his tattoos were visible.
On his left arm, just above his wrist was the popular police 1* shield. A play on words—one asterisk—one ass to risk. Above that were an eagle and a tattered American flag along with a depiction of his brother's dog tags. His brother, Moss remembered, was a casualty of the war in Afghanistan. On the inside of his right forearm, St. Michael, the patron saint for peace, held another 1* shield. Hepler said he put it on his right arm because that was his gun hand. As superstitious as Moss thought it was, Hepler put it there to make him faster and more accurate so that he could defeat any foe.
He had his star on his belt and his gun mounted on his hip.
Moss had known Hepler since his first day in Little Rock seven years ago. And they became good friends right away. He wasn't referred to as Jon, but rather JP.
When Moss lived in Little Rock, he and Hepler, also a Chicago Cubs fan, frequented a downtown sports bar on a regular basis, especially during baseball season.
Hepler grinned when he saw Moss, "You missed a good game tonight, Dirt Man. Cubs rallied in the ninth to take it to extra innings." Hepler had called him Dirt Man since day one. A dig on his name Pete Moss—Peat Moss.
"Asshole," Moss said. They shook hands and bumped shoulders. "The pilots couldn't find the game on the radio. ATC gave us a few updates along the way but I never heard the final score."
"Six to five. Cubbies in the eleventh."
"Sounds like I missed a good one."
"You did. It was a regular barnburner there at the end." Hepler's expression turned serious. "Weren't gone from Little Rock very long, were you, Pete?" He teased. "What? Three weeks, tops?"
"Barely two and here I am, back in this redneck hell hole again." Moss pushed his overnight bag strap over his shoulder. "Let's get moving, you can brief me on the drive in."
"By the way, prick, thanks a lot for ruining a perfectly good night's sleep."
"What?"
"Requesting me on this job at the last minute. Hell, if you wanted to talk, you could've called."
"And have you miss out on all the fun?"
"I don't know whether to thank you or shoot your ass."
"It was the least I could do for an old friend."
"Next time, don't do me any favors."
The sedan Hepler was driving was a dark green Crown Vic. It was one from the motor pool and Moss had driven it on numerous occasions. An older model worn out from years of driving on the dilapidated roads of Arkansas. Although scheduled to rotate out of the fleet at the end of the year and be exchanged for a new model, Moss doubted it would get replaced for another couple of years due to all the budget woes in Congress. Hepler pulled out of the parking area and headed toward the restaurant.
"Any new developments?" Moss asked.
"What's the last thing you heard?"
"Let me think." Moss ran his hand across his bald head. "Last thing I was briefed was that a motorcycle fitting the description of the getaway vehicle crossed The Big Dam on the Arkansas River Trail, pissed off some joggers and cyclists, and an airplane crashed at Emerald Park Quarry."
"Not an airplane. A helicopter."
"A helicopter? Was it LRPD?"
"Nope," Hepler said. "No one knows exactly who it belongs to and there was no rotorcraft activity at the airport all night. ATC said it popped up on radar, moved across the river, and then disappeared. Nothing at the scene to identify it either. No 'N' number. No serial numbers on the aircraft, the avionics, or the engine parts recovered so far. No one has reported a missing aircraft. Nothing. A total mystery ship."
"Could it have been one of those low-level, hush-hush military exercises?"
"I thought the same thing myself," Hepler said. "Called Little Rock Air Force Base and they said nothing was flying."
"Body count."
"Two. But they're pretty much toast. The M.E. said identification could take a while. He guessed weeks unless he got lucky or someone came forward."
"You think it was part of the hit? It might belong to whoever was out to get the witness?"
"Could be, I guess. I don't rightly know," Hepler said. "Too many loose ends at this point to tell who's who."
Moss thought about that statement for a second and then asked, "Anything on the motorcycle?"
"North Little Rock PD reported a motorcycle on Fort Roots Drive moments after the helicopter crash as did three emergency response vehicles. One NLRPD patrol car pursued but got locked up behind a traffic accident at MacArthur and Pershing and the bike got away. State Police pulled over a group of motorcycles on I-40 north of State Road 365. They indicated a bike fitting the description with two riders pulled in with them for a few miles and then
disappeared. State Police thinks he probably took the 365 exit. Nothing after that."
"365, huh?" Moss ran through several possible escape routes in his head. "If that was him then he did one of three things. One, he joined State Road 100 and came back toward town."
"Why would he do that?" Hepler asked. "He had to know LRPD had already cast a net around the city."
"I agree. Too risky. Which also rules out east on 365. That would take him back to town as well. He had to take 365 west toward Mayflower. Keeps him on the back roads and away from high visibility areas."
"A possibility. He might even be trying to get to Conway by staying on the vehicle portion of the Arkansas River Trail," Hepler added. "He could follow it through Mayflower and come into Conway from the west."
"Then what?" Moss said. "He has to know by now there is a BOLO out to all the surrounding municipalities. He also has to figure there will be an eye in the sky soon looking for a motorcycle. It would stand out on the dark back roads. No, he took 365 for a reason and we need to figure out what it is."
"You're giving this guy an awful lot of credit."
Moss thought about that statement for a few seconds and then said, "Something tells me he's not your run of the mill getaway driver."
* * *
The dark green Crown Vic turned onto Rebsamen Park Road and was stopped at a roadblock. Two officers manned the barricade, one asked for the two deputies' identification. Moss handed his creds to Hepler who passed them out the window.
"Marshals Service," the officer said. "They're expecting you."
"They?" Moss spoke past Hepler to the officer. "Who are they?"
"LRPD homicide, FBI," the officer passed the credentials back through the window. "And one of yours."
Moss and Hepler looked at each other. "One of ours?" Moss asked.
"Yeah, U.S. Marshals Service." The officer stepped away from the Crown Vic and signaled his partner to remove the barricade from the road. "Ask her yourself." He waved them through.
Little Rock police had cordoned off Rebsamen Park Road from Old Cantrell Road to Riverdale Road. The FBI ordered every establishment within that stretch closed. LRPD was instructed to have all the cars in the parking lots cleared out. Patrons of the restaurant were interviewed, statements taken, and subsequently sent home. The only vehicles remaining in the parking lot belonged to law enforcement, injured patrons taken to the hospital, or dead bodies.
As Hepler parked the Crown Vic, Moss observed the group standing in front of the restaurant, LRPD homicide and FBI he recognized, he had worked with both before on several occasions over the past few years.
The two deputies got out of the sedan and walked toward the crowd.
A woman pushed her way to the front and walked briskly toward them. She had the body of a runway model, long legs and zero body fat. Her long red hair hung loose around her shoulders and blew in the breeze. She had the cougar sex appeal of a woman in her forties, but a strictly business look on her fair skinned face that could keep a man at bay. A woman tired of the government's boys club attitude. A woman who didn't want to be here. She wore a black jacket with the Marshals Service logo and a matching black cap. She looked straight at Moss when she talked.
"I'm looking for Senior Inspector Moss."
"Looks like you've found him," Moss said. "But I think you already knew that."
She held up her creds, "April Moore."
Moss looked at her credentials, United States Marshals Service, Witness Security. "Why the hell wasn't I informed about you, Inspector Moore? This is highly irregular."
"I don't know," Moore said. "I was informed about you."
"So it seems. This is a problem. It is outside of WitSec security protocol and until I have proper authorization, you're out."
"I understand your dilemma, Senior Inspector," said Moore. "And like you, I'm following last minute orders as well."
"Which office?" Hepler interjected. "Who gave you the orders?"
Moore looked at Hepler and then at Moss. "I was assigned from the Atlanta office by Regional Chief Inspector Michael Johnson."
"Yeah?" Moss said. "How's ole Mike doing these days? Still running marathons?" It was a trick question. Johnson never used the name Mike and had undergone bypass surgery six months ago.
"I wouldn't know," she said. "Never met the man."
"How could that be? You just said he ordered you here."
She stepped closer to Moss. Her green eyes glinted under the streetlights. Her voice lowered, a sultry sound. "Inspector, two weeks ago I was a P.O.D. at the Des Moines office when I was selected on an Atlanta WitSec bid. My first day was yesterday. Tonight I was ordered here…to work with you. I don't know why, I didn't ask. I just did what I was told. The message was the Service wanted two inspectors on this investigation. I was told you used to work here and were reassigned from Chicago. I was also told you know the area, the ropes, and that you were easy to work with."
"Ha," Hepler laughed. "Dirt Man is the biggest S.O.B I know."
"Dirt Man?" Moore asked.
"Inside joke." Moss checked his watch.
"It's late, I'll have to wait until morning to get authorization. So, for now, you can ride along." Moss looked around. It was a scene packed with an assortment of law enforcement officers. "How long have you been here, Inspector Moore?"
"Long enough to know the FBI is giving LRPD traffic management. Crowd control, that sort of thing. Strictly support." Moore paused and then said, "Inspector Moss, I was sent over here to be part of the investigation, not sit on the sidelines and watch. You're not going to pull any of that good ole boy crap on me, are you? What you know, I want to know. No holding back. You keep me in the loop at all times. I was ordered here as your partner. Where you go, I go. Is that going to be a problem?"
He'd had to fight the good ole boy system inside the Marshals Service for years and knew exactly how she felt. The last thing he wanted was to be identified as one of them. "It's only a problem if you insist on following me into the bathroom."
12
"What are you talking about?" Tony asked.
"Dammit, Tony." Kaplan raised his voice. "How did they know where we were? Are you wearing a tracker or something?"
"No. Nothing. I swear." Tony's voice sounded rattled.
Kaplan pointed at Tony’s pants. "Empty your pockets. Put everything right here." He tapped the top of the coffee table in front of the leather couch with his finger.
Tony fished around in his front pockets and pulled out 73¢ in change and a money clip full of bills. The money clip was tarnished sterling silver with a turquoise stone mounted on top. Kind of a Southwestern look. Not what he would have expected of the Italian, but it looked expensive, and considering what he was learning about Tony, it probably was.
"Wallet."
Tony pulled a lizard skin wallet from his back pocket and placed it on the table.
"Pull off your belt," Kaplan said. "I want to look at it too."
Tony raised his shirt to unclasp his belt and that's when Kaplan saw the phone. It was the latest model iPhone from Apple. Cell phones were easy to track, iPhones especially, with their built-in GPS that can't easily be powered down or turned off by non-geeks. "How long have you had this phone?" Kaplan asked.
"Got it today," Tony replied. "I don't even know how to use it. I got it the same time I got my new credit cards, passport, and driver's license. Cox had all my documentation ready when he picked me up this morning at the Memphis airport."
Kaplan picked up Tony's belt from the table, inspected it, and then handed it back. "You can put this back on." He pulled out the bills, several hundreds, fifties, twenties, a ten, a five, and two ones totaling $1437. All looked clean. He held up the money clip, flipped it over a few times, and then dropped it on top of the pile of bills. He pushed the pile toward Tony. "You can have this back too."
"What are you doing?" Jeff asked. "Checking for bugs?"
"Bugs are generally considered listening devices. What I'm
looking for are any tracking devices Tony might be carrying."
"How do you know what you're doing?" Jeff asked.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, all you have ever told me was you worked for the government…but this is a lot like that spy stuff I see on TV or read in thrillers. What is it you do for a living…truthfully?"
Kaplan stopped what he was doing and looked at Jeff. He had known Jeff longer than anyone else left alive. They grew up next door to each other and spent most of their childhood together. In high school Kaplan moved to another part of town, but they kept in touch. Until college. Then the communication between the two came to an abrupt end. He went one way and Jeff went another. Jeff met Kam, they married, and he got a job while she was a stay at home mom with their two sons. Their lives were busy doing all the things families do. Church. Little league. School activities.
Kaplan's life took a different path. He dropped out of college when his parents died in a car wreck, enlisted in the military where, after two and a half years, he was selected for the Army Special Forces. Even though he was told his most powerful weapon was his mind, he was trained to kill. He had stayed on the United States government payroll ever since he retired from Special Forces.
After being in his friend’s home, he realized Jeff had all those things Kaplan had longed for in life. He came close twice, but the important women in his life had a way of dying or disappearing.
His first relationship ended tragically when his girlfriend of many years betrayed him. Not infidelity—worse. Her troubles were seeded much deeper than that. She had gotten mixed up with the wrong people and tried to kill a man from her past. In the end, the life that was lost was hers.
The demise of his second relationship still remained a mystery to him. He was involved with a fellow CIA operative, his partner, when she, for reasons he never understood, left and was never heard from again. Not by him, anyway. The Director of Central Intelligence initially refused to divulge her whereabouts or the reason she left the agency until she disappeared. Then it seemed the DCI took a renewed interest in covertly locating her. Kaplan had been searching for her ever since with no luck until he finally got a lead on a man who might know her whereabouts, a man who lived in El Paso, Texas. The man Kaplan was going to see when this ordeal with Tony began.
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