Outlaws

by Tim Green

  Board looked at the red digital clock on his desk: seven twenty-seven on Thursday evening. He'd exhausted every avenue. Besides the trading card money, it appeared that Marty Cahn had done a meticulous job of preparing Grey's taxes. Grey had nothing to hide. Board knew it couldn't be true. Tomorrow he would start all over from the beginning. Tonight he would take a few hours, have a few drinks, and regroup. He stood, stretched, hitched up his pants, and headed for Sixth Street. There was a little bar called Rodeo that he liked. It was a fancy place with brass fixtures and polished wood. Despite its name, it garnered an upscale crowd of well-dressed people. Board liked to watch.

  He was welcome at Rodeo no matter what he looked like. His drinks came cheaper than everyone else's. Of course he paid. Free drinks would have been illegal, but he had investigated the owner several years back and taken it rather easy on him. Board had a friend for life. He could drink all night, and the bill never amounted to more than ten dollars. Nothing was ever said; it was just the way it was. He took a cushioned stool with a good view of the door. It wasn't even close to the weekend, but the people who frequented Rodeo didn't have to work as hard as everyone else. They could afford a night out on Thursday.

  He was on his eighth Amstel Light when a stunning woman walked in. Everyone's head turned. She wore a snug red dress with a low-cut front that exposed the tempting curve of her breasts. The generous slit up the side of the dress gave Board a glimpse of her long leg, and then it was gone. The man behind her was older than she. His eyes were dark and piercing, and when they scanned the room, Board averted his own eyes and pretended to be looking out the window. When the man's eyes had moved on. Board noticed his eighteen-carat gold Cartier Panther and his Bally shoes. He wondered if this man had paid his taxes. The couple moved through the bar to a table in a dark comer in the back. After they passed, Board stared without shame at the woman's ass as it switched beneath her dress. He snickered to himself when the man discreetly ran two fingers down her bare back as they walked, resting briefly on the high curve of her ass.

  There was something about the way this little vixen flaunted herself 'hat reminded Board somehow of Cody Grey's wife. He'd seen the two of them around town. Board turned back to the bar and ordered another drink. Then the thought came to him. It hit him like a truck. The wife.

  Every account Cody Grey owned was held jointly with his wife. She had written a substantial number of the checks over the past eight years. But Board had neglected to run the wife's social security number through the computer. He had done everything through Grey himself. What if the player had used his wife to hide some money away? It was possible,- it just might be the answer. It wouldn't take him more than a day to find out. Jeff Board paid his six-dollar tab and went home. He didn't need any more alcohol. He was flying high with the possibility that he'd just found the answer he had searched so hard for.

  On Friday morning, Madison went before Judge Walter Connack in her official capacity as Yusef Williams's attorney. She saw Walter in his chambers before she made the legal motion in his courtroom. Walter was not very happy.

  "I can't just have you digging up that boy's body!" he bellowed.

  "Yes, you can," Madison retorted, tapping a copy of the brief she'd sent him on the case law of court-ordered exhumations in the state of Texas.

  "This?" Walter held the brief almost as high as his eyebrows, which looked as though they might jump off his forehead. "You call this case law?"

  "There are some cases in there," Madison replied with an earnest look. "I know there isn't a lot of precedent on something like this, but--"

  "Oh, but there is precedent!" Walter boomed. "There's precedent against anything of the sort!"

  'The argument can be made for it," Madison insisted. "Did you talk with Rawlins in the D. A.'s office?" Walter asked. "No," she said, "I talked with Cherrit; he's trying the case. He wouldn't help me, but that's just them. They wouldn't help their own mothers across the street if 1 asked them."

  "What about the family? If you can get their permission, it will make this whole thing a lot easier," Walter said hopefully. "They said no," Madison replied. "How against it were they?" he asked.

  Madison looked him straight in the eye and said, "I'll be perfectly honest with you, Walter, they were horrified. Very religious. Very superstitious." Walter nodded.

  "Make the call, Walter," Madison insisted. "You can do it." "I can do it and get turned over on appeal," he said. 'Too late. Alice will dig this weekend. You give me the order. 1 won't file it with the clerk until just before five this afternoon. The D. A.'s office, the kid's family, and any other friggin do-gooder who wants to protect the rights of a decaying hunk of rotten meat will be too busy getting ready for the weekend to bother. Alice will do the work right away. By the time anyone complains, we'll have the body back in the ground."

  'That sounds simple," Walter said, "but I still have to get elected in this county. I can't just make a move like that without repercussions, and you know it. The damn coroner's officc is going to have a fit."

  "They won't say a word if we're right. They'll be glad to let it just go away. They screwed this up in the first place by not finding the bullet hole in the victim's ear."

  "And if you're wrong?"

  'Then the kid's lying to me," she said simply. "But I don't think so. These boys were killed with Ramon's gun, a Clock nine-millimeter. This .22 slug puts someone else at the murder scene. In my gut I know that body's going to have a bullet hole in one ear, put there by our mystery man."

  Then, like a good lawyer, she turned the whole thing around on him. "You're the one who said you believed him. You're the one with the feeling."

  "I just can't believe you're asking me to make a decision that flies in the face of the law!"

  "You're the one who asked me to take this case, Walter," she reminded him. "I didn't ask you to start digging up dead bodies that the family doesn't want uncovered!" he exclaimed.

  "I don't advocate without passion, Walter," she said matter-of-factly. 'That's what you asked me to do. That's what I'm doing."

  The judge pursed his lips. He was thinking. Madison went for the kill.

  "I'm doing my part here, Walter," she reminded him. "My firm didn't want me to take the time to try this case. We're backlogged. I'm in demand. Alice? She's taking a risk too. Why? Because she thinks this kid might be innocent and because I asked her. Quite honestly, I didn't think I'd have to spend ten seconds convincing you. I thought you'd do it in a heartbeat. It's thin, but there's enough here in this brief to make a legitimate, if tenuous argument. It's time for you to come out on the limb with us, Walter, and you damn weii know it."

  Walter Connack gave Madison an angry stare. He wasn't used to being challenged or cajoled. He wasn't used to people talking to him that way. He was doing his part. He could do more good from the bench for a lot more people if he held his seat than if he threw it away on something as foolish as digging up a body. On the other hand, he knew what Madison was saying was right. That's what made him angry.

  "All right," he finally said. "Write up the order."

  "It's right here," Madison said, purposely not smiling.

  Walter lifted the reading glasses that hung around his neck on a silver chain and read the order. He shook his head as he signed his name and handed it back to Madison.

  "I hope," he said quietly, "that we're all right."

  Madison took the order and started for the door. "Thank you, Walter," she said, stopping before she left. "You're a good man."

  Walter's chamber boomed with laughter.

  "Now I've heard it all!" he said, holding his belly with one hand and wiping a tear from his eye with the other. "Little Madison McCall is telling me I'm a good man! Well thank you, my dear. I'm not laughing at you. It's just the idea of that little girl I used to know giving me her seal of approval. Thank you very much, and I mean that from the bottom of my heart."

  Jenny walked in the door from getting her nails done and doing some shopp
ing at the mall. It was Friday at two in the afternoon. Cody would be home about four, and they were supposed to go out for dinner at the Green Mesquite. It was a popular little place down across the river from Sixth Street on the outskirts of Butler Park. It wasn't really her kind of place,- it was too plain. Barbecued meat and locally brewed potato beer were things that she could live without, but Cody loved it. She had slipped out last night to see Striker on the thin excuse that she wanted to have a few drinks with one of her girlfriends, so tonight wasn't the time to be putting up much of a fuss. Jenny would be glad when the charade was over, though.

  Jenny set her bags down on the kitchen table and went to the desk to play the messages. The first one was from Cody, checking in. Nothing new. The second one was from Cody too. She wondered how in hell he managed to get so many calls out of the Outlaws facility when she knew that the team worked him every minute he was there. Her life for the past nine years would have been a hell of a lot easier if there weren't any phones at all out there.

  She didn't recognize the next voice. The first few words she heard sounded official, so she ran it back to hear who it was.

  "Mr. Grey, this is Jeff Board calling. You may remember me, I am conducting a field audit for the Internal Revenue Service. I ... I have tried to contact your attorney, Mr. Cahn, but he is ... he has not returned my calls today. He is indisposed ... But I wanted you to know that I have found a very serious problem. I think we will have to have another meeting next week. 1 want you to know that I have found the temporary bank account you had under your wife's name in the San Antonio office of Home Bank. 1 know you closed the account, and I know the money has been wired overseas, but while it was there, you did earn interest of .. . yes, sixty-one dollars and seventy- seven cents. That is income, my friend, that you'll have to pay taxes on this year, you know that. But what I'm really interested in talking to you and Mr. Cahn about is where the large sum of money that earned this interest came from. I have the feeling that some very big things are going on in your life, Mr. Grey, and I want to talk with you about them. ... Have a nice weekend. Oh, and good luck Sunday against the Patriots."

  Jenny pulled a chair out from the table without thinking and sat herself down. She was terrified. She had come so far. They were so close. Now it was over. They were caught. She was caught. Her stomach spun downward as if she were going down the big drop on a roller coaster. She clenched her teeth and fists and began to hyperventilate. It couldn't be true! She was too close. She had waited. She had worked so long for her chance. Now it was here. Now it would be gone.

  "Oh, my God," she said out loud. "I can't go to jail. I can't go.... "

  She heard her own words. They sounded frantic. Jenny grabbed her keys off the table and paused to erase the messages from the machinc before she hurried to her car. She revved the Porsche's engine and raced directly to Striker's office. She knew she wasn't supposed to go there. He told her that. He told her that only in an emergency should she go there, but this was an emergency.

  When Clara told Striker that a Miss Jenny Grey was there to see him, he remained calm. In fact, as was the case in every crisis situation since he'd trained in Special Forces nearly thirty years ago, Striker's awareness was heightened tenfold and not one ounce of energy was wasted on anxiety. He had trained himself not to react on an emotional or physiological level. It had been the difference between life and death for him.

  Jenny barged through the door, and he knew before she said a word that his first priority had to be to calm her down.

  "Striker!" she exclaimed. "I--"

  He silenced her with his look and the long finger he held to his lips.

  "I see you're upset, dear," he said without much feeling. "It's your husband, isn't it?"

  Striker nodded emphatically for her to agree.

  "Yes," she said.

  He waved her on, rolling his hand to encourage her to continue talking as he got up from his desk with some kind of electronic device that she didn't recognize.

  "He wants to know ... where I was last night," she said, doing her best to keep up the fake conversation while he swept the room.

  Striker hadn't checked his office for listening devices in three days. He didn't normally have the need to. Now he wanted to double-check before either of them went on about something incriminating. The phony dialogue dragged on while he worked. He knew that taking five minutes now might save him later. If he erred, he'd have the rest of his life to think about the five minutes he didn't take while in a jail cell somewhere, and Striker had no intention of doing that. He was too smart and he was too careful. Those were the exact reasons Striker was going to get away with the whole thing. No one on the other side could match him. He knew that for a fact.

  When he was satisfied, Striker took a special CD from his desk and inserted it into the sound system. The disk emitted a garbled undercurrent of tones that would frustrate any high-tech directional listening device that might be focused at his office window from the other side of the street. Striker knew there were devices that could decipher the words from within by the minute vibrations voices created on a window pane. The noise that came from Strikers CD was to dialogue what a shredder was to classified documents.

  He sat her down on the leather couch in the comer by his books and held her firmly by the shoulders.

  "Now," he said quietly, but so she could hear him clearly above the gentle noise that reminded her of rainfall on a tin roof, "slowly and carefully, what is the matter?"

  Jenny fought the urge to bury her head in his chest and cry. She didn't want to lose him. She didn't want to lose the money or the life they would soon have. She forced herself, at least on the outside, to act as coolly as Striker himself.

  She took a deep breath and began to slowly recount the message from Jeff Board. Striker asked her a few things and thought for a moment.

  "I told you, specifically, not to let anyone know you had that money," Striker said sternly, admonishing her not with venom but as though he was studying her, questioning the scientific evidence to expose some underlying secret.

  "I didn't leave it there," she said calmly. "I put it in Austria. It can't be found."

  "It doesn't have to be found to create problems, as you now see," he hissed. "I don't say things to you that I don't mean. I don't say anything without a reason."

  Jenny remained silent. Striker calmed himself and then steepled his fingers below his chin to think.

  After a few minutes of concentration, he finally said, "I don't think you should worry. Forget it. Let's just see what happens."

  Jenny was astounded. It was so obvious to her that they were in peril. She wondered if Striker wasn't mad, or if he was merely testing her resolve to see how devoted she really was. She was devoted, but she wasn't a fool. That was one thing she knew she'd never be, a fool for any man or anyone for that matter. She wanted Striker to know that. He might be toying with her. He had to be. Nevertheless she wasn't going to take any chances. Now was a good time for him to know that he would have to take her seriously and that she'd learned too much from him to be discarded.

  'You say I shouldn't worry," she said calmly, "so I won't. But I want you to know, Striker, if I go to jail, or if something happens to me before I can get there, you're going to be going wherever I go as well."

  Jenny let the threat hang out there as long as she could before she backed down a bit and qualified it by saying, 'You taught me, Striker, to always be prepared and to trust no one. I have only done what you would do."

  "Oh? What is it you did do?"

  Jenny boldly told him how she had arranged a safe deposit box and an attorney on retainer who was instructed that if she didn't keep in touch with him, he was to release the contents of the box--an account of the entire operation.

  "Which would put an end to you, Striker," she said. "I have to watch my back too."

  Striker's face beamed with a smile. He began to quietly applaud.

  "Good for you, Jenny Blue Eyes," he said,
pulling her head to his breast and hugging her like she was his little girl. Striker was amused. He ran his hand through her hair. She was like a kitten, spitting and clawing at a lion to show the bigger cat that she, too, had claws and teeth, and that she, too, could fight. It was quite wonderful, actually, considering that he had taught her to think like this.

  'You have to remember this, though," he said when the amusement had worn off, "1 can't be taken out by you or any common lawyer you may have hired. This is my game, love. I make the rules, and you can't beat the man who makes the rules. You just can't. I could be gone without a trace, leaving you, those agents who are following me, and even your secret lawyer all dead. I can do that. 1 know how to find people, and I know how to kill people. You, my dear, have nothing to fear. But remember, that is only because I choose for things to be that way. I wouldn't let you go to jail, not because I fear you or anyone, but because it would be like caging a wild songbird and covering it with a blanket. I would never do that. I want you with me, Jenny."

  "But even now you could be deceiving me," she said warily.

  "Bravo, my dear," he said, still amused. "But let's end our little contest of wits now. You're having dinner with your husband tonight, right?"

  She nodded.

  "Fine, go have your... what, your Green Mesquite?" he said with distaste.

  'Yes," she said, as unhappy with the idea as he was.

  "What time is dinner?" he asked.

  "Seven," she said. "But what--" Striker held up his hand for silence.