by David Bishop
Linda narrowed her eyes. “What makes you think I’d tell anything to Vera Cunningham? A woman I’ve only just met.”
“She’s your only friend in Cranston. And that’s what women do.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Women don’t have any trouble keeping secrets, but the other women they tell do. A woman tells another woman. The second woman tells a third. Then the three of them each tell one more. That process repeats like ripples in a pond until, eventually, the story goes global.”
“Why you chauvinist, you don’t really think that do you?”
He stayed quiet for what seemed to be minutes, just staring at Linda.
“Do you know who I am?”
“Yes, Linda. I know.”
“How did you find out? . . . Who told you?”
“I’ve known since the day you arrived in town. I recognized you immediately.”
“No one else has recognized me.”
“I’ve been trained in facial recognition. I’m not fooled by superficial appearance changes, even behavioral modification.”
He put his hand up to stop Linda from speaking. “We’ll cover that when my turn comes. Now we’re talking about you.”
“Then you didn’t stay here, or come back for the reason you said—to wait for a woman?”
“Oh, that’s true with a slight wrinkle. In part, I came back to be here to wait for that woman—for you, Linda Darby. Apart from that I wanted to return to Cranston. I prefer small towns and loved this town growing up. When I heard they were looking for a new football coach I saw it as a now-or-never moment. I applied. Fortunately, I was hired and here I am. When Billy had me fired from the school I decided to hang around awhile longer. See what else might open up.”
“So you never bought my bit about being Carol Benson?”
“No. But, for now, let’s try to put aside talk of us and stick to the task at hand. How do we get the Cranston noose from around the neck of our hometown? Agreed?”
She nodded. “Okay. Is there anything else you want to know? If not, I believe it’s your turn.”
“Agreed, after college and my time in the Marines, I joined the U.S. Marshal’s office. Principally, the Marshal’s office hunts federal fugitives, protects federal judges, other than U.S. Supreme Court Justices, and runs the federal witness protection program. I completed my training and stayed on the job another year. My tenure was mostly administrative, case management, and support of field officers.”
“Wow! Does any of that tie to why you came back to Cranston?”
“Get us another beer. This will take a while.”
She got up and brought back two more beers. After handing Dix one she asked, “Should we go inside?”
“Are you cold?”
“Just concerned we might be overheard.”
“As long as we don’t shout we’ll be fine. I have very sensitive motion detectors on the roof and around the house. I’ll know before anyone can get close enough to hear us.”
“All right, who can we count on for help?” she asked in a low voice.
“No need to go into that right now. Let it come up as we need ‘em.”
“So you don’t trust me?”
“It’s not that. It’s just how it’s done. We’re talking about the safety of other people. Each time they’re identified, it stretches the rubber band further, weakening it.”
“I guess, for now, that’ll have to do. Have any of them committed to help?”
“No, at least not fully, but I think we can count on a couple.”
“Is anyone on this list an insider?”
“No.”
“What do we need most right now that we don’t have?”
“Someone to tell us how Billy does certain things, and how diverse is his criminal activities.”
“An illegal casino and illegal prostitution,” she said, somewhat incredulously. “We know about those two, including where. How much more do we need?”
“But we can’t prove the Cranstons are behind either one of them. As locals, we know it, but knowing and proving are not the same. Not enough to get warrants. Besides, we have to decide if the goal is to put Billy behind bars, or if the priority is to free the town from Billy’s control. Arrest and conviction alone won’t do that. Their business operations, at least the legal ones, are in corporations that’ll continue under management chosen by Billy for the term of his incarceration. Then, when he gets out, it all goes back to how it is now.”
“Prove it?” Linda asked, her voice rising. “Doesn’t he own the buildings where these activities are being done?”
“Behind the scenes, but not formally. Lots of crimes are committed in rented structures. We need to link Billy Cranston to the illegal activities. Prove that he has knowledge of them, controls them, and profits from them. The things a true insider can give us. We need such an ironclad case that we can convince Billy he’s dead meat. That he has only two viable options: go to jail or relinquish his control of the town and give up some of his family-owned businesses in return for our flushing the proof of his crimes.”
Suddenly, Dix startled.
They both fell silent.
A gun appeared in his hand. It was dark enough that she couldn’t identify the make. He stuck his fingers up, the back of his hand toward her, and repeatedly folded his fingers back in toward his palm, rapidly, several times. His lips formed the words, keep talking.
She did.
He quietly stood and immediately moved to the back wall of the house. Without making a noise he eased along the back of the house. He paused before quickly moving beyond the corner, his gun in his right hand, cradled in the palm of his left.
Linda gripped the arms on her lawn chair. She uncrossed her legs and firmly set her feet on the ground. Memories of her participation in Ryan Testler’s assault on a home two years ago rushed back to fill her.
Dix lowered his gun and came back toward the table. Linda started breathing again. “A cat, that’s all. You were about to ask me . . . something?”
“Give me a minute to get my breathing back to normal.” She took a drink and again crossed her legs. “What progress have you made toward choosing an insider to approach and getting it done?”
“Not much.”
“Who’re the possibles?”
Billy moved his chair closer and leaned toward Linda. “Sheriff Blackstone for one, then there’s the manager of the casino. Those two would be the most knowledgeable. Mud at The Drop is likely in that group as well, but probably knows less than the sheriff and the casino manager. Maybe, Billy’s wife. There’s a question of how much Martha Cranston really knows. If we get enough on the judge to threaten his tenure and jeopardize his pension, he might roll over to protect his own position. He’d be our best snitch. He could ease getting done some of what we want to have happen. But he comes with a big risk. If we don’t convince him with rock-hard evidence, he’ll call our bluff, rat us out to Billy, and use his authority to make us wish we hadn’t tried.”
“What about the manager of Cranston’s parlor house?”
“Probably not. Billy found him in Wichita where he ran a failed bed and breakfast. The man has no criminal record. He would be facing a first offense for running a string of prostitutes, which, nowadays, is a weak charge. In short, we couldn’t sufficiently scare him into helping.” After a pause, he added, “I had one insider who had just started to give some help.”
“Carlos Molina, right?”
“Yeah. When I confronted Carlos with the likelihood of his arrest if I went to the authorities, he gave me some information of crimes. He and Billy’s wife were having an affair. Carlos could have anticipated Martha would leave Billy and get a big divorce settlement. It’s even possible he might have planned to kill Billy, anticipating Martha would get some insurance and whatever. What Carlos knew of Billy’s operation was far from the full picture. He had no documentary evidence.”
“So,” Linda said, “if Billy knew Carlos was talking to
you he could have murdered him to shut him up. If he didn’t know about that, but did know about the affair, it’s not a big leap to conclude that Billy became enraged and killed Carlos for carrying on with his wife. I doubt Billy cares enough about Martha to be jealous. It’s more likely Billy being furious that Carlos, or anyone, took something he considered his. Is that what you’re thinking?”
“I’m not ruling Billy in or out of the murder of Carlos Molina. As for my talks with Carlos, I had only one session with him. The details he gave were sketchy. My main focus in my first meeting with him was building trust so he would open up fully in later sessions. As for Billy knowing Carlos was talking to me: I don’t think he did. There’s been no change in how I am treated and dealt with.”
“So, you’re guessing they knew he was talking, but not to whom?”
“That’s more likely. Or they were nervous about the way Carlos drew attention to himself by consistently spending much more money than he could’ve earned working his cover job. Carlos’s spending is what led me to him in the first place, along with his being too clean and too much in control of his own time. None of that meshed with being a feedlot worker.”
“They couldn’t get him to tone down his spending, so they put him down. Is that what you’re saying?”
Dix nodded. “Of course, all this is conjecture. I have no evidence that Billy had Carlos killed. I haven’t been able to ascertain Billy’s whereabouts when Carlos was murdered. It couldn’t have been Mud.”
“Because Mud was in The Drop, as I was, when Carlos was shot.”
Dix nodded. “Exactly, so, if Billy decided Carlos had to die, he did it himself or used someone other than Mud to pull the trigger. He could’ve used a security guard from the casino, or an out-of-town shooter. However it was done, Carlos’s death meant that other insiders who knew Carlos was dirty will be more fearful of cooperating if we get any of them over the barrel.”
“All this leaves us where?”
“We still need a knowledgeable insider. He or she must see the threat of heavy prison time as unavoidable except through cooperating.”
Dix and Linda continued talking about what they needed to know and who might be able to provide the information. The piece they couldn’t carve out was how to get any of these possible snitches to spill Billy’s beans. As that subject exhausted itself, Linda asked more about how he learned of her identity.
“Before leaving the Marshal’s office, I used my resources in the government to locate you in Sea Crest, Oregon. I traveled out there before reporting for work after training and found you married and living as the wife of the local police chief. Seeing no good reason to disrupt your life by making contact, I left Oregon and returned to Washington. My thoughts languished for a few months as to what I wanted to do, but I knew I didn’t want to stay in D.C., or work in any division of federal law enforcement. When the head coach position here came open I saw it as an epiphany. The rest you know.”
An hour later, Dix dropped Linda at her hotel. Before going to sleep she decided on two insiders she felt might be prime candidates for the role of squealer: Mrs. Martha Cranston and Sheriff Reggie Blackstone. She agreed with Dix when he said the judge would be ideal. But his honor dealt in evidence. To approach him would require substantial and unequivocal evidence clearly pointing at him. As for Mrs. Cranston, she was just a hunch. The sheriff was a strong possibility because, as is true with all bullies, when push came to shove, they cave.
At a minute before eleven the phone rang. “Ms. Benson?”
“Yes, this is Carol.”
“This is Hildegard Caruthers.”
“ How are you Ms. Caruthers?”
“I’m fine, thank you. How about tomorrow? Let’s say at noon, tea and sandwiches here at my place.”
Linda said yes and listened while Ms. Caruthers told how to get to her upstairs residence inside the pharmacy building. “Don’t turn into the pharmacy itself,” she cautioned. “Continue to the end of that hallway where you’ll find a set of stairs. My home is the door on the right at the top. The other door goes into the pharmacy’s small office.”
The two ladies exchanged niceties and hung up.
What is this about?
Chapter Nineteen
Tell me what you know about Billy’s wife
FRIDAY MIDNIGHT
Dix returned home from dropping Linda at the entrance to the Frontier Hotel and entered his front door. The moonlight streaming through the window led Dix’s eyes to the gun pointed at his midsection. The man holding the gun sat comfortably in Dix’s favorite chair.
“Welcome home, Mr. Wardley. Sit down. It’s time we had a ‘come to Jesus’ meeting.”
“Who the hell—”
“Sit down. Or I’ll drop you where you stand.”
“May I turn on a light?”
A squeaky sound from the leather on the occasional chair in the corner came before the voice. “The lamp near the chair on the other side of the room, do it nice and easy. I’ve got my gun on you.”
“I can see that.”
Dix turned on the lamp. Not liking bright light, he stopped on the first of the three-way settings. He turned to face his seated intruder. His shoulders slumped.
“Reggie. What the hell are you doing in my home?”
“Sheriff Blackstone to you, Dickhead,” the sheriff said. His gun-hand pointed toward Dixon.
“Sheriff Blackstone, what the hell are you doing in my home?”
“I told you to sit down.”
“I’m not going to sit down. I’d only have to get back up to show you out. Get the hell out of my house.”
“Sit your ass down, Mr. Wardley,” the sheriff said, his gun hand extended toward Dixon.
“Go to hell, Reggie. If you came here to shoot me, I’d already be dead. Now I got nothing to say to you. Go home.”
The sheriff slid forward in the chair, the leather again reporting his movement. “Well, maybe I got things to say to you.”
“Then get to it.” Dixon spread his legs to shoulders width and let his hands hang loose at his sides. “I’m tired and want to go to bed.”
“Why did you burn Billy Cranston’s barn?”
“I didn’t burn his barn. Hell, if I wanted to burn something, I’d burn his damn house, with him inside . . . while his wife was in town.”
“I know you did it.”
“If you did, I’d already be under arrest. You got nothing because I didn’t do it.”
“I got your lighter. You dropped it at the scene.”
“I don’t smoke. I don’t even have a lighter. Christ all-mighty, Reggie, if you go home now I won’t report this stupid visit to Billy. I’m going to bed.” Dixon turned and, moving slowly, walked toward the short hallway leading to his bedroom. About the time he got his boots and shirt off he heard the front door latch shut.
After exhaling long and slow, Dixon wiped his palm across his damp forehead and walked back into the living room. He turned the deadbolt on his front door and stood quietly just inside the door. When he heard the sheriff’s car pull away from the curb, he returned to his bedroom and got into bed.
* * *
Lilly, the business manager at the Cranston Casino was closing early Sunday morning after a routine Saturday night of business.
“We’re all shut down, CC. If you don’t need me for anything I’m outta here. Rock was going to drive me home unless you want him to hang around with you.”
“We all locked up, Lilly?”
“Yes, sir, I’ve set the casino alarm and I’ll set the door alarm. When you leave you’ll need to cut it off and then reset it as you go out.”
“You two split. I’ll take care of it when I head out.” Lilly reached for the wall switch. “No,” her boss said, “leave the room light off. I prefer my desk lamp. I’ll just be a few minutes.”
Less than a minute later, Carson Creswell saw the tiny red light brighten his control panel. Lilly and Rock had set the door alarm; the casino alarm already lit th
e panel. Creswell always hung back to leave last when he was carrying out the bag with the nine-thousand he gave to Sheriff Blackstone for his payment to Billy Cranston. The town’s boss man thought the money came from Creswell’s salary, but, instead, the casino manager skimmed his quarterly vigorish from the take off the tables. He raised the money bag up from the leg well under his desk.
“I’ll take that, Mr. Creswell.”
The voice seemed to come out of nowhere. The light from his hooded lamp crawling across the writing surface was largely spent before spilling over the outer perimeter of his desk. He looked left into the darkness, toward the long side of his office that housed a conference table and six chairs, the direction from which he thought the voice had come. Beyond the conference table the end wall was covered with dark wood paneling. Whoever the man was he had to be backed up against that paneling. Any place else, he could be seen. Creswell also looked right toward a smaller area that held a couch and two visitor chairs, and more darkness.
Creswell sat still. Still wanting to believe he was alone, yet he had clearly heard the deep voice.
“I’ll take that, Mr. Creswell,” Ryan Testler repeated.
Whoever was there knew Creswell’s name. He sat still. He reached up to turn off his hooded desk lamp so his eyes could adjust to the darkness, but stopped. With the light on he was assured of seeing if his visitor came closer.
After another minute he smiled and shook his head. Some sick bastard had to be playing a joke on him. Either that or he was in a remake of a movie starring the fictional Lamont Cranston as The Shadow.
My God! Could Lamont Cranston be related to Billy Cranston? Get a grip. You’re acting like some two-bit nobody.
“I’ll take that, Mr. Creswell.” Each time the voice had come from a different area of his office.
I should’ve seen him move, but I didn’t.
Creswell stood, just stood. Erect. The voice came again, this time from directly behind him.
