State of Killers: A Mystery Thriller Novel (Virgil Jones Mystery Thriller Series Book 11)

by Thomas Scott

  “Yeah, I got it. He isn’t going to call anyway. I told you guys I’m cooperating. In fact, I’ve been cooperating the entire time. How about you lighten up a little?”

  “I’ll lighten up when this is over,” Martin said. “Let’s go.”

  They had to take two vehicles, and one of them had to be Witlock’s—which turned out to be a nice white Tahoe—because they didn’t want to spook Dakota. If he saw any vehicles other than Witlock’s he might get suspicious. So Martin and Rosencrantz rode with Witlock, and Ross followed in his own car.

  Martin had shown him how the tracking receiver worked, and during the ride down to Roseburg, Ross played around with it, letting the Tahoe get ahead and out of range. True to her word, when he let them get outside of five miles, he lost the signal. When he cranked his speed up and closed in, he got them back. When he was within visual range, he turned the device off and settled in for the rest of the drive.

  By eight-thirty in the morning, Virgil and Murton were sitting in the conference room at the Shelby County sheriff’s office, with Miles, Henderson, and the ten deputies who made up the day shift.

  Virgil looked around the room, and said, “The thing is, we don’t want to let him see us, and that’s not going to be very easy, because we don’t know which way he’ll be coming in, or exactly where he’ll be going until he’s already arrived.”

  Murton was looking at the county map on the wall. He took out his phone and brought up the map function and found Roseburg. “I’ll bet he cuts over east and comes right down state road 9. It’s either that, or he’ll take 37, then skirt around 465 and pick up 74. But that doesn’t seem very likely because he’ll just end up back on 9.”

  One of the deputies said, “Seems like it’s going to be pretty hard for us to stay out of sight.”

  Murton was still looking at the map and his phone. “If he takes 9, he’ll be passing right by us, one block to the east.”

  “That’s how we’ll stay out of sight,” Virgil said.

  “How?” Miles asked.

  “We’ll all just wait right here. Nothing unusual about county cops hanging out at the sheriff’s office. We’ll have Cool and Ross in the chopper, and once he’s a few miles away from us, we’ll simply do a slow follow.” Virgil looked at Henderson and said, “What frequency do you guys use? I need to get that information to our pilot so we can all hear each other.”

  Henderson told him, and Virgil called Cool and relayed the frequency information to him. When he called Ross, he said, “How’s it going on your end?”

  “So far so good,” Ross said. “Cool at the airport yet?”

  “Yeah, I just spoke with him,” Virgil said. “He’s in place and waiting on you.”

  “I’m probably five minutes out.”

  “Good enough,” Virgil said. “I’ll check in with Rosencrantz. Fly safe.” Virgil ended the call then got in touch with Rosencrantz. “How long until you get there?”

  “In about thirty seconds. We’ll be early, but we need to be so Carla and I can get out of sight.”

  Virgil thought, hmm, again, but didn’t say anything. “Where exactly are the two of you going to be?”

  “Hiding inside Witlock’s place until they make the trade. Once Dakota is gone, we’ll follow from a few miles back.”

  “What if Dakota needs to use the can or something?”

  “We already thought of that,” Rosencrantz said. “Witlock says he’s only ever been inside once and has never used the bathroom, so if he asks, Witlock is going to tell him the water is turned off.”

  “Hope that works.”

  “Well, it should. I mean, if there’s no water…”

  “Yeah, okay. You got him wired up?”

  “We do. We’ll be able to hear every word. Ross at the airport yet?”

  “Just talked to him. Says he’s about five minutes out.”

  “Okay,” Rosencrantz said. “I gotta go. We’re turning in now. The place looks like a dump.”

  Over the phone, Virgil heard Witlock say, “Hey, man.”

  They climbed out of the Tahoe and Witlock opened up the trailer. When they walked inside, the entire place smelled like cat pee and dust. Rosencrantz looked at Witlock and said, “And you’re offended that I said it looks like a dump?”

  “It was an inheritance. My aunt lived here until she died.”

  “Someone should have thought to remove the body,” Rosencrantz said.

  Witlock ignored him and said, “So now what?”

  “Now we wait,” Martin said. “Which direction does he come in?”

  “From the east.”

  Martin walked over to an east-facing window and cracked the curtains. Then she looked at Witlock and said, “When he gets close, I want you to go outside and lock the door behind you. Make it look like you’re in a hurry. Get the deal done, and get Dakota on his way. And remember, we’ll be able to hear every word you’re saying.”

  “Yeah, yeah…”

  Ross parked his car, grabbed his rifle case and the tracking receiver, and found Cool inside the fixed base operations center signing for the fuel he’d just purchased. “Are we ready to aviate?”

  “Yep. How’s it going, Ross? You look like shit, by the way.”

  “I don’t doubt it. Been up all night chasing assholes. I haven’t slept in over twenty-four hours.”

  “Based on what I’ve heard, the chasing is almost over,” Cool said.

  “Let’s hope.”

  “Do you have the address of where the deal is going down?”

  “Yeah.” Ross gave him the address, then Cool punched it into his phone. Then he walked over and looked at a large aviation map pinned to the wall, made some quick calculations, and wrote a set of coordinates on his palm.

  “Okay, let’s go.”

  As they were walking out to the chopper, Ross said, “Why do you do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “Write on your palm like that? There was plenty of paper back there.”

  Cool smiled at him and said, “Old habits die hard. I do it because I always have. I need these numbers to plug into the Nav unit, and by writing on my palm, I know it’s one set of numbers I won’t lose.”

  They took off and flew about five miles east before turning north, then they flew back west and held position three miles north of Witlock’s place, at an altitude of ten thousand feet.

  “How’s your signal?” Cool asked.

  “A little weak, but readable.”

  “Want me to sneak in a bit?”

  “No, we’re good. Once Dakota starts to move though, we’re going to have to catch up quickly or we’ll lose him.”

  “That won’t be a problem. Guarantee you.”

  Virgil and Murton and Ron Miles and the rest of the Shelby County cops waited. For the next two or three hours, there was nothing else to do.

  Witlock was staring out the window, waiting and watching. Nervous. A few minutes later he said, “Here he comes.”

  He let the curtain fall back into place, then stepped outside. Dakota backed the van into the drive and pulled up just short of Witlock’s Tahoe. As they were making the transfer—drugs into the Tahoe, and cash back into the van, Dakota said, “You okay, man? You seem a little off.”

  “Ah, I’m fine,” Witlock said. “Didn’t get much sleep last night is all.”

  “I hear ya.”

  They finished the swap, a little sweaty from the weight of the drugs and the urgency of the transfer itself, then bullshitted for a few minutes before Dakota said, “When do you want the next batch?”

  “At the rate we’re moving this stuff, probably in about a week, if that works.”

  “That should be okay. I’ll call you in a few days…set it up.”

  Witlock closed the back of the Tahoe, then said, “I’ll catch you soon.”

  Dakota unzipped the bag of cash, took a quick peek inside, then closed it back up. “You got it.”

  Inside, Rosencrantz and Martin were listening to every word.
The exterior walls of the trailer were in such bad shape, they almost didn’t need the wire to hear the men outside. Rosencrantz looked at Martin and said, “You got the Grant County guys standing by?”

  “Yeah. They’re about a half-mile north.”

  “And your department has a car for us?”

  “They do. One of our agents is bringing it. He’s waiting with the county guys right now.”

  “Better get them headed this way, then. Sounds like Dakota is pulling away.” Rosencrantz risked a quick peek through the curtains. “Yep, he’s turning out right now. Tell them to come in hard.”

  Martin took out her phone and made the call.

  Ross pressed the microphone on his headset a little closer to his mouth and said to Cool, “He’s moving due east. Better start drifting that way.”

  Cool kept the chopper’s nose pointed south and crabbed sideways to stay in range. “Bet he’s going to take Highway 9 all the way down.”

  “Looks like it.”

  Witlock took the wire off from under his shirt and handed it to Martin. “How’d I do?”

  “Best drug deal I ever witnessed,” Rosencrantz said with a smile.

  “Same here,” Martin said.

  Then suddenly Witlock’s eyes got wide when he saw the county cops pulling up. “Hey, what the hell is this?”

  “Your ride, asshole,” Rosencrantz said.

  “What? What do you mean, my ride?”

  “It’s generally how drug dealers are taken to jail,” Rosencrantz said. Then he turned and said, “Agent Martin? The honor is yours.”

  The county cops had everyone surrounded, and Martin took out her handcuffs and restrained Witlock.

  “Neil Witlock, you’re under arrest for the possession of an illegal substance, conspiracy to distribute and traffic in—”

  “What the fuck?” Witlock said. “We had a deal.”

  Rosencrantz got right in his face. “Had is exactly the right word, Witlock. You should have read that immunity agreement a little closer. All you had to do was check the date.”

  “The date?” Witlock was screaming now. “What about the date?”

  “You signed it before midnight last night.” Rosencrantz pulled a copy of the letter from his pocket. “See, it says right here that you have immunity from all charges related to any crimes you committed on or before the date of this letter. Unfortunately for you, that was yesterday.”

  “That is bullshit. Absolute bullshit.”

  “Take it up with your lawyer,” Martin said. Then to the DEA agent who came in with the Grant County cops: “You’ll find about a half-million dollars worth of meth in the back of that Tahoe. Detective Rosencrantz and I personally witnessed the transfer. We’ll get our written statements to you as soon as we can, but right now, we’ve got to go.”

  The DEA guy pointed at his vehicle and said, “The keys are in it.”

  “This isn’t over,” Witlock said. “I’m going to find a way to get to you. Both of you.”

  Rosencrantz ignored him, turned to the DEA guy, and said, “Add threatening two police officers to the charges.”

  “They made me wear a wire,” Witlock said.

  Everyone looked at Rosencrantz and Martin. “I don’t know anything about a wire,” Martin said. “Do you, Detective?”

  “No idea whatsoever,” Rosencrantz said. He was looking right at Witlock when he said it.

  “You bastards.” Then to the other cops: “I’ve got Agent Martin on video reading that letter aloud. It gives me full and complete immunity. She never said anything about the date. Unhook me and I can show you right now.”

  Rosencrantz, with a look of exasperation on his face, said, “Okay Neil, I’ll unhook you so you can show everyone this video you seem to think you have, but if you try anything…”

  “All I want to do is show these other cops the video so I have witnesses.”

  Rosencrantz unhooked him, and Witlock took his phone from his back pocket. He typed in a series of commands to bring up his email account. He kept looking at the other cops as he did. “Wait until you guys see the video. By the time this thing is over, I won’t be the one brought up on charges, they will. This email proves that both of them…”

  Witlock let his rant trail off as he began to frantically search for the email which no longer existed. Finally, he looked at Rosencrantz and said, “What did you do? What the fuck did you do? Where’s the email?”

  Rosencrantz made a clucking noise with his tongue. “Neil, you keep yammering on about a video and some email, but I simply don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Witlock was furious. Then, like an idiot, he tried to run. The county cops took him down before he’d made three steps. As he was on the ground, he turned his head to Martin and Rosencrantz and said, “This isn’t over.”

  “It is for you, Neil,” Martin said. “Just not for us. At least not yet.” Then to Rosencrantz: “Come on, we gotta go.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Johnny Hawk had a problem, but it was a good sort of problem to have. They’d made so much money, he was having trouble finding places to hide it. So far, he’d been stashing it in the bed of Wilbur’s old truck, out beyond the woods line. He’d purchased a lockable hard shell for the bed, and kept a camouflage cover over the truck so no one would see it from the road, but the bottom line was this: The back end of the truck was getting pretty full.

  Time to figure something out.

  He pulled the cover from the truck and unlocked the door of the shell. A quick check of the bags told him all the money was there. But still, he needed a better place to keep the truck, and if he didn’t find one soon, he was fairly certain eventually someone was going to try to break into the shell and grab some cash.

  Can’t let that happen.

  Johnny hopped into the cab and took a look at the registration in the glove box. Since he hadn’t done a proper title transfer, Wilbur’s name and address were still listed on the truck’s registration form.

  He punched the address into his phone and saw the old man lived about four miles away. He fired up the truck and headed in that direction.

  Ten minutes later when Wilbur opened the front door, Johnny thought the old guy was already drunk. An unlit cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth, and it bounced up and down when he spoke. “What are doing here?” Wilbur said, his words slightly slurred.

  “Need to talk to you.”

  “About what?”

  “Are you going to let me in, or not?”

  Wilbur stumbled back into his house, and Johnny followed. He thought the whole place looked decent enough, but it was in definite need of a top to bottom cleaning. There were dust balls in the corners—they looked like little miniature tumbleweeds—the carpet was threadbare, and all the furniture had the distinctive mismatched, early Salvation Army look to it. The air smelled like cigarettes, whiskey, and microwave pizza.

  “So, whatcha need?” Wilbur said. “I’m getting ready for my morning nap.” He lit his cigarette, then took a drink straight from a bottle of Wild Turkey.

  “I need to keep that old truck you gave me in your garage for a while.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I do. That’s all you need to know.” Johnny reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of cash. “Here’s five grand. Can I use the damn garage or not?”

  Wilbur saw the cash and his eyes widened so much he looked like a guppy. “Might be able to work something out.”

  “Don’t try to get over on me, old man. You want the deal or not?”

  “Of course I do. Except I’ll have to leave my new truck parked outside. There’s only room in there for one vehicle.”

  Johnny looked out the window. “It’s a two-car garage.”

  Wilbur bobbed his head up and down. “Yeah, but the other half is full of some stuff I’ve been meaning to get rid of for a while now.”

  “Whatever,” Johnny said, as he handed over the cash. “Get your keys and let’s get to it.”


  Wilbur found his keys, and when he walked out and opened the overhead door, Johnny immediately saw that Wilbur hadn’t been kidding. Half the garage was full of everything from an old fishing boat, to junk lawnmowers, bicycles, a half dozen full sets of golf clubs, old paint cans, and oddly, a full-size freezer chest along the wall that looked almost brand new.

  Wilbur got his truck started and backed out of the garage, and when he was clear, Johnny pulled the old one in. He’d just gotten out of the cab when Wilbur walked up and said, “See you got yourself a hard shell for the bed. Probably cost more than the truck is worth. Whatcha got in there?”

  “None of your business. Don’t be trying to get inside either, because I’ll be back for this thing soon enough, and it better not have been messed with.”

  “I ain’t gonna mess with it,” Wilbur said. He walked over to a freestanding cabinet and took out another bottle of Wild Turkey. “Want a belt?”

  “No, I want you to give me a ride back to the barn.”

  Wilbur took another drink, then said, “I’m not sure I’m fit to drive.”

  “It’s four miles down straight country roads. I think you’ll make it.”

  “Oh, I could make it alright. Except I’ve had two DUIs in the last twelve months. The judge said if I got another one, he was gonna put me away for a long time. Only reason he hasn’t so far is because I haven’t hurt anyone.”

  “How about if I drive us? That way, you’ll only have to get yourself back home. Cuts your risk in half.”

  Wilbur took another swig, belched, then said, “I don’t know. The cops, they been keeping an eye on me. Plus, don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m not so sure I want to be seen with you right now. Just standing here in the garage is making me nervous.”