by Mel Odom
“There’s nothing in any of these files we can hope to use against Victor Gant.” Tarlton waved at the copious piles of paper he’d dug out of the police department records. They sat in cardboard boxes in the booth beside him.
“If there’d been anything there,” Will said, “you’d have taken him down before now. We were just hoping to find something that you hadn’t.”
“Last best shot,” Tarlton agreed. “The only thing I could possibly get Gant for is carrying concealed. With his prison record, I could get an arrest warrant for that.”
“But you weren’t there when the FBI took him into custody,” Will said.
“No. I could get some witnesses from the bar who saw them take weapons off Gant, but then I’m sure I could get other witnesses who say that only Fat Mike Wiley had a weapon.”
“Gant’s also got a deal in place with the FBI,” Will said. “They’re going to protect him as much as they can.”
“Kind of makes you wonder whose team they’re on.”
“Theirs,” Remy said. “First, last, and always. That’s how they operate when they got their own fish to clean. Then when they’re helping you clean yours, they just want to hang back and tell you how to get it done.”
“Why, Special Agent Gautreau, I suspicion that’s a cynical attitude you have.” Tarlton smiled.
“This guy Urlacher is a political climber,” Remy said. “You find his type everywhere. Gant’s moving enough heroin through the area that finding his source is going to be a big deal.”
“You can’t blame a guy for having ambition.” Tarlton grinned. “I say that with all the false sincerity I can muster.”
“We can still shadow Gant for a few days,” Remy said. “Keep him in a full-court press till Shel gets out of here and we can take him home.” He cut his gaze to Will. “Unless Director Larkin says different.”
“He won’t,” Will said. “At least not yet.” Larkin knew how badly Frank Billings’s death had affected all of them. “But the time will come.” Will looked at the notes he’d scribbled on his iPAQ and didn’t see anything there that looked the least bit promising. “My problem is that I don’t feel good leaving this for Chief Tarlton now that we stirred up the hornet’s nest.”
“I appreciate the sentiment,” Tarlton said, “but I’ve been making my way around here for a long time before you guys showed up. I expect I’ll be doing the same after you leave.”
“I know.” Will sighed. “I just like cleaning up any messes I’ve made before I pull up stakes.”
“You didn’t make this one. Victor Gant has been here for a while.”
The waitress came by and took away the last remnants of their dinner. When she left the check, Will reached for it.
“Nope.” Tarlton picked up the check. “Your money’s no good here. My town, my treat.”
“It seems like the least we could do after keeping you up half the night,” Will said.
“You offered me a shot at taking Victor Gant off the streets, and you had enough clout to make the FBI dry up and blow away if it came to that,” Tarlton said as he dropped a credit card over the check. “And who knows? Maybe I’ll need some help farther down the line.”
Will’s iPAQ vibrated for attention. He glanced at the screen and saw Estrella’s icon float to the top. He tapped the icon and held the iPAQ to his ear.
“Estrella? You should have been home hours ago.”
“Nita and Joe are keeping Nicky tonight,” Estrella said. “Nicky told me that was okay and that he didn’t miss me.”
Even though she tried to disguise it, Will heard the slight pain in Estrella’s voice. She took motherhood seriously.
“Take tomorrow off,” Will suggested. “Catch a movie.”
“I can’t. Too much work has piled up here. Everything will be fine. One of the reasons Nicky’s so excited about staying with Nita and Joe is because Joe has promised to take him and Celia sailing in the morning.”
“I’d be excited too.” Will sailed with his own kids every chance he got. Since he’d gotten divorced, it seemed there were more opportunities to take Wren and Steven out on the boat.
“I can make you more excited,” Estrella offered.
“Okay.”
“Philip finished the analysis of the heroin you couriered to us. We’ve got a match. If you want to bring your computer up, I’ll walk you through it.”
Will reached into the messenger bag he used to carry his computer. Remy and Tarlton leaned in closer.
“Something?” Tarlton asked.
Will nodded. He opened the computer and powered it on, then waited for it to connect to the mini satellite that provided the encrypted Internet connection to the NCIS transmissions.
The Web page Estrella had set up for her presentation appeared on the screen. Will put the phone on speaker. No one in the restaurant was close enough to overhear.
“Let me walk you through the time line as I’ve constructed it,” Estrella said. “Thirty-one hours ago, Bobby Lee Gant used his pistol to murder one man and threaten Shel and a young woman.”
Will rubbed his eyes tiredly. It was hard to believe so little time had passed. But the first forty-eight hours of any investigation were always the most important. If something didn’t break during that time, things generally went badly.
“Nine months ago, Fat Mike Wiley bought the pistol from Gerald Otis,” Estrella continued. “So somewhere in there, the pistol went from Fat Mike’s hands to Bobby Lee’s.”
Will studied the time line and saw those two incidents marked.
“Four months ago, a man named Walter Simpson went missing,” Estrella said.
“I worked that case with the sheriff,” Tarlton said. “Simpson lived in Charlotte, but everybody knew he was a meth cook. The sheriff and I suspected he worked for Victor Gant.”
“As a matter of fact,” Estrella said, cycling the Web presentation forward so that another page opened up on the computer monitor, “I did some digging. Five men who’ve been tentatively identified as Purple Royals were busted in Mecklenburg County, Robeson County, and Guilford County. At the time of their arrests, all of them had meth on them that came from the same batch.”
“You said tentatively,” Tarlton said.
“I think a little digging could improve the standing on that point,” Estrella acknowledged. “The important thing is that these men were carrying meth that could be tied to Simpson.”
“How was it tied?” Remy asked. “Recipe or product?”
Will knew that meth cooks almost always created the drug the same way every time and that the individual products tended to be unique enough to identify. Further chemical breakdowns could verify that beyond doubt. Recipes were filed with law enforcement departments, and drug samples were kept in federal clearinghouses.
“Both,” Estrella answered.
“That indicates there was a tie between Victor Gant and Simpson,” Will said, “but how does that help us?”
“Because a month ago hunters found Simpson’s body, and it had a bullet from Bobby Lee’s gun in it.”
And that, Will knew, was the beginning of something they could work with.
25
›› Rafter M Ranch
›› Outside Fort Davis, Texas
›› 0231 Hours (Central Time Zone)
Restless, Tyrel flicked through channels. He knew he had insomnia bad when he couldn’t even focus on baseball. In fact, not even cold corn bread soaked in buttermilk had taken the edge off, and generally that would guarantee he’d sleep like a baby.
He flicked through the channels and ended up on FOX News, thinking the news would surely put him out of his misery. Thoughts of Shel kept banging around in his head, though, and he couldn’t seem to get them nailed down in any manner that would let him know why he was thinking about him so much.
After a few minutes of watching the international news, Tyrel almost changed channels. Then he saw Shel’s picture on the screen behind the anchorman.
The
picture was a twin of one Tyrel had stuck in his wife’s family Bible. It was where she’d kept all her important papers and memories. The Bible still held pressed flowers from the first time Tyrel had courted her, along with baby pictures and report cards.
Tyrel sat up a little straighter and turned up the television’s volume. He wasn’t worried about waking Ramon. The boy had sacked out in Don and Shel’s room. That was how Tyrel still thought of the bedroom at the back of the house.
Don and Shel’s room.
Like they were going to be coming right back at some point.
At least their mama hadn’t had to watch them move out, especially the angry way Shel had left. Tyrel knew that would have hurt her. And maybe it would have damaged their relationship. She’d always put a lot of store in her boys.
That was what she’d always called them. The boys, like they were the only two boys in the world.
Tyrel forced himself to focus on the news story. The anchor related how a young man named Bobby Lee Gant had killed one man and was about to kill a woman and maybe Shel when Shel had shot him.
The fact that his son had killed somebody didn’t bother Tyrel. That was what soldiers did. He’d killed men himself. War was war, and killing enemy soldiers was what he’d been over there to do.
But one didn’t deserve it at all.
Tyrel blinked back the pain of that stray memory and listened to the dead young man’s name again. Something about it sounded familiar. Then again, in Texas there were a lot of Robert Lees and Johnny Lees. Bobby Lee couldn’t have been so unique that he’d notice it.
Then the anchor started talking about another man, the boy’s father. Evidently he was a criminal too. His picture appeared on the wall behind the anchor desk.
And Tyrel was slammed right out of Texas and back into Vietnam.
›› Mecklenburg County Medical Examiner
›› 618 North College Street
›› Charlotte, North Carolina
›› 0357 Hours
“I’m too drunk for this,” Fat Mike said as he leaned against the wall near the building’s back door. He belched, then cursed.
“Keep quiet.” Victor spoke softly.
“We get caught, this could go really bad,” Fat Mike said.
“You’re worrying too much. We won’t get caught.” Victor stood. “You about got that lock?”
The skinny biker working on the lock raked his long hair back with a hand. “Almost. This ain’t as easy as picking your nose.”
“Get it done.” Victor glanced around. He knew Fat Mike was right. They had no business being there.
But he hadn’t gotten to tell Bobby Lee good-bye in a respectful manner. He owed his son that much, and he wanted to do it while he was still mostly intact. He knew the coroner would get around to gutting Bobby Lee at some point, even though everyone knew exactly what-and who-had killed him.
Victor didn’t like thinking about that. He was of half a mind to steal his son’s body and provide his own burial. Except that he had no place to put him, and he wasn’t going to bury Bobby Lee out in the woods where the animals could have at him.
“You said there’s only one security guard on duty?” Victor asked Fat Mike.
“Yeah.” Fat Mike belched again. “But I really think this is a bad idea. If we get caught-”
“Ain’t gonna be no ‘we.’ It’s gonna be me. I’m going in there. And if I get caught, then I’m gonna make my new buddies at the FBI pull my fat outta the fire.”
“They may let you get all nice and toasty before they do that.”
“I’m doing this,” Victor said in a cold, dead voice.
Fat Mike wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Something else you should probably know.”
“Well spit it out.”
“I found out who rolled over on Bobby Lee.”
“I already know that. His girlfriend.”
Fat Mike looked at him in surprise.
“My FBI buddies told me that. She got caught holding by the Charlotte PD. She says she fell over on Bobby Lee because she’s pregnant and don’t want the baby born while she’s in jail. I figure she just didn’t want to do no slam.”
“Yeah. You’re probably right.”
The biker at the back door stood.
“Give up?” Victor asked.
“Nah, bro.” He grinned. “I got it. Even took out the alarm.” He pulled on the door and it swung open almost soundlessly.
Victor nodded. “Way to fire. Gimme a few minutes. Wait here and I’ll be back.” He stepped into the morgue.
›› Rafter M Ranch
›› Outside Fort Davis, Texas
›› 0306 Hours (Central Time Zone)
Tyrel went back to his bedroom and switched on the light. As always, his bed was neatly made, the spread pulled tight enough that a quarter would bounce if dropped on it.
The bed had been one of the points of contention he’d had with his wife. No matter how hard she’d tried, she could never make it well enough to suit him. She’d finally given up in exasperation and let him do it. And he had, every morning they’d been together.
The Army had taught Tyrel how to make a bed. The Army had taught him a lot of things. Not all of those things had been good.
He went to the closet, stood on tiptoe, and slid away the secret panel he’d placed there. He’d built the ranch house for his wife. Every stick of it had been put there by his hand. He knew it completely, and he’d built it to be a fortress that would keep the rest of the world at bay.
But at the very heart of it, he’d hidden the darkness that consumed his soul.
Everything he’d brought back from Vietnam, other than the guilt, had been carefully packed away in the olive drab ammo box.
He carried the box back to the bed and sat down. He unlatched the lid, then slowly and meticulously began to take out things he hadn’t seen in over forty years.
Medals, mementos, and photographs soon littered the bed. He’d never paid much attention to the medals. He didn’t even know why he’d kept them. Except that his daddy had.
His daddy had kept his in an ammo box too, but he’d kept the ammo box out in his shop. Earl McHenry had been a carpenter by trade. He’d taught Tyrel everything he’d wanted to learn, which wasn’t ever as much as his daddy had wanted to teach him. Thankfully it had been enough to build the house. And in doing that, Tyrel had taught himself other things.
He focused on the pictures. It didn’t take him long to find Victor Gant.
Gant looked like the devil incarnate. He stood there smiling with his M14 on the ground beside him. He’d refused to give up his rifle for the M16 the Army had started bringing en masse into the war effort.
A pack of unfiltered cigarettes rode under his helmet band. He wore his uniform shirt open. His dog tags lay against his broad, naked chest. He’d been twenty-four or twenty-five.
Tyrel had been twenty-one at the time.
Victor Gant, already a veteran of ambushes and firefights, had seemed like a mythical hero when he swaggered through the jungle and the bars servicemen haunted in those days.
Tyrel had been swept under Gant’s influence. But for whatever reason, Tyrel had never been asked into the inner circle.
Gripped by the old fear that had haunted him for over forty years, Tyrel sorted through the pictures. He dreaded finding what he was looking for, but he couldn’t help searching for it.
Then, a couple dozen black-and-white photographs later, Tyrel found the one he was looking for.
Dennis Hinton sat on the prow of a PBR that was tied up in the Qui Nhon harbor. He was bare-chested and quiet and looked almost embarrassed in the picture. His hair was so blond it looked white against his tanned skin. Other rigid-hulled swift boats, designated Patrol Boat, River, and called Pibbers or Riverines, were visible in the bay waters behind him.
Even with all the military hardware around him and the M14 in his hands, Denny looked like a child. They all had.
Except for Victor Gant. Gant had
been dark and virile, his eyes cold and merciless. When it came to killing, Victor had been one of the most efficient predators Tyrel had ever met.
This man isn’t going to let the death of his son go unchallenged, Tyrel told himself.
If there was ever a man who lived to get his pound of flesh from anyone who crossed him, it was Victor Gant.
But that night Denny had died- No. The night you killed Denny, Tyrel amended-Victor Gant had become a savior. He’d gotten Tyrel out of the worst thing that had ever happened to him.
At least, that was what Tyrel had thought at the time. That was before everything he’d done had followed him home and staked out a piece of his hopes and dreams for the last forty years.
Without warning, Tyrel’s hands started to shake. His vision misted. He wiped his mouth with the back of his arm and thought he was going to be sick.
26
›› Mecklenburg County Medical Examiner
›› 618 North College Street
›› Charlotte, North Carolina
›› 0420 Hours
Victor Gant walked fearlessly through the morgue. His boots thumped against the tiled floor. The red glare of the exit signs shone against the floor’s surface and made it look like coals burned underneath. Almost as if he were walking above the pits of hell.
Victor’s quick research had indicated that the offices closed down at five and that everyone went home shortly after that. An answering service picked up any after-hours calls.
Except for the lone security guard, Victor had the place to himself. They’d gotten a description of the layout from a Mexican janitor who’d worked there until he was busted selling weed. After the question was raised at the bar, Shaky Carl had come up with the ex-janitor’s name.
In minutes, Victor was in the vault. The book listing the locations of the bodies-apparently nobody completely trusted the computer systems-was on the desk.
Victor plucked a pair of disposable surgical gloves from a box near the chemicals and equipment, then strode to the desk and flipped through the book’s pages and found the latest entries.
