“You don’t have a family, Rhoads,” said Brandon. “You’re wife’s dead, and as far as anyone can tell, you haven’t done a thing to keep your brother from falling into the bottle.”
Franklin shot a severe look at Brandon and started to say something.
“I bet you’re a good agent…”
“Special agent,” said Brandon.
“See,” Rhoads said, “there you go again. I bet you’re a good agent. You’re not stupid, and neither is your boss here. But you have to watch the older guys, read the signals. Franklin here knows that his plan just went out the window, but you’re still a step behind. You think that insulting me is going to make me mad, make me say something that gives you an edge. But it’s not going to happen. It’s a game. You know it, and I know it. When we’re done with this case, you want to say something about my wife—my dead wife—then we can have that conversation. You and me in the parking lot behind the Federal Building. But we both know that’s not going to happen. And not because you don’t think you can take me—you’re wrong about that, but I wouldn’t trust a man that didn’t take that position—but because it’s a game. So look, Special Agent Brandon, I admire the go-team attitude, I really do. But it’s not going to work. So can we just get to the part where you tell me what you need?”
Brandon looked away, reddening. He looked at Franklin, and Franklin nodded. “I apologize, Mr. Rhoads. I was out of line.”
“I accept, Special Agent,” Rhoads said. “I get it. It’s not personal.”
“It looks like I misread you, Rhoads,” said Franklin. “Let’s start over.”
“Sounds good,” Rhoads said. “Let’s start with the threat. What are you going to do to me if I don’t do what you want?”
“Come on, Rhoads,” Franklin said. “It’s not like that.”
Rhoads turned away and pillowed his head on his arm. “Okay. I’m going to take that nap. You can figure out how you want to play it while I’m out.”
“God damn it, Rhoads,” Franklin said. “All right: the killer put your name on the letters. Why? Are you helping him? Do you know him?”
“No and no,” Rhoads said. “But you know that too. I mean, maybe I knew him. How do I know? I know a lot of people. But you know I’m not helping him. If you thought that, I’d be in cuffs. What else?”
Franklin thought for a moment and said, “It’s Midas. Pratt’s lying about it, and my gut says it’s central to the case. We’re not going to get anything from Pratt, and you’re the only one who knows anything about it.”
“That makes sense,” said Rhoads. “Benedict didn’t just quit, that much was obvious. He had some serious problems with whatever Midas was. I chased down every lead I could, but I didn’t find any sign of him. That was the extent of my involvement. I don’t doubt Midas is something Pratt doesn’t want the FBI to know about, but I don’t know what it was. I looked for Benedict, and I didn’t find him.”
“And then you quit. You’re not telling me everything, Rhoads.”
Rhoads nodded. “I don’t have anything you can use, but I’ll tell you what I think.” He looked out the window to gather his thoughts. “Do you have a pretty good idea about how my business works?”
“You’re a P.I., and most of what you do is chase the big-paying clients,” Franklin said. “Corporate security, that kind of thing. But business hasn’t been that good lately. You’re taking on divorce cases, bottom-feeding to pay the bills. Getting the Old Carolina account was a big win for you.”
“Right,” said Rhoads. “You did your homework. So we do corporate security, risk assessment, but yeah, we also do skip traces, security for the rich, that kind of thing. When we don’t have a big account, a lot of what we do is finding people. You know how that works?”
Franklin frowned. “Of course. You trace people. Credit card statements, interview friends and family, phone records, the whole paper trail.”
“Right,” Rhoads said. “That’s what we do when there’s nothing better. But when a client comes to me and says, ‘I’m looking for whoever,’ the first thing I do is a background check on the client.”
“Why on the client?” Brandon said.
“Because it’s not just bail bondsmen and jilted wives who want people found. Sometimes it’s the bad guys, and if you locate people who don’t want to be found, they could end up dead.”
“That makes sense,” said Franklin. “So you think Pratt wanted Benedict dead.”
Rhoads nodded. “I do. I don’t have any evidence of it, but Pratt’s not as subtle as he likes to think. Maybe there are reasons to find a high-level employee who drops off the map. Maybe you want to make sure he’s okay because it makes the board happy. Maybe you want to keep tabs on him in case he leaks proprietary information so you can sue him. But beyond a certain point, it’s money down a hole. I looked for Benedict everywhere the leads took me. Flights, hotel rooms, paying snitches, you name it. Almost fifty thousand dollars in expenses on top of my salary, and nothing. But Pratt didn’t want to quit. So I figured that he didn’t just want to find Benedict, he needed to find him. In Denver, I saw Pratt’s lackey Valzmann tailing me, and I realized I was the sucker. I was supposed to find Benedict, and Valzmann was there to deal with him.”
“That’s a serious accusation,” Brandon said. “You’re saying this Valzmann is a murderer for hire.”
“Come on, Special Agent Brandon. You know what I know, most of it, and I know it. You know who Valzmann is. Pratt’s got himself an attack dog that does off-the-books enforcement. Why don’t you pick him up?”
Brandon looked at Franklin.
“You can’t find him, is that it?” Rhoads said. “Well, I understand how you decided I was the weak link, but I don’t know any more than that. Valzmann and Pratt are dirty, but I don’t have anything for you. If I did, I’d be the first one to give it up.”
“So you say,” Brandon said. “But the fact remains that you’re being paid by Pratt.”
“And you know why I took the job,” Rhoads said. “My brother’s got problems. That’s no secret. But he’s my brother. I’m going to do what I have to so I can take care of him and his family. Pratt’s paying the bills, but that doesn’t mean he’s my buddy. If we catch this guy—and that’s wholly aside from your interest in Midas—I get a bonus big enough to buy my boat. So that’s where I’m at. Now what do you want from me?”
Franklin cleared his throat. “We want you to help us catch the killer, but we also need you to report to us anything Pratt does or says that might help us run down the Midas leads. Maybe Benedict is our guy, and maybe he’s not. But the FBI is interested in Pratt. He’s hiding something, and we want to know what it is.”
“I’ll do what I can, but I don’t know anything about Midas,” Rhoads said. “If you guys are holding back, it’s just going to hurt the investigation.”
Franklin nodded to Brandon. Brandon took out a file and opened it. He said, “Old Carolina runs lots of projects, hundreds of them. This Midas thing, I guess, wasn’t a very big one. Didn’t work out, they cut off the funding, and it just went away. That’s Pratt’s story—everybody keeps telling me how big Midas wasn’t. But it had a project roster of twelve scientists. Five of whom are PhDs. And an annual budget of $4.1 million. The real story, what we know of it, is this—Midas was a sixty month-long scientific study designed to determine the optimum level of nicotine dosage needed to insure and maintain addiction to cigarettes. Project technically successful. Officially terminated when project leader Loren Benedict threatened to reveal analytical data to various federal agencies.”
Rhoads’s jaw dropped. Brandon flipped forward a few more pages.
“Benedict disappeared January, two years ago,” the FBI agent read, “three days after telephoning an official of the U.S. Department of Justice and agreeing to meet to discuss some sort of conspiracy-in-progress at Old Carolina. Only problem was, the
guy never kept his appointment. The DOJ official wrote a memo and forwarded it to us. To date, we have insufficient evidence to pursue prosecution of any party.”
“I can’t say I’m surprised,” Rhoads said, “So it looks like I was right.”
Franklin nodded. “We think so. We think Pratt silenced Benedict.”
Rhoads knew Franklin was avoiding accusing him of leading Valzmann to Benedict, and he appreciated it. Rhoads was happy with the thought that he would collect Pratt’s money as well as help to put him away.
“You agree to avoid doing anything that will jeopardize my payday,” said Rhoads, “and I’ll give you whatever I can.” He held out his hand to Franklin.
“Agreed,” Franklin said. They shook.
Rhoads turned to Brandon. “You’re not as much of a jackass as you want people to think. But you mention my wife again, and we’re going to dance. Agreed?”
Brandon nodded and stuck out his hand. “Agreed.”
27
Seacrest, Florida
In Seacrest, a suburb of Pensacola, Muntor entered the Mr. Turkey restaurant lobby. On the street, it was warm and humid. Inside felt better—the air conditioning made it easier to breathe.
Two pay phones were installed on the wall next to a rack of giveaway newspapers. Neither telephone was in use. Muntor went to one, dialed a long-distance number he had written on a three-by-five card, and when instructed by the digital voice, began dropping quarters into the slot.
He silently rehearsed his lines. He cleared his throat to warm up for the voice he planned to use. Muntor took note of the lightheadedness that accompanied the sudden rise in his blood pressure.
His chest ached, too, and he felt a swell, like indigestion, burning behind his rib cage. His hands and fingers quivered. Heat built up under his scalp, and a thin film of sweat developed on his forehead.
Muntor had cause to be excited. For the first time in his life, he was about to claim the upper hand. For the first time in his life, he wasn’t a loser, no matter what his father and wife had always told him. He had something to teach the world, and he had the means to make sure they learned.
If Dad could only see me now.
28
Event Response Center
FBI Headquarters
Washington, D.C.
In the huge Event Response Center—the ERC—on the second floor of FBI Headquarters, a dozen special agents and half as many support personnel sat at computer workstations. They moved about with files and faxes and photocopies. One woman monitored the FBI telex terminal that agents called the hot line.
In another room nearby, Rhoads was being briefed and instructed by FBI forensic psychologists about what to say, and what not to say, to the subject if and when he called in. Agents and assistants answered telephones and made calls. Every few minutes one would dash from one end of the auditorium-sized room to the other with some urgent communication for one of the supervisors.
Two agents, their fingers working furiously at keyboards, were logged onto NCIC, the National Crime Information Center network. They were seeking matches on a series of known-violator variables that the Behavioral Sciences Section in Quantico and the Identification Section in Washington had prepared. Among the search targets were previous offenders in tampering cases, those who made threats of violence against corporations, and those who, by virtue of employment history, had access to dangerous chemicals.
That was just the start. As more field data became available, the search experts would be able to sharpen the focus of their queries by polling for matches on increasingly specific variables.
At a large conference table in the same room, Franklin and several other FBI officials sat talking. Telephones rang and support people answered them. When warranted, an assistant would tap the appropriate shoulder, fast whispers would be exchanged, and the call would be taken. For any call that was not urgent, pink callback slips were hastily filled out.
A telephone rang somewhere in the background. A moment later, an assistant rushed to Franklin’s side and whispered to him.
Franklin stared down at the multiline telephone on the table as if it was a water moccasin. He picked up the line the assistant indicated and listened for a moment to the FBI switchboard operator.
“Okay, everybody, headsets on,” Franklin said. “Here he is.”
He waited several seconds for everyone to get the headsets in place. Then he spoke to the operator. “Put him through on line four.”
A second later, a light began blinking above the fourth button on Franklin’s telephone.
Franklin clenched his teeth. Then every discernible facial expression evaporated. He took a deep breath. Calls like this sometimes come only once in a career. He stood up, the telephone still pressed to his ear, and snapped his fingers hard, once, for silence. Everyone looked to him except the one he needed most, the communications tech busy at a terminal.
“Dan! Line four!” Franklin shouted. The tech spun around.
Franklin gave him a sharp nod and pointed with his free hand to the telephone, signaling the tech to trap the incoming call. The tech’s hands grew busy at the keyboard.
Franklin put his finger on the line-four button but did not press it. He closed his eyes and slowly eased himself into a chair. Then he pressed the flashing light and was on the line with a man who, less than one minute earlier, had told the FBI switchboard that he was the person the papers were calling Cyanide Sam.
“Deputy Director Franklin,” Franklin said, measuring his tone.
“Howdy, Mr. Franklin!” a hoarse voice said, almost jovially. A rush of vehicles in the background suggested an outdoor pay phone. That could be faked, was Franklin’s immediate thought, and could be a sound effect.
A few feet away, the technician assigned to trap the call reacted to something that appeared on his terminal. He picked up a telephone and, pressing his finger against the screen so as not to lose his place, he spoke excitedly in quiet tones.
Franklin, distracted by the tech’s activity, turned away and closed his eyes. “To whom am I speaking?” Franklin asked. “And how may I help you?”
“Oh, yeah, my name? Walter Winchell. I didn’t know you were a comedian, too. Anyway, you’ll want to know it’s really me. Here’s a hint. My salutation. Have you deciphered it?”
Franklin turned around to those monitoring the call. What salutation? he asked with his eyes and a hunch of his shoulders. Then to the caller, “I do not know with whom I’m speaking.”
“I issued a greeting,” the caller said, still speaking through a hoarse voice, “to demonstrate the lengths to which I am willing to go to accomplish my goal, which is to educate people about the value of the gift of life.”
The man, whether or not he intended to, succeeded in confusing Franklin. “What do you mean by salutation?”
“By salutation I mean greeting. What else would it mean? Check the names of the establishments in Pensacola where people recently went to quit smoking. First letters only. But you’ll have to add the letter ‘O.’ If the news is reporting it accurately, the little trick-pack I planted at… at the mystery spot must have been a dud. Then you’ll know I’m me.”
He still didn’t know what the caller meant. Franklin turned again to the people listening in. With his eyes, he asked them if they understood.
“Pratt got your tongue, Mr. Franklin?”
The caller had scored one against him. “No. I’m here, sir.”
“Then, if you want to resolve this… matter… as expeditiously as possible, I’ll want to talk to that fellow who works as a security executive at Old Carolina down in Asheville. His name is Thomas Rhoads. I’ll tell him, Rhoads, what I’m up to. My advice is to get in touch with him right away and tell him I’ll call back at this number at, oh, let me take a little ride now, say four p.m. sharp. Today.”
“Sir, we have Mr. Rhoads here no
w, ready to…”
“How about if I stay on this telephone for another couple of hours, chatting with him? Would that be okay with you? Tick tock, four o’clock.”
The subject hung up.
Franklin stood motionless.
“Let’s have it,” said one of the agents who had not had the benefit of a headset.
Franklin looked to the tech.
“A public telephone in Seacrest. Number 11 Lightwood Street,” the tech said.
The communications computer had locked the location of the subject’s telephone into the system the instant the tech tapped the appropriate key, but the system took another thirty-one seconds to find and display the exact address. The caller didn’t stay on the line much longer. The call had been clocked at seventy-two seconds.
“He didn’t want to stay on the line. He said he will call back at four today to talk to Rhoads,” Franklin said.
Franklin then turned to address everyone in the ERC. “Here’s what the caller said.” He paraphrased the conversation. “He said, ‘… you’ll want to know it’s really me. Did you decipher my salutation?’ and then, ‘… check out the first letters of the places in Pensacola where people went to stop smoking, and add the letter “0” because that one must have been a dud.’ Then he said he will call back here at four p.m. today.”
Then, much louder, “Damn it!” Franklin slammed his beefy hand hard and flat on the conference table. The Director, who had entered the room during the call and stood behind Franklin, jumped back, startled at the outburst.
Find Virgil (A Novel of Revenge) Page 9
