The Bakken Blade

by Jeff Siebold

  He showed them a picture of Sam Bearcat, head on his arms, sprawled across the top of a table. The interior of the Salty Dog was obvious in the background.

  “We’re gonna need a DNA sample,” said Cord. “To eliminate you from the list of suspects.”

  Carter set his fork down and looked at Cord. “Uh-uh. No way,” he said.

  Cord shrugged. “Then you stay on the list. We’ll get a subpoena and compel the test. And we won’t be quite so polite.”

  “I know what you’re doing,” said Carter, suddenly aggressive. “You’re trying to set me up. No way.”

  Cord looked at him and remained quiet.

  “You’re trying to frame me for killing the girl. No way. Get outta my house. Git out!”

  “Actually,” said Cord, “we have a Federal warrant to bring you in. You’re a person of interest in the death of…”

  Zeke sensed it before the man moved. His rage was palpable, suddenly emitting from Carter with a force that made Tillman Cord flinch. The sudden hot anger in Carter’s presence had a physical impact. Carter reached under the table and lifted it, sending it over on its side and spilling everything on it. Carter reached to the small of his back.

  Zeke stepped into the violence, closer to the big man. He said, “You’ll want to keep your hands where I can see them.”

  Cord stepped in also, evidently noticing the man’s movement.

  “Like hell,” said Carter. His right hand came clear of his windbreaker. He was brandishing a Ruger American Pistol, a .45 caliber semi-automatic. It looked small in his large hand. He waved the gun at Cord, who was already twisting away from the big man.

  Zeke wrapped his left hand around the barrel of the Colt and twisted the gun upward. Then he pulled the gun toward himself and, with both hands on the barrel, he wrenched it farther, up and back, pointing it upside down toward Carter’s head.

  Will Carter, his index finger caught in the trigger guard, screamed in pain and tried to push Zeke away with his left hand. But he had no leverage. Zeke stepped in and stayed close to the large man, keeping Carter’s gun and right arm between them so that Carter couldn’t reach him.

  There was a loud, sickening crack as Carter’s forefinger dislocated. He released the gun and cradled his right hand in his left, swearing to himself in pain.

  “Bet that hurts,” said Zeke.

  * * *

  “Alright, look,” said Carter, now sitting at the uprighted table, his hand swelling and misshapen. He was wearing a pair of Cord’s handcuffs. “I may have gone with the girl after I left the bar. Ran into her. She was, like, waiting for me outside. DNA’s gonna tell you that.”

  Zeke nodded encouragingly.

  Carter said, “But I didn’t kill her. Why would I? Just had some fun, consenting adults and all.”

  “Why was she waiting for you?” asked Cord. “Does she like ugly?”

  Carter flushed red. Then he said, “Apparently she likes ‘big’.”

  “Really?” asked Cord.

  Zeke said, “You go, what, two-eighty? Six seven?”

  “About,” said Carter, still staring at Cord.

  “And she was tipsy,” Zeke continued.

  “It was nothing but a fun time. No harm in that.”

  “You accompanied her to the trailer?” asked Zeke, confirming.

  “Yeah, I did. She invited me. I hadn’t been there before.”

  “To Lakeside Trailer Park?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And you went inside?”

  “Yeah. There were people on the couch, so she took me back in the bedroom,” said Carter. “We weren’t there that long, ya know.”

  “Who was on the couch?” asked Cord. He was holding a pen and a small notebook.

  “I don’t know them. A couple of girls and a man. I’d seen one of the girls at the bar. And the man, I think.”

  “Names?”

  “Naw. I don’t know.”

  While Cord was interviewing Carter, Zeke walked to the kitchen, found a zip lock bag and filled it with ice. He gave it to the big man who immediately pressed it against his index finger.

  “Then what happened?” asked Cord.

  “Then we went in the bedroom.”

  “What happened in there?” asked Cord.

  “Whatdaya think?” said Carter.

  “Pretty cramped in the trailer for someone as big as you, Will,” said Zeke.

  “It was, yeah.”

  “So…”

  “So when we were done, I left. The girl stayed there.”

  “How’d you get out?” asked Zeke.

  “There was a backdoor off the bedroom,” he said. “Led to a small porch around back, and steps down.”

  “What time was that?”

  “I left about 11:45,” said Carter.

  “How much did you pay her?” asked Cord.

  “She wouldn’t take any money. I tried, but she just giggled and said she was happy to do it.”

  * * *

  After a couple of phone calls and a bit of coordinating, they dropped Carter off at the Bismarck FBI Field Office.

  “Can you drop me near the Bismarck airport?” asked Zeke. “I need to catch a red-eye back to D.C. My partner texted that they’ve moved the timetable up on something I’m working on. Another FBI thing.”

  “Sure. Anything interesting?” asked Cord.

  “Has to do with a chain of pawnshops.”

  Cord nodded. “You got somewhere to stay tonight?”

  “Booked an airport hotel,” said Zeke.

  “No problem. I’ll drop you there and head back to New Town.”

  “Any chance you can stay on the Jenny Lakota killing? Now that we know Carter was involved with her that evening?” asked Zeke.

  “I’m thinking I could do that,” said Tillman Cord. “The Bureau doesn’t know exactly what to do with me anyway.”

  * * *

  Francis Donovan, FBI Agent in Charge of the Multiple Apprehension Task Force, arrived at The Agency, Clive Greene’s consulting firm, with a small entourage of FBI agents. Each was carrying a briefcase, and each had his or her FBI I.D. displayed prominently.

  They’re proud to be the good guys, thought Zeke.

  Clive had arranged for the meeting to be held in their primary conference room with windows looking south over Pennsylvania Avenue. The afternoon weather was mild, and the sun was bright.

  The agents followed Francis Donovan into the conference room single file and moved around the table. Zeke thought there was probably some sort of order to the seating arrangement, but it wasn’t clear what that was. Donovan sat at the head of the table and arranged her paperwork. Then she opened her laptop and connected to the Internet.

  Kimmy followed Clive and Zeke into the room. They took the remaining seats.

  “We’re here to initiate an operation that will result in the seizure and closure of over one hundred businesses that are money laundering fronts,” Donovan began.

  A junior agent pushed a stapled list across the table to Clive and Zeke. It contained business names, addresses and some individual’s names, probably the business owners or proprietors. Clive looked it over as Donovan continued.

  “This sort of operation must be done quickly, quietly and with precise timing. There’s no room for error. We’ll coordinate local law enforcement to handle the raids and the arrests, and to cordon off the pawnshops after they’ve been raided.”

  Clive nodded to her.

  “Before the raids, local law enforcement won’t know that their efforts are part of a larger sweep. They’ll be invited by their FBI offices to participate in a ‘joint effort’ to take down what they’ll be told is a fencing operation, perpetrators receiving stolen goods.”

  “You’ll coordinate this centrally?” asked Clive.

  “I will,” said Donovan. “We’ve done this type of thing before, all over the country.”

  “You’re specialists, then?” asked Zeke.

  “You could say that.” Donovan eyed
Zeke obviously and suspiciously.

  Maybe it’s my long hair, he thought.

  “Do we know what happened to Bart Conrad?” asked Zeke. “Was there any new information about his death?”

  “Suicide, most likely, but that’s not part of our investigation,” said Donovan. Then, quickly back on point, “You gentlemen are welcome to join us for this operation. We’d prefer you stay with us in the central coordination area. Washington Agent in Charge, Osborne, asked for you both by name.”

  Clive nodded.

  If he had a hat on, he’d have tipped it, thought Zeke.

  “There’s still quite a bit of planning and coordination to accomplish. This is Agent Matthews and next to him, Agent Robbins. You’ll be working with them,” Donovan concluded. “Agent Matthews, please bring these good people up to speed on our operation.”

  * * *

  Chester Knowles was dressed in a green Izod sports shirt, white slacks and a matching cap as he entered the 12th tee-box of the Spring Brook Country Club golf course outside of Morristown, New Jersey. The small man favored the private club for its rigid dress code and archaic rules.

  “Alright, Chester, let her fly,” said Cal Harmon, president of Union First Bank of New Jersey. Harmon was a tall thin man who deferred to Chester Knowles regularly. Knowles business, Pawn 4 All, was a major account for the bank, which was the lending source for the majority of its franchises.

  Knowles was quiet, serious. He teed the ball and took a long look down the fairway. A short par 4, he thought. Three-thirty five from the blue tees. Good opportunity for a birdie.

  Without a practice swing Chester Knowles addressed the ball and in a fluid motion drove it straight and true. It landed in the middle of the fairway to the polite applause of the rest of his foursome.

  “Say, Chester,” said Cal, after the smaller man had sheathed his club.

  “Ride with me,” said Knowles, looking around quickly. They jumped into the golf cart and headed for the center of the fairway.

  “What is it, Cal?”

  “We were looking over your firm’s proposal,” Cal said. “I’m sure we can accommodate the new franchises with our Pawn 4 All lending program.”

  “Good,” said Knowles. “We’d rather source our financing from one bank.”

  “But we noticed that none of the loans we’ve made—and there are over 120 of them—none of the loans have gone into default. None are even in arrears,” said the taller man.

  “Is that so?” asked Knowles. Cal pulled the cart around Knowles’ ball and stopped it a respectable distance away. Knowles chose a club and walked to the ball.

  “Can’t understand it, Chester. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “Are you complaining?” asked Knowles with a wry smile. He addressed the ball and, with his four iron, advanced it onto the left side of the green.

  “No, no,” said Cal. “Just never seen anything like it. I hope the new franchisees are as creditworthy.”

  “We do screen our people well, Cal,” said Knowles. “Can’t just let anyone have a Pawn 4 All franchise. It's my reputation, you know.”

  “Yes, I see,” said Cal.

  The men rode in silence to the 12th green. Then Knowles said, “We have an aggressive expansion plan, you know. Can you fund it?”

  “How much are we talking about?” asked Cal.

  “I’d like to see another thirty to fifty franchises this year,” said Knowles. He thought for a minute. “Actually, some of that will come in our acquisition of existing pawnshop chains. I have my eyes on a couple small chains that would do nicely.”

  “Well, we can handle it,” said Cal. “We may have to offer participation, but we’ll find a way to make it work.”

  Chapter 11

  “Are you sure you can’t visit next weekend?” asked Zeke. “I’m heading to North Dakota tomorrow, but I should be back there by then.” He was in his D.C. office, chatting with Tracy on his mobile phone. Tracy was in her condo in Atlanta.

  “I’m running low on Personal Days,” she said. “For some reason, the Secret Service actually wants me to do some work up here.”

  “Can’t imagine that,” said Zeke. “I’d have sworn they hired you for your good looks.”

  “That’s ‘great looks’ to you, mister. You wouldn’t compromise on a thing like that.”

  “You’re right.”

  Then, more softly, she said, “I’d come if I could.”

  Zeke smiled. “I was hoping. I could use some more help with our West Wind investigation. Hands-on help.”

  Tracy laughed.

  “Last I checked, it’s eighty-four and sunny, with a slight breeze,” said Zeke. “Supposed to stay like that for a few more days, maybe a week.”

  “I don’t want to hear it,” said Tracy. “Have you read the file through?”

  “I have. And I’ve thought about it a lot. It’s not easy to relate what I’m reading to what I experienced. It’s a whole different perspective.”

  “I could see that,” said Tracy.

  “When we were headed in to the marina on the West Wind, I remember it as being late afternoon, and sunny and bright. The file report said there was a storm brewing and the water was rough.”

  “I read that, too,” said Tracy.

  “You said it earlier. What if the explosion wasn’t an accident? What if it was some sort of explosive device?” said Zeke.

  “I know. We have to look at the possibility…”

  “Yes. I agree,” he said.

  “What do you remember about the fisherman?” Tracy asked.

  “The one we stopped to help? Not a lot. I think he was stuck on a reef or a shoal or something, and we stopped and rescued him, took him to shore. He was a big guy, kind of going to fat, with dirty skin and nails, and rough stubble,” said Zeke. “But a lot of fishermen look like that.”

  “They do?” asked Tracy. “How do they ever get a date?”

  “I’m not sure they care much about that,” said Zeke.

  “Their loss,” said Tracy.

  “I’ll say.”

  * * *

  Zeke hung up the phone and pulled the Monroe County file over in front of him. He’d read through its contents several times and had looked at the pictures again, disturbing as they were. Now he set a legal pad on top of the file and started making notes.

  Let’s start with the time line, he thought.

  A few minutes later, he’d completed the sequence of events that he remembered from that fateful day. Sailing. The stranded fisherman. Boot Key Marina. Running up the dock for a soda. The explosion blowing the windows out of the small store. And then everything had changed.

  He remembered the West Wind, and how they’d made that marina stop so many times. He thought about the dockhand who had been helping, and his dad, who’d been pumping fuel when it all went up in flames. He remembered how different the motorsailer looked, with its masts lying across the docks and the top half of it burnt out, a flaming, charred mess.

  The fisherman. He dialed the phone again.

  “I guess you miss me,” said Tracy.

  “I was just trying to catch you getting naked,” said Zeke from 630 miles away in downtown D.C. “How’d I do?”

  Tracy chuckled. “Not bad, actually. I was just getting into the shower.”

  “Hmm. You’ll have to tell me more about that,” said Zeke. “But I called because there was one thing that was different, out of place.”

  “With your folks?” asked Tracy, her voice becoming serious.

  “Yes. The fisherman. The guy we picked up and took in to the marina. The one with his boat stuck on the reef.”

  “Sure,” said Tracy. “I remember.”

  “I remember thinking at the time, ‘How could he hit a reef? He’s gotta be fishing these waters every day.’ At least he said he did when we rescued him.”

  “Was he drinking?” asked Tracy.

  “No, I don’t think so. He didn’t drink on board. And he seemed spry, even a
gile for a big man. And happy. It didn’t seem to bother him that he was stuck. He told us stories all the way back to the marina.”

  “Did he have anything with him?” asked Tracy.

  “I think he did. I think he handed a white canvas bag up to me before he boarded the West Wind. It was heavy.”

  “You lifted it? Are you sure?” she asked.

  “Yes, cuz my dad was at the wheel. I remember being surprised by its weight. And he said, ‘Careful, boyo. This one’s heavy.’”

  “Had he caught any fish?”

  “I didn’t see any. I had the impression that he was heading out when he ran aground. But that can’t be right, because it was too late in the day.”

  “Could he have been waiting for you? A setup of some sort?”

  “I don’t know,” said Zeke. “I need to think about this.”

  “Did your parents know him? Is that why they stopped?”

  “It didn’t seem so at the time,” said Zeke.

  “What does the sheriff’s file say about him?” asked Tracy.

  “Nothing. It doesn’t mention him at all.”

  * * *

  “There’re two things I want to do,” said Zeke into the headset mic.

  “What’s that?” asked Cord. His voice sounded tinny and mechanical in Zeke’s ears. The FBI agent was concentrating on his pre-flight checklist and looked up briefly, then back at the clipboard in his lap. The engine noise was engulfing them.

  “I want to dig into Jenny Lakota’s past,” Zeke said. “And then I’m going back to Lakeside Trailer Park to talk with the neighbors there.”

  Cord nodded at the clipboard. “OK.”

  They were on the tarmac at Sloulin Field in Williston, North Dakota, this time in a twin-engine plane, a Beechcraft 76 Duchess. They were about to depart for the New Town municipal airport.

  “This airport’s busy,” said Zeke.

  “Yessir, they’ve been talking expansion, but nothing’s happening yet,” said Cord.

  “Is this FBI issue?” asked Zeke.

  “The plane? No, it’s mine. I just got tired of the drive between here and New Town, so I flew it up from Bismarck.”