The Solicitor General looked at the picture of a man with duct tape on his mouth and a second man’s face and read the text. He responded, “What am I looking at?”
“Senator Dalton. He was kidnapped and dropped into the Assumption Parish sinkhole yesterday. The other man is Stone Carson. ATF claims someone at Justice let him take a walk last year on the hit of an Ambassador. This man has dirty friends at Justice. I’m telling you that my team will find out who they are. Can I count on your help?”
The Solicitor General leaned back in his chair and exhaled. Everyone in law enforcement knew that the FBI had some kind of ‘special’ team the Director used for his pet projects. They weren’t just good. They were spooky good. “How sure are you that Dalton’s dead? I heard he was on a hunting trip.”
“He’s dead. His regular pilot was murdered at the airport; there are eyewitness reports of a man dumped in the sinkhole and the Senator’s helicopter crashed a few miles away. No bodies.”
The Solicitor General sighed, “He was a key witness in a case we are bringing on a lobbyist next month.”
“Start there. Stone Carson is implicated in two hits involving someone with the DOJ. We have this Ambassador from last year and now Dalton. Can I count on you?”
“Yes. Where is this Stone Carson now?”
The FBI Director answered, “Last night he was in New Orleans. We have NSA tracking him. ATF claimed it was someone at the National Security Division of your office that pulled the rug last year on that case. I know that doesn’t narrow it down much, but it’s a start. There was quite a stink.”
“I’ll get back to you.”
The Solicitor General put his phone in his pocket and walked over to his office window. The morning sun blasted from every surface below. He was well aware that the machine had penetrated every office in Washington and dictated most policies. He had stopped dreaming years ago that he would ever expose them. Even the ones in Justice were ghosts. They were careful, well-funded and left few crumbs. It was rumored that they knew no limits. Rumors yet unproven.
Something about the Directors’ voice gave him hope. Maybe this time could be different.
The Director of the FBI called Roger and told him that Senator Dalton was scheduled to testify as a surprise witness in a DOJ case against a lobby organization based in New Orleans. The lobbyist represented the oil interest of Lanitol Oil Company, the largest oil entity in the Gulf.
Roger stated, “Lanitol Oil was one of the entities we named last year in our racketeering case here in New Orleans.”
The Director answered, “Yes, it was. Evidently the good Senator was willing to testify that specific individuals approached him. First with a bribe and later with threats.”
“Regarding what?”
“A bill being presented to the Senate. My understanding is that Lanitol Oil is looking for substantial fine reductions, because of their oil leak, and a cap on liabilities. Senator Dalton was one of two Senate votes stopping that cap.”
Roger asked, “The obvious question now is who is the other vote and when does this vote take place?”
“Senator Welsh is the second vote and the vote is Thursday.” The Director continued, “Before you ask, Senator Welsh lives in New Orleans and I have notified him of Senator Dalton’s true circumstance.”
“Will he allow protection?”
The Director chuckled, “I just hung up from talking to him. He’s begging for it.”
Wednesday 8:00 am
Mary, Teresa, Linda and I were all watching Dakin hammer the turkey foot on a strap to Spicey’s Voodoo shop. Linda looked at Mary, “What are we supposed to do now? Just watch Spicey?”
Mary shook her head. “Ellen said we were supposed to help her with some problem. I think we should go check on those two guys in the truck. They seem to be the problem.”
I offered, “We can go back to the cemetery, too. Roger will want to know about the dead guys. Once we find out their names, we can use our locators to find out more about them.”
Teresa said, “I think you’re both right. Where do we go first?”
Linda volunteered, “Let’s get the names for Roger first. By now the bodies are at the Medical Examiner’s office.”
Oh goody. A room full of dead people. I offered what I thought was a good idea, “If we could hack into the medical examiner’s computer, there’s probably already a list.”
Teresa was shaking her head, “I bet not. It’s going to take them a long time to match a body to a name. They might not even know these people are missing.”
Ellen appeared sitting on Spicey’s door stoop. “Morning, gals. Teresa is right. The best way you can help is to go to the medical examiner’s office and use your watches to do DNA tests. The mortal information will show on your watch monitors. This is how we are really going to help Roger in this assignment. Angel technology will get him information days faster than anything available to him now.”
Cool. Mary had her face scrunched in a disgusted expression. “How do we do DNA tests?”
Ellen took Linda’s hand and pointed to her watch. “See this little clasp here? Pull this out and Voila! Looks like a little blood meter right? Just poke some tissue and push the blue button. This should give you a full history on the person.”
We were all sliding our little meters in and out. I think they add new shit to these watches when we aren’t paying attention. I certainly have never seen this bar before.
Ellen frowned at me and continued, “Once you have identified them all, hit the green ‘send’ button and it will automatically text Roger to check his email. Piece of cake.”
Mary was trying to poke herself. Even I knew we didn’t have blood anymore. Ellen looked at Mary, “Stop it. You’re getting like Vicki.”
Hey.
Mary got an exaggerated look of terror on her face and then smiled at me. Funny.
Linda asked, “After we get these names, should we check out those men from the truck? Spicey seemed pretty sure they were dangerous.”
Ellen nodded, “Oh, yes. They’re dangerous. They plan to kill Dakin again.”
Again?
Cat placed a call to the New Orleans FBI field office and asked for SSA Dan Thor. Cat had met Thor last year when he assumed the administrative position at the field office. Thor had shared with Cat that he hated the politics of his new position, and hated the upcoming consent decree mess. Thor had promised Cat that anything he needed from them was available.
“Sabastian Delacroix. I have a favor to ask.”
“Shoot.”
“The FBI has taken over the reorganization of the police department already, right?”
“Right.”
“I would like the complete records of an officer named Mason Dooley sent to me.” Cat added, “If you could keep this unofficial, I would appreciate it. I’m at home today, so I am going to give you my personal email.” Cat thought about the extensive data bases the FBI had at their disposal. “Could you also run a Dillard Boggs?”
Thor noted Mason Dooley was the dark aura guy from last night at the cemetery. “Dooley and Boggs sound like a perfect pair. Boggs is always in our crosshairs. File might be thick.”
Cat answered, “That’s okay. I need to go back at least to 2005 before Katrina.”
Thor told Cat about their field trip to the cemetery. “In case you end up with these cases, it was easy to tell from the tool marks that the same people opened each of these crypts. Not that long ago either. I bet the oldest corpse was only a week.”
Cat paused, “I saw the report on this morning’s news. My first thought was the additional heat coming to town with FBI was causing someone to clean house.”
Thor agreed, “That is exactly what I’ve been thinking. These people were either witnesses or snitches. Did you know Roger Dance is here?”
Cat smiled to himself, “That means you guys have stepped into something.”
Thor laughed, “Yeah, usually does means that. I’ll send you what I have on these tw
o and we’ll take a peek into archives and personal crap. Give me your email.”
Cat gave Thor his contact information and asked, “Is Roger available to take a call?”
Roger’s last memory of Cat was at the New Orleans Hospital when they had both been shot outside of the courthouse. Roger answered, “How’s the leg?”
Cat laughed, “Best thing I have right now.” Cat told Roger about his adventure in the alley. Roger scolded Cat for not having his weapon on him.
Cat asked, “I need your help on a case I have started. I think mostly your technology and databases.”
Roger grabbed his pen and a notebook, “Give me your address, and Paul and I will bring you a lunch later.”
Earl was having enough trouble trying to sleep with the damn rooster outside his window. Crazy thing was really making a racket this morning. Earl heard Claude’s axe chop. Rooster kept crowing, so it wasn’t for him. Earl cursed himself to have sold his place and moved in with Claude. Brother or not, the place was a hell hole.
Earl stumbled into the kitchen where Claude had a pile of chickens on the table. All of them had broken necks. Claude was chopping their heads off and throwing the bodies in the sink.
Earl protested, “Get a garbage can for the damn heads. You just throwin’ ‘em on the floor.”
Claude frowned, “You want to live with Martha Stewart, start packin’!”
Earl counted over twenty chicken heads on the floor. The pool of blood was quickly flowing downhill on the uneven floor and heading toward Earl’s chair. “I’m gonna get trapped here if you don’t stop and clean up.”
Claude slammed the axe down hard into the wooden table. Blood splatter flew across the room and landed on Earl’s shirt. “I cook. You clean up.”
Earl was afraid of Claude when he was in one of his moods. Doctors said he needed to take meds to keep his mind straight. Claude said booze worked just as good. Earl moved from his chair, reached over the pool of blood and grabbed a mop and a bucket. “Let me into the sink there for some water. Best get this ‘fore we can’t walk.”
Stone Carson rented a modest row house in a quiet neighborhood in Baton Rouge. He put his key in the door, gently kicked it open and stepped to the side of the threshold. No bomb. That wasn’t necessarily a good sign. He walked inside and dropped his keys on a small table in the foyer. It had been a few weeks since he had been there. He made his cursory tour of each room noting each of his intruder traps were still in place.
Satisfied he could relax for a while, he turned on the television and searched the news. There was only a brief mention of Senator Dalton’s disappearance. Dalton’s colleagues suggested he more than likely had gone on a hunting trip somewhere and forgot to follow protocol. After all, he had been under a lot of stress. Authorities stated they have no evidence to suspect foul play. Some critics suggested he was merely hiding to avoid Thursday’s vote.
Stone chuckled as he searched his cupboard for something to eat. He couldn’t remember the last time something on the news even came close to the truth. He found a box of pretzels and popped open a beer. It wasn’t his favorite breakfast, but it would do.
Stone’s cell rang, it was Virgil Holmes. “Yes, sir.”
“The second half of our problem is still out there. You have until noon Thursday to convince Senator Welsh to vote appropriately or ensure he will not vote at all.”
“Understood.”
It only took minutes to determine that Senator Welsh’s wife and daughters were vacationing in the Bahamas. The eldest daughter had posted all over Facebook her excitement about the trip. By posing as island security, Stone was able to get Senator Welsh’s aid to provide the exact hotel and contact numbers for the Senator’s wife.
Stone called a fellow contractor in Nassau and arranged the immediate detention of the Senator’s family. Within the hour, Stone received the call confirming the women had been abducted and were being held pending Stone’s further instructions.
Acer had stayed in New Orleans at the same hotel as Roger and Paul. There was no reason to leave. Regardless which new employer Acer decided to go with, his assignment would probably be in New Orleans. The federally mandated consent decree ensured a lot of work for people in his business. If law enforcement started to sniff in the wrong corners, people like Acer had to eliminate the smells. Acer’s history had been scrubbed fairly well, but new technology could unearth plenty that was supposed to be buried. It wasn’t like the good, old days. His safest bet was to assume the FBI would know everything about him by noon. Except for whom he worked.
Acer went to the hotel restaurant for breakfast. He no sooner ordered his food when his cell phone rang. It was his New Orleans contact.
“Acer.”
The voice on the other end said, “We owe you an apology.”
Acer smiled, “I don’t work for you anymore. You assigned Stone to kill me, remember?”
Acer hung up and put his phone in his jacket pocket. He knew they would call back and pay more money.
CSI had run the prints on the glasses and came up with a hit on Acer in an archived military database. Full name was Acer Noland. Special Ops, retired. Roger thought it sounded scrubbed and forwarded what he had to Mathew Core’s email.
Core immediately called Roger back. “I know him. Knew him. Used to be a decent guy. Last I saw him was in France about three years ago. I think he said he was doing some work for the Vatican of all things.”
Roger said, “He was having drinks with Stone Carson last night. Seems chummy if Stone tried to kill Acer and Acer tried to set up Stone with the FBI on Dalton’s murder. Acer knows the FBI is looking at him now. Everything points to him being the other pilot that dumped the Senator. As far as I know, he is still registered at the hotel across from the casino. I checked this morning. He knows that Paul and I are staying there, too. Guy has some balls.”
Core chuckled, “That’s an understatement. He took this babe out to dinner a half hour after he….never mind. Yeah, he’s got balls.”
Roger let the conversation restart. He didn’t want to know everything Core knew. “What would happen if you ran into him?”
“One of three things. One: He would know I was tight with the FBI, so he’d clam up. Two: He would assume I was sent to waste him; he would clam up and try to kill me first. Or three: He would assume I had gone straight and he’d feed me bullshit.”
Roger asked, “I need to find out what he is up to. I’d like to get him wired. What if he thought you were in New Orleans on a job? Make him dig for it. Could you get close?”
“The old ‘birds of a feather’ bit? Okay, I’ll bite. What job?”
Roger answered, “To kill me.”
Core took a moment to answer, “I like it.”
Paul had walked into Roger’s office and stood by the desk during the entire conversation. After Roger hung up Paul asked, “Did I just hear you order a hit on yourself?”
Roger slapped his desk, “Damn, I wasn’t thinking. I should have made it you!”
They both laughed a minute and Paul said, “I left you alone for ten minutes. Care to bring me up to speed on what inspired this new plan?”
Wednesday 8:30 a.m.
Mason Dooley was walking toward his personal vehicle in the cop lot when he heard the voice he had been dreading call him over. He knew this conversation was inevitable.
“Get in the car.” The gruff voice of Ward Bromley was a sharp contrast to the sleek, black sedan he was sitting in. Bromley was a Special Investigator for the Department of Justice and worked out of the U.S. Attorney General’s office in New Orleans. This title gave him the freedom he needed to make frequent visits to the police station. Dooley was who he used for the dirty work on his special projects.
Dooley sat heavily in the passenger seat and defensively offered, “You don’t know what it’s like to have to work with idiots!”
“I don’t?” Bromley put the car in park and turned to face Dooley. “This cemetery crap is a disaster. The timing c
ouldn’t be worse with the FBI beefing up their troops here.” Bromley wiped his brow, “The medical examiner has eight new bodies this morning. That includes the judge. These bodies were not supposed to be found until well into next year. That’s why we picked the cemetery for God’s sake.” Bromley snarled, “Tell me exactly how this happened. Don’t leave out a single detail.”
Dooley started at the beginning. When he finished Bromley looked physically ill.
“You trust these two morons you use not to talk? They actually told you they killed a witch at the cemetery and took her to the swamp? Crap. Do you even know who that was? Who might be looking for her?”
Dooley answered, “It was probably just some crack whore. Who sits around in a cemetery? I’ve used my morons, as you call them, for eight years now. Never had a problem. They like the money too much. I don’t think this is their fault the FBI showed up.” Dooley rubbed his temples. “Somebody tipped off the FBI. They came with crowbars.”
Bromley moaned. “I’ll find out who tipped the FBI. Where’s the gun?”
“I got rid of it.”
Bromley put the car in gear, “Good. I’ll call you on what we do next.” Bromley pulled away from the lot. His black sedan eased into traffic and disappeared in the morning rush hour.
Dooley sat in his car and stared at the towel wrapped pistol on his floorboard. Bromley was right. He needed to get rid of the gun. He decided he could clean it well and plant on someone he wanted to get rid of. Once ballistics were run and compared to the cemetery bodies he was off the hook. Bromley only cared about his bosses. Dooley had to protect himself.
Dooley thought about the call from Boggs last night. He had told Boggs he’d stop by today to talk. Hearing that Cat was looking into the Molly Jarvis murder was very bad news. This sounded like something he had better report to his contact.
Officer Nathan Cottard just finished his shift and sat in his personal car in the police station parking lot. He noticed Dooley exiting Bromley’s black sedan in the far corner of the lot. This wasn’t the first time he had seen Mason Dooley with Ward Bromley. Dooley looked angry and Bromley’s sedan spun out of the lot. Cottard had never really understood Bromley’s relationship to the police department other than he seemed to nose around a lot. Cottard knew Dooley’s reputation. Cottard started his car and pulled from the lot. His instincts told him he was seeing smoke. Somewhere, there was a fire.
Catahoula: Shallow End Gals (A Shallow End Gals Book 4) Page 11
