“Is this the same drawing we’ve show you before, Ms. Adams?
“Yes, it is.”
“Do you recognize the person depicted there? Does the image look familiar?”
“Well,” Trina began, carefully following the agreed script. “I can’t be absolutely certain, but it does look a lot like Mr. Fields.”
“And who is Mr. Fields?”
“He managed this place for Mr. Grokov.”
Garfield made a note or two and smiled encouragingly. “You’re doing great. Does the picture look a lot like Mr. Fields, or just kind of? I never know how good these artists are.”
Trina’s eyes widened. That was a new question. “Well…I’m not…”
“It okay,” Garfield assured her. “I know it’s hard to be certain. I just want your opinion, that’s all.”
The woman considered her possible responses. “I think it looks an awful lot like Nathan,” she said. “I’d recognize him anywhere.”
Garfield finished filling out the form and passed her clipboard to Trina. “Okay, just review what I wrote about your answers. If you agree I’ve captured everything correctly, just sign and date for me.”
Trina carefully read each word. She thought the last part was very convincing. She signed and dated the form as requested and handed the clipboard back to Garfield.
“Thanks,” Garfield said as she accepted the clipboard. “I appreciate you doing that for me. I just have one more question.”
“Yes?”
“Well, you see, I’m curious. You seem pretty sure that’s a good likeness to Nathan Fields. So I find myself wondering. If the man in the drawing is Nathan Fields, then who is this?”
Garfield handed over a small, clear evidence bag. “You see, that driver’s license plainly states the man in this picture is Nathan Fields. The address on the license is even the same as the one you gave us the last time we visited. Now, I don’t know about you, but the man in the photograph doesn’t look a thing like this artist’s drawing. Do you have any idea about why that might be the case?”
“No,” Trina whispered.
“I think you do have an idea, but I’m getting tired of playing these little games. So, here’s what we’re going to do, Ms. Adams. This nice, young detective is going to read you your rights and arrest you as an accessory to the murder of Nathan Fields. Then, we’ll all ride downtown and have some other folks sort this all out.”
“I don’t understand what’s going on.” Trina’s voice was taking on a panicked edge and Garfield closed her eyes against the headache beginning in her temples.
Garfield nodded to Mitchell who went to the office door and opened it. He leaned out, and exchanged a few words. A minute later, a uniformed police woman entered and followed him to Trina’s work area.
“Ms. Adams, please stand and face away from me,” the officer instructed as she unhooked her cuffs. “You have the right to remain silent…”
“Please! I’ll tell you everything. I don’t know anything about Mr. Fields being murdered, though. All I know is we were told to say the picture looked like him.”
“Who told you to say that?” Mitchell asked.
“Well…” she hesitated. “Oh, screw it! Mr. Padgett told everyone exactly what to say. He’s the boss now that Mr. Fields…isn’t…” Trina suddenly recognized the true significance of the situation. “I was just doing what I was told,” she explained in a small, scared voice.
Garfield smiled sadly. “Yes, Ms. Adams, I suppose you were.” She glanced at the police woman and nodded. “Finish up and bring her downtown, Officer.”
She ignored the woman’s pleas, although she did notice her language deteriorated rapidly from that point on. She walked through the door out into the late afternoon sunlight.
“Find anything?” she asked the agent by the door.
“Nothing obvious,” he responded. “No noticeable blood as far as I can tell. It might show up through testing, but we’ll need a warrant for that.” He directed her attention to the general condition of the parking area. “This whole lot gets quite a bit of wear and tear. There are nicks and gouges all over the place and asphalt’s a relatively soft paving material. The tar content makes it harder to tell which damage is new and which is old. The marks out here could have been made by a hundred different things. I hate to say it, but I can’t see any clear indication anyone was beat to death out here.”
Garfield made a circuit of the area where Toby said Nathan Fields had been killed. “The body was wrapped up in a tarp, and according to Anderson, it has asphalt marks on it. If this here parking lot was tested, I wonder if the samples would match.”
“I don’t know. It might, but we’ll need a warrant to take a sample.”
“Maybe,” Garfield grinned. She planted her feet and then rubbed the soles of her low heeled shoes roughly across the surface, like a bull preparing to charge. She scuffled her way to the office door, dragging her feet heavily across the blacktop. When she reached the sidewalk, she lifted the bottom of her shoe. “Would you look at that? I got some of that nasty black asphalt right on the bottom of my shoes.” She slipped her feet out of the footwear and bent down and picked them up.
“Let’s see if we can round up something to use as an evidence bag. It sure was a good thing I decided to stroll across this parking lot while they were finishing up with Ms. Adams. What a coincidence that the bottoms of my shoes are now covered with the same asphalt Tom Anderson needs to test for a match. Isn’t it funny how things work out?”
“Yes,” the waiting agent agreed. “Funny how that happens.”
Garfield started to the car, but stopped mid-stride. “You know, based on the way Toby told it, I thought there would be more trucks than this.” She pursed her lips and frowned. “Agent, we need a detail on this lot. I want to know the minute any of these leave. Have a couple of teams ready to follow them if they do.”
“You think the trucks are somehow tied to all of this, ma’am?”
She shrugged as she headed to the car. “Maybe. One thing my grandmother taught me was once a dog takes a dump in the yard, he’ll almost always come back to the same place to do it again.”
***
Georgie hung up the phone and ran his fingers through his thin, greasy hair. “Tomorrow night,” he told the woman in bed next to him.
“It’s too early,” Dorrie protested. “We’re two short.”
George threw back the covers and placed his feet on the dusty floor. “It can’t be helped. Trina got caught in a trap and now the Feds know about Fields.”
“How’d that happen?” Dorrie shrugged on her bra and hunted for her t-shirt. “I thought Frank and Steve were supposed to get rid of him.”
George sighed and looked over his shoulder at his dressing companion. “The thing about those two is, you have to be real specific or else they get all kinds of notions. For some dumb-ass reason, they went and dumped him at his burned-up house. Some jackass inspector found him this morning.”
Dorrie’s eyes went wide at the information. “Georgie,” she asked hesitantly, “Are you in trouble ‘cause of them?”
He lifted one shoulder and then stood and pulled on his pants. “Kind of, I guess.”
She hitched her own trousers up over her hips and zipped them. “What’s gonna happen now?”
“Don’t know,” he replied. “Probably nothin’ until after tomorrow. Then…we’ll see.”
She sat down on the edge of the bed and put on her old sneakers. “It wasn’t your fault, Georgie.”
“Doesn’t matter. You know the rules as well as I do.”
Dorrie gave him a single jerk of her head and stood. “See ya’ downstairs.”
“Sure. I’ll be down as soon as I finish dressing.” George Padgett waited until she’d left the room and then sank slowly down on the mattress. He hung his head, and stared at the floor, contemplating his fate. Puppet didn’t like messes, and because he hadn’t given those two idiots better instructions, everything was hanging
by a string. He looked at the small patch of sunlight cast onto the floor from the filthy window, thinking about Puppet’s last words to him.
“No more, Georgie Porgie, pudding and pie,” Puppet said, “One more mistake and you’ll die, die, die.”
***
Jocasta Anthony lifted the last slice of lemon pound cake off the cake stand and plopped it down on the small dessert plate on the counter. She put the stand in the sink, and looked regretfully at the single serving left. “I can’t believe you ate the whole thing, Jocasta,” she admonished herself. “No wonder you’re fat! That’s what happens when you become such a pig.”
In spite of herself, the remaining slice was quickly torn into smaller bites, which were finished one by one in swift succession. The dessert plate joined the cake stand in the soapy water. Jocasta contemplated washing them, but decided to do it later, after she finished her packing. She’d finally decided to take only a medium-sized bag and small carryon containing her jewelry and a few important papers. Anything more might raise suspicions, and she could always buy what she needed once she reached her destination. She wasn’t sure what the climate was like in Venezuela anyway, so it only made sense to shop for a new wardrobe. Although he hadn’t bothered to check in with her over the last several days, she’d also packed for Jake. He was in another of his famous snits.
Maybe he’d get over it before their early morning flight on Saturday, otherwise, it would be a long trip. Still, it would be nice to hear from him, if only to confirm he understood the final travel arrangements. She’d left him countless messages and had even resorted to sending a text. Other than one terse response informing her he was tied up for the next few days working on a special project, she hadn’t heard a thing. Maybe Vassily was right and it was time for her son to grow up a little. Of course, once they were settled in a new location, he’d probably revert to his sunny, charming self. When it was just the two of them again and all the stress was behind them, they could retire without worry, although forced obscurity would take some getting used to.
Jocasta walked through the house, turning off lights and fluffing sofa cushions. She was going to miss this place, and she hoped Vassily could unload it at a profit. She hadn’t shared her plans with him yet, having decided the best approach was to call him from the plane after she and Jake boarded. The conversation would be better managed that way, and the requirement to turn off all electronic devices once the cabin doors shut would provide a much-needed excuse to cut the call short. He would be livid, but eventually, he’d understand. Besides, all the little details would be taken care of tomorrow night, and there was no real reason for her to stick around.
She straightened the tilt of a painting, and stepped back, wondering if she could manage to squeeze it into her luggage. It was not a large painting, but was a very good rendering of the Russian countryside by a well-known pre-revolutionary painter. It wasn’t worth big money, but had always been one of her favorites. Deciding she could make room, she took it off the wall and carried it to the kitchen counter where she dug out a few tools from the utility drawer and removed the canvas from the frame before wrapping it in a couple of kitchen towels to protect it on its journey. She carried it to her bedroom and rearranged things to make it a little nest. It would be good to have a reminder of home. There was no way she was leaving it for that ungrateful brat, Jill.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Friday started out calm, which should’ve told Melba the shit was about to hit the fan.
Everything was quiet at Gro-Transport, the detail assigned to Jake Anthony hadn’t had a single useful thing to report, and the exhaustive commentary on his capacity to put away huge amounts of alcohol while partying like a demented fiend had given her a good start on a migraine. Grokov had gone subterranean, and his current whereabouts were unknown. “He’s one sneaky bastard,” she decided. “It’s hard to believe he could slip by a team of agents, but I suppose you learn a few things in the KGB.”
Toby and SarahJune were long gone, leaving her alone in the office. Melba glanced at her computer and wondered if there was any use in continuing to wait, hoping that something would break. She opened another game of solitaire and closed it after the playing only a few cards. Disgusted with herself and the overall situation, she dug out the photos Toby had brought back from his visit to the school and flipped through them one at a time. She pulled out another folder and retrieved the picture of Jessica, then paused. “Something about her looks familiar…maybe the shape of the face…or the eyes.” After spending a few more minutes trying to figure it out, she slipped the pictures back into their folder, closed her browser and grabbed her purse. She was tired of just hanging around. If something hadn’t happened already, it wasn’t likely to happen after nine o’clock at night.
When the shrill ring tone of her phone startled her out of her impromptu nap on the couch two and a half hours later, she knocked over her wine glass as she scrambled to grab her phone. Luckily, the glass was empty, and equally lucky, she’d only had one small glass. Phone finally in hand, she glanced at the number and groaned.
“Reightman here.”
Edmondson’s voice banished any remaining grogginess. “I just got a call from Garfield. The trucks are on the move. I’ll meet you at my office.” He ended the call without providing any additional detail, which clued her in that she needed to get her ass in gear. After running a brush through her sleep-flattened hair, she grabbed a jacket and fumbled with her shoes, cursing under her breath at how tight they felt. Middle age sucked. Once in the car, she dialed Toby.
“You know anything?” she asked without preamble when he answered.
“Yeah. Garfield just filled me in. Apparently something’s going down at Gro. Something big by the sound of it. Where are you?”
“On my way downtown to meet Edmondson. Want me to swing by and pick you up?”
“Sure. How far away are you?”
“Ten minutes or so.”
“Okay, I’ll meet you downstairs.”
Twenty minutes later, they pulled into Police Headquarters. Edmondson’s office swarmed like a stirred-up ant bed. He was on the phone, and gave them a short wave and pointed to the coffee pot. Melba poured a cup for Toby and one for herself, and then pulled up a chair and waited, listening in on several conversations at once while Toby wandered over to the whiteboard where an agent was making frantic notes while talking on his cell phone. After a few minutes, he glanced her way and shrugged before making his way to the chair next to her.
“Any idea what’s going on?” she asked.
“As near as I can tell, several trucks headed out of the Gro-Transport lot about forty-five minutes ago. Then, they split off at the interstate and headed multiple directions. They’re working on setting up roadblocks as fast as they can.”
Melba started to comment, but was distracted by Edmondson’s raised voice from across the room.
“Dammit! I don’t care what your situation is! I want each and every one of those trucks stopped and searched. If a single one gets through, you’re going to have more trouble crawling up your ass than you know how to handle. Is that understood?”
Melba felt her eyebrows inch toward her hairline, and hurriedly took another sip of coffee.
“Wow. He’s kind of sexy when he gets all worked up,” Toby commented in a whisper.
Thankfully, she was spared from having to answer when Edmondson ended his call and tossed his phone on the table. He turned toward her.
“Any more coffee?”
“Ummm…sure.” After crossing over to the pot, she poured a cup for him and warmed up her own.
“Thanks,” he responded, as she handed it across the table.
“Bad day at the office, honey?”
His answering glare almost made her regret her poor attempt at levity. Almost. “Toby’s right, he is kind of sexy when he’s hot under the collar.”
He took a swallow and put the cup on the table before running his hand over his face. After taking
a deep breath, he quirked one corner of his mouth. “You might say that. Let me fill you in.”
“Agent Edmondson, remember those shots of the license plates I took?” Toby interrupted. “They might help.”
“We’ve already distributed the information. In fact, having it on hand was the best thing to happen today.”
He pulled out a chair just as his phone rang. He grimaced as he picked it up. “Edmondson here.”
Melba didn’t bother sitting. One look at his face told her whoever was calling wasn’t sharing good news. In fact, if she had to guess, she’d bet the news was pretty bad. “I should’ve known. Shit, get ready to meet fan.”
***
Jake Anthony’s handlers had just about reached the end of their rope. It was now one o’clock in the morning, they’d been to one restaurant and four bars, and it looked like Wonderboy was about to head out to the next stop on his party tour. On top of that, Montoya, the senior agent in charge of this little detail, had more than a sneaking suspicion that the totally wasted asshole was on to them. Every once in a while, Anthony would look their way and grin. Montoya swore the last time he’d even winked at them as he tossed back another shot, before draping himself over one of his ever-present entourage.
“Looks like he’s on the move again,” Agent Sims observed quietly. “When’s this crap going to end?”
Montoya shrugged off his partner’s rhetorical question, making a heroic effort to suppress the biting comment desperately itching to make its way out. He watched as the party paid their tab, noting that, once again, Jake Anthony wasn’t the one cashing out. The group made its way to the door, and Anthony glanced over his shoulder and grinned.
“Damn! He’s on to us, isn’t he?”
Montoya didn’t bother to respond as he led the way out the door.
***
Lucy Escabar huddled in the back of the big truck, trying to make herself as small as possible. The space was filled with dozens of other children, all secured by their ankles to a low metal bar that ran the length of each side. Occasionally, Lucy could hear muffled whimpering from one of the girls, but the noise didn’t last long given the presence of Dorrie and Georgie Porgie near the front. The only illumination in the interior was provided by a dim yellow light near the center of the truck’s cargo space, and the faint blue glow of the electric prod held by Dorrie.
Skin Puppet: Reightman & Bailey Book Three Page 48
