The Mongoose Deception

by Robert Greer

  Leery of Cavalaris’s account, Vickers and a deputy, in spite of frequent objections from Julie, spent the next hour interrogating the three men about everything from who had hired CJ and Pinkie to look into the McPherson killing to a question the sheriff posed at least a half-dozen times: Why had the FBI intervened the previous night, and why was the FBI now saying that the mysterious agent in charge of whisking CJ, Pinkie, and Cavalaris off almost to Kansas had been dead for almost four years?

  When no one came up with an answer to his question, the sheriff said, “We’re gonna need some more time with this case, gentlemen, Ms. Madrid. We still need to clear up the issue of the DeVentis shooting, the lieutenant’s interference in my SWAT operation, and of course the ghost of that FBI agent, Else.” The sheriff eyed Cavalaris. “In the meantime, Captain Patterson’s waiting to see you in the room next door. I’m sure you’ll have a lot to say to your boss. Afraid your other clients are gonna be guests here with me in Adams County for a while, Ms. Madrid. For the moment, all I can charge them with is trespassing, inciting a disturbance that led to loss of life, and possession of illegal firearms. But depending on what we find out about the DeVentis shooting, things could easily be stepped up to a murder charge. You better hope we don’t find out that the old caretaker took a bullet from one of their weapons, counselor.”

  Cavalaris was about to tell the sheriff that it was his shot that took out DeVentis when Julie raised her hand and cut him off. “I’ll handle this, Lieutenant.” Smiling at the sheriff, she said, “Do what you have to, Sheriff; just remember that in many ways the law’s nothing more than a competitive sport. Hope your team’s up to the competition.”

  The twenty-eight hours that CJ and Pinkie spent in the Adams County jail paled in comparison to the time Julie put in during the next six weeks preparing a defense for them—a defense that, as she’d fully expected, never saw the light of a courtroom. After a rash of newspaper stories about the Brighton shoot-out served Cavalaris up to the public as a dogged cop trying to do his job and CJ and Pinkie as vigilante heroes, the case against the three men fizzled out. Cavalaris, it soon came out, had actually shot Arnie DeVentis, a known mobster who’d bled to death from a leg wound after setting CJ and Pinkie up to be killed by the silo rooftop shooter. Behind-the-scenes political maneuvering initiated by Denver’s police chief and mayor also served to help their case. Neither man had a desire to have a Denver cop, much less one who was being hailed as a hero, hauled into court and painted as an obstructer of justice—especially with a purported hit man and a bail bondsman, as their lawyer kept reminding reporters, as his character witnesses. Ultimately the case against CJ and Pinkie was plea-bargained down to a trespassing and minor illegal-weapons-possession charge. They were each fined $2,000, which Mario Satoni gladly paid, and Cavalaris was exonerated. What was never revealed about those offstage negotiations was that the mayors of both Denver and Brighton, along with their chiefs of police, had been lobbied by Colorado’s governor, a man with political aspirations that some said included the White House, to make the sugar-beet shoot-out go away.

  In order to appease Sheriff Vickers, Cavalaris did receive a letter of reprimand, but the citation for valor he received a month later in Denver, and his continued media-darling coverage by the press, embarrassing as it was for him, served to mitigate the sting.

  During the six weeks that Julie was busy preparing her defense, Cavalaris and CJ were able to put a better, but still incomplete, face on Franklin Watts, although they never uncovered his CIA code name, Napper. They learned that the small house that Watts had rented for decades in the mountain community of Silverthorne, just west of I-70’s four-mile ascent to the Eisenhower Tunnel, had burned to the ground in the early-morning hours on the night following Watts’s helicopter rescue. The burned-out hulk of a late-model BMW, the car that Cavalaris suspected Watts had used in his drive-by shooting of Cornelius McPherson, was found in the charred remains of that home’s garage. The house, they found out from neighbors, had been emptied the afternoon before the fire by three men dressed in brown uniforms who had pulled up to the house in a moving van. One woman who described the movers as polite and efficient also recalled that one of the movers, a chunky, balding man, had an ugly scar running down the side of his neck.

  Watts’s personnel records at the Colorado Department of Transportation, thirty-nine years’ worth all told, had also somehow disappeared by the time CJ and Cavalaris went to retrieve them. The only thing the baby-faced twenty-year-old who had released the records prior to their arrival could recall about what he continually called “an official records transfer” was that a tall, impressive-looking FBI agent had requested the records and that the agent had dropped by the DOT offices and picked them up in person.

  CJ and Cavalaris were able to unearth one gold nugget, however—a nugget surreptitiously obtained from a copy of Franklin Watts’s phone records. Watts, it turned out, in the days leading up to the Brighton shoot-out, had made an inordinate number of calls to two phone numbers in Louisiana and Washington, D.C. The Louisiana phone number belonged to Carmine Cassias. The Washington, D.C., number, however, showed up as disconnected.

  Convinced from their investigation that Watts had killed both Ducane and McPherson, and that if Watts hadn’t died that night at the sugar-beet factory, he was more than likely now living a CIA-, FBI-, or mob-initiated new life, CJ and Cavalaris left the Colorado mountains satisfied that the McPherson and Ducane murder cases had been solved. For them, however, the JFK killing and the thirty-fifth president’s assassin would always remain yet another matter, although both men remained reluctantly convinced that Corsican hit man Lucien Sarti, as Alden Grace had asserted, had killed the president.

  The roar of the partisan Colorado State University Moby Arena crowd was so loud that a jubilant CJ and Julie Madrid could barely hear themselves talk. They’d just watched the CSU basketball team, in only its third game of the season, not simply nudge or squeak out a win over UNLV—a bitter Mountain West Conference rival and a team that had come into the game ranked sixth nationally—but crush them 88-62.

  Damion and Shandell Bird, now college seniors, had scored a total of 48 points, and Damion had finished the game with his second triple-double of the season: 23 points, 11 rebounds, and 10 assists. Televised nationally as the Saturday game of the week, thanks in large part to UNLV’s lofty ranking and the presence of Colorado State’s two preseason-consensus All-Americans, the game had garnered enough early-season national attention to warrant one of CBS’s top announcing crews.

  The stands remained full of euphoric fans holding their index fingers in the air and shouting, “We’re number one,” as CJ and Julie began weaving their way courtside to take in the postgame star-of-the-game TV interview set to feature the CSU coach and his two young stars. A few rows up from the court, CJ turned to Julie and said, “Not bad for a kid who’s gonna cut this all loose after this season and head off to medical school.”

  Julie smiled. “It’s what he’s always wanted to do, CJ. You know that. There’s not enough money in the world to get him to change his mind.”

  CJ nodded understandingly. “That’s for sure.”

  On the floor now, they watched a TV technician adjust the lighting for the interview. Looking around at the crowd, surprised that Aretha Bird hadn’t joined them by now, CJ asked, “Have you seen Shandell’s mom?”

  “I saw her for a couple of minutes before the game,” said Julie. “She didn’t say much, and frankly she looked a little worried. But she always looks that way before a game. Said she’d see me after the game.”

  “Maybe Shandell’s having problems with his grades,” CJ said.

  “Not according to Damion.”

  “Girls, then,” CJ said, smiling.

  “That would be my guess. Hey, here they come,” Julie said excitedly as she watched the CSU coach, flanked by Damion and Shandell, walk up and shake hands with TV commentator Clark Kellogg.

  The four men stood in a semic
ircle inside a roped-off area as Kellogg, who’d been the game’s courtside analyst, stepped between the coach and the players. “Everybody ready?” he asked as Damion, spotting CJ and Julie, smiled and raised an index finger skyward.

  Shandell repeated the gesture, but only after Damion prodded him with an elbow.

  “Okay,” said the lighting technician. “Ten seconds. Four, three, two, one.” He nodded and cued Kellogg.

  Smiling at Coach Haroldson and offering him a lead-in, Kellogg said, “Big win, Coach.”

  “Don’t think they come much bigger this early in the season. But when you’re at home, you have the crowd behind you, and you have a team with our kind of resolve, good things happen.”

  “Three games, three wins, and you’ve just knocked off the nation’s sixth-ranked team. Some people are saying this could be your year.”

  “If it is, I can tell you why.” Looking at Shandell and Damion and beaming, Haroldson said, “Four years ago the two guys standing beside me decided to stay here in Colorado instead of taking off for California or North Carolina or Indiana to play ball. And you see what it’s given us here at CSU.” Looking straight into the camera, he said, “We do play basketball here, folks. Colorado’s not just for skiers.”

  Turning quickly to Damion, and cutting the coach’s recruitment message short, Kellogg said, “And here’s one player who stayed, Damion Madrid. You had your second triple-double tonight, Damion. Must have felt real good in front of the home crowd.”

  “Absolutely.” Damion draped an arm over Shandell’s shoulder and pulled his best friend to his side. “But we couldn’t have done it without the Blackbird here. Like everyone says, the man soars.”

  “So what does the great Larry Bird say about you turning his name into a nickname, Shandell? Blackbird certainly seems to have stuck,” said Kellogg.

  “Haven’t talked to him, but I think he’s probably okay with it.”

  “Think you’ll be able to keep these two clicking the rest of the year?” Kellogg said, turning to the coach.

  “I hope so.”

  Kellogg turned his mike to Damion. “You’re an academic All-American, headed for med school, I’m told. No NBA in your future?”

  “No.” Damion glanced out into the crowded court and spotted Julie. “It’s medicine for me, like I’ve always said. But lately I have given some thought to an additional career.”

  “And what’s that?” said Kellogg, looking surprised.

  “Law school, maybe.”

  Hardly believing her ears and with a look of amazement on her face, Julie turned to CJ and whispered, “What?”

  “Got me,” said CJ, shrugging.

  “Quite a switch. What brought that on?” asked Kellogg, watching his floor director signal for him to wrap it up.

  “A few things happened over the summer,” said Damion. “Got me to thinking about combining a career in law and medicine.”

  Looking straight into the camera, Kellogg said, “You heard it here first on CBS, folks. Sounds like it’ll not only be a full four years here at CSU for Madrid and Bird but a couple more degrees for Damion Madrid as well. Four years of suiting up these two should make you happy,” Kellogg said to Coach Haroldson.

  “Always great to coach student athletes.”

  “Well, from the start of things this season, it looks like you’re on a roll.” Watching the floor director spin his finger winding-clock fashion, Kellogg said, “Our final score from Moby Arena tonight, Colorado State, 88; UNLV, 62. For CBS Sports, and all the CBS crew here in Fort Collins, Colorado, thanks for joining us.”

  After a round of handshakes and some parting comments, Kellogg walked away, leaving Damion, Shandell, and Coach Haroldson waving to fans. “Let’s go hit the showers,” Haroldson said finally. Winking, he added, “Good game.”

  Blowing Julie a kiss and flashing CJ a thumbs-up, Damion hollered, “See you after I shower, and don’t forget Niki’s coming with us to eat.” He and Shandell started across the court as CJ turned to Julie and said, “Med school and law school—kinda pricey.”

  Julie shook her head. “I’ll say. That’s the first time I’ve heard any of it. Looks like we’ll have a lot to discuss at dinner.”

  “Sure looks …” CJ stopped midsentence as he caught sight of a thick-bodied balding man with his right hand jammed into his jacket pocket running across the court toward Damion and Shandell. Pivoting and leaving Julie speechless, CJ raced across the court and threw a cross-body block into the man just as Damion was about to disappear into the home-team tunnel exit. The man crumpled to the floor, and the box of popcorn in his left hand went flying.

  When Damion looked around, CJ, who’d quickly scanned the man’s neck for a scar only to find to his dismay that there wasn’t one, was helping the man up. “Sorry,” said CJ. “You okay?” Looking at the man head-on, CJ could now see clearly that the man’s only real resemblance to the mysterious machine-gun-toting Agent Hogan was his build and his baldness. CJ shook his head and again said, “Sorry.”

  The visibly shaken man dusted himself off and, trying his best to look macho in front of Damion, eyed CJ and said, “You want Madrid’s autograph that bad? Go for it.” He waved CJ ahead of him. “I’ll go second.” He slipped an autograph book out of the pocket he’d had his hand jammed into and mumbled, “Jerk!”

  Looking confused, Damion said, “Somethin’ wrong, CJ?”

  “No,” said a thoroughly embarrassed CJ. “I was just running to tell you to take your time showering. We’ve still gotta find Niki.” He eyed the man he’d tackled, offered one last apology, lowered his head, and walked back across the court toward a startled-looking Julie, thinking with every step he took, Eggshells. You’ll be walking on eggshells, Floyd, for the rest of your life.

  Even with Sheila there now to comfort her, the time just before sunset remained painful for Willette Ducane. That was the time when she always thought about Antoine. As she looked out toward the bog from her rocking chair and watched bog mist rise and blend in with the humid air, she listened to the bog’s rhythmic, mysterious aquatic noises and realized that for her, the race was almost over.

  Word had circulated around the parish as soon as she’d come back from Colorado with Sheila Lucerne in tow that the reason Antoine had left Louisiana all those years ago and had gone up North was because of a woman. A woman who had now come to New Iberia to care for Willette. Neither woman had encouraged any talk that would reveal the real story, and Willette knew that half the people who were whispering about them realized there was a deeper truth. But in the six weeks since they’d been home, the two women who’d cared the most about Antoine Ducane had settled into the symbiotic routine of comforting one another, let the truth be damned.

  Word had come down from Carmine Cassias to his people to leave both women alone, but only after Cassias himself had been told that any hint of action against Willette and Sheila that might draw attention to the chaos that had recently occurred in Colorado, or resurrect the long-buried story of plans to rid a country of a president, would be his undoing.

  There were people above Cassias. People with the kind of power and status that he could never attain, much less understand. And he listened to them. Those people, like their ancestors, had given Cassias his orders: Revive the JFK assassination issue in any way, shape, or form, and you will assuredly go the same way.

  When Cassias had sent an emissary to tell Willette and Sheila that if they kept their mouths shut about anything they suspected might have happened almost forty-five years ago, no harm would come to them, the emotionally and physically drained women—one tired of hurting, the other tired of hiding—had accepted the offer with barely a comment.

  Continuing to rock and eye the bog, Willette reminded herself that all she wanted out of life in the time she had remaining was to be left in peace. As she watched the last rays of sunlight meld into the bog’s foggy mist, Sheila stepped out onto the porch. “You wanna come in now?” Sheila asked softly. When Willette didn’
t answer, she said, “Did you hear me?”

  “I heard you, Monique,” said Willette. “I’ll be in in a sec.” Willette, who’d taken to calling Sheila Monique in the past two weeks, eyed the bog and the mist and the final glimmering rays of sunlight one last time before scooting forward in her chair to get up. Struggling to rise as Sheila rushed to her aid, she said softly, “Monique’s here with me, Sugar Sweet. No worry. Everything’s gonna be okay ’til you come back home from up North, baby.”

  Turn the page to continue reading from the C. J. Floyd Mysteries

  Chapter 1

  The $4 million Nike athletic-shoe contract in Shandell Bird’s shirt pocket wasn’t about to solve his problem—couldn’t even put a dent in it—and neither would the $3.2 million he expected to start drawing in October, once the NBA season started. All that money, more money than he suspected any human being was worth, would only add to his problem. Somehow, deep down, he’d always known that.

  Months removed from being one of the nation’s elite college basketball players, he was now a big-money pro and celebrity, and there seemed to be no way to step away from the limelight. In a sense, he was fortunate that he had to worry about only $7 million and change, not three or four times that, like an NFL draftee. In the NFL the sky was the limit, and salaries weren’t limited as they were in the NBA by a rookie scale that was pegged to where a player had been picked in the draft. Although the money tied to his contract wouldn’t begin to roll in until he arrived at training camp in October, six and a half weeks down the road, he knew there was no way he’d be trouble free by then. Training camp would only serve to magnify his problems.

  Amid NBA draft-day pomp and circumstance, the Denver Nuggets had made him the second overall pick in the draft, assuring him that once the ink was dry on his rookie-year contract, which he’d signed only weeks earlier, the dream he’d been chasing since fourth grade would be his.