Not Before Midnight (Sheriff Bud Blair Oregon Mystery Series Book 5)

by Rod Collins

  He pulled copies of The Willamette Bridge and The Oregonian from the open news rack and set them on the counter, walked over to a frozen food case, picked out a couple of Mexican-style frozen dinners and a box of breakfast Eggos, then added butter, syrup, a half-gallon of milk, Raisin Bran, coffee, and a six-pack of Diet Pepsi to the growing pile.

  The bill was a little over fifty dollars. He started to protest, but then just shrugged and pulled his wallet from his left hip pocket. He set three twenty-dollar bills on the counter. I can’t afford this for very long.

  But a sweet smile and a quiet “Thank you” eased his rancor. And then he remembered he could charge to BB’s account. He shrugged and stuffed the change in a pants pocket. Next time.

  Plastic totes in hand, he fumbled with the elevator button, waited a few seconds, and was rewarded by the elevator bell. The door slid open and he was staring at a tall, ominous-looking white dude in a light grey security uniform that carried the name of the high-rise in bright blue letters above his shirt pocket. His name tag said, “Tony Jones.”

  “What you are doing here, boy?”

  “I’m staying with a friend for a few days.”

  “Which apartment?”

  Cletus shrugged and gave the man a unit number for the fifth floor.

  “Who owns the apartment?”

  “Mister Cletus Falls … my stepfather.”

  The man pushed by Cletus and held the doors back until Cletus was inside. “I’m gonna check this out. You don’t be going anyplace until I do. You hear?”

  Cletus didn’t say anything, just waited for the doors to close, then punched the “Close Door” button. The cables and pulleys hummed as the car rose to the fourth floor.

  He stowed the frozen dinners, put the milk and the soft drinks in the empty refrigerator, and set the rest of his purchases on the counter.

  He walked to the big window and stared at the north-south traffic across the river on I-5 while he tried to assess the risk of the security guard. But as much as he tried to convince himself that the kind of people he was hiding from didn’t live in luxury high-rises, he couldn’t shake his growing paranoia. Something about the security guard didn’t ring true.

  And then it hit him. The guy had on a uniform all right, but he was wearing dirty tennis shoes. I don’t know what this guy is doing, but it can’t be right.

  He hurried to the apartment door and peeked both ways down the hallway. Not a soul was in sight, but the flashing elevator lights showed, floor by floor, an elevator car heading up. He stepped into the hall and closed BB’s door, made sure it was locked, and then ran down the hall to the exit.

  The hollow booming of the metal stairs in the concrete shaft marked his flight. He paused at the landing of the first floor, shook his head and skipped down one more level to the parking garage.

  Outside, he leaned against the wall in the shadow of the big building to catch his breath. Time to call the cavalry. His hand shook just a little as he fumbled Agent Brandt’s burner phone from his pants pocket. He read Brandt’s number from the business card, thumbed it in and listened to the phone ring until it went to voice mail. He hung up without leaving a message.

  Records. They checked the records for property owned by Dell BeBe and sent this dude looking for him. That’s got to be it. And BB’s black. I’m black. He made the connection.

  “Damn!” Cletus said aloud as the tall dude stepped out the front door of the building and walked down the steps under the canopy. When he spotted Cletus, he shouted, “Hey, boy,” and started jogging down the sidewalk.

  Arms pumping Cletus took off. He was fast, but longer legs made the faux security guard faster. Cletus knew it was just a matter of time before the big man ran him down. He cut around a corner, heading for Front Street, when he saw a yellow taxi. He whistled and the cab turned back toward him. Cletus jumped in, just as the big white dude rounded the corner.

  Cletus shouted, “Go! Go!”

  When he saw the big man run to the side of the taxi and reach for the door handle, the cabbie need no encouragement. He stomped the accelerator, and the old yellow Crown Vic shot down the street. The man lost his grip on the door handle and went sprawling, the asphalt tearing at his hands and knees … and his right cheekbone. Blood trickling down the side of his face, he watched in frustration until the cab turned a corner and was out of sight.

  The cabbie half-turned and asked, “Where to?”

  “FBI headquarters.”

  Chapter 37

  Acrimony

  BRANDT AND WILCOX were in visitor chairs, and Special Agent McDonald was still seated behind his desk, when Dutch Vanderlin and Special Agent Smith walked in.

  McDonald said, “Come on in, Dutch. And you too, Smitty. Have a chair. Brandt and Wilcox have been giving me the third degree about human trafficking.” He paused before adding, “and sharing a story you ought to hear.”

  McDonald waited until Dutch and Smitty were seated before nodding at Wilcox. “Your turn agent Wilcox.”

  When Wilcox finished talking, Smitty was more than a little pissed, but a warning frown from Dutch told him to keep his mouth shut.

  Dutch asked Wilcox and Brandt, “Why didn’t you two bring this to Smitty first?”

  Wilcox glanced at Brandt, who shrugged his shoulders. Here we go. Right down the manure chute.

  Wilcox looked at Smith and said, “We know you’re honest, but you’re damned naïve. You have this Boy Scout attitude. You automatically think every FBI agent is a good guy or gal. Hell, Smitty, you refuse to believe that, if you throw enough money at a person and catch him at the right time, even federal agents can be bought.”

  Brandt glanced at Wilcox and nodded. He took a deep breath and leaned forward towards his boss, an unstated plea for understanding in his voice. “And we have a pretty good idea that two of our people are on the take, Butler and someone in the analysis group. Look, when you hunt a mole in an organization, you keep the circle of insiders as small as possible. We were afraid your blind faith in the FBI would lead you to trust the wrong people.”

  Dutch shook his head and gave Smitty a grim smile. “You’ve just been damned by faint praise, Special Agent Smith.”

  Smitty stared bullets at Brandt and Wilcox before his shoulders slumped in resignation. “Maybe you’re right. But you have to have trust in people. Otherwise we all become cynical … or paranoid.”

  McDonald chuckled and shook his head. “Hell, Smitty. Here we are, just ordinary run-of-the-mill crime fighters. And we’re supposed to avoid cynicism? Doesn’t happen. Best we can do is observe and stay alert.”

  “Amen,” said Dutch. “Trust and defend, but don’t go blind.”

  “Does that mean we’re off the hook?” Brandt asked.

  “Not by a long shot,” Dutch growled. “Butler we know about, but you two have to ferret out the other one. Isn’t that right, Smitty?”

  Smitty grimaced and looked disgusted before finally nodding. He added, “We sure do.”

  Brandt’s cell phone vibrated in his pocket, and he took a quick peek. He glanced at Wilcox and said, “Cletus.”

  Dutch said, “Find out what my little buddy wants.”

  Brandt walked out into the hallway and answered the call. “This is Agent Brandt. That you, Cletus?”

  Without preamble, Cletus said, “They found me. A tall, white dude chased me, but I hooked a cab and got away.”

  “Where are you?’

  “Hiding in the bushes around the east end of your building. I come in and ask for you and Wilcox, this young Hispanic chick says she never heard of you, but if I wait a minute another agent will help me. I don’t like the sound of this, so I say I guess I got the wrong building. Then I boogie and hide. Pretty soon this nice looking blonde lady comes out the front door and looks for me. Least that’s what I think she be doing.”

  Cletus shook his head and asked, “Are all you feds on the take?”

  “No, but you seem to have found two who are. I’ll come and get you
. Hang in there.”

  Brandt walked back in the door and said, “Somebody go arrest Inez Sanchez, and somebody go arrest Sarah Macbeth. The bad guys found Cletus, so he came looking for us. I’ll explain the rest in a minute.”

  Wilcox was out of his chair and down the hall before anyone could react. He used his pass card to open the door into the public information area.

  Inez Sanchez, public information receptionist, GS-7, was talking into a Featherlite microphone attached to a headset when Wilcox entered the lobby. He saw her nod and say, “I’m sorry, but he ran out the door. I did exactly as you instructed.”

  She saw Wilcox, ended the call and smiled at him. She was startled when he growled, “Inez, who instructed you? I heard you say you did exactly as you were instructed.”

  “Why, Miss Williams of course. She said I was to look for a small, young black man asking for you or Agent Brandt. I was to tell him you didn’t work here. Miss Williams said she wanted to talk to him first. Something about an undercover operation he might have information about.

  “But he seemed nervous and ran out the door. I called Miss Williams, and I guess she sent Missus Macbeth to check. That’s all I know.”

  “This is important Inez. You’re sure it was Miss Williams, not just someone on the phone giving you instructions.”

  Inez nodded. “Yes. She came in person to tell me what she wanted me to do. She also said I wasn’t to mention this to anyone, because it was part of an undercover sting operation.”

  “Didn’t it strike you as odd? Miss Williams is in the analysis section. They don’t run ops.”

  Tears pooling in her dark eyes, Inez asked, “Did I do something wrong, Agent Wilcox? Will I lose my job?”

  Wilcox took a deep breath and sighed. He patted her shoulder. “No. I don’t think you did anything wrong. And if you didn’t, you won’t lose your job.”

  Through the bulletproof service window, they watched Brandt exit the building, looking for Cletus.

  Wilcox patted her shoulder again and said, “You always do a good job, Inez. You’ll be fine, but I expect you’ll be interviewed again by other agents. Just tell the truth, and everything will be fine.”

  Chapter 38

  Road Kill and Turkey

  BB PICKED UP HIS AR-15, slipped Miranda’s daypack over his left shoulder and – wet tennis shoes squishing – headed down a thin, shady deer trail wandering through a stand of small pine trees. BB had grown to like the smell of dry pine needles, but his mind wasn’t open to the fragrance of the woods. Not today.

  When he was close to the meadow, he stopped behind a thicket of lodgepole pine. It took him fifteen seconds to locate Miranda hiding in the shadows with her pistol pointed straight at him. She was behind a natural crib, formed by two downed pine trees.

  He whistled and waved before stepping into the open.

  Miranda holstered her weapon and stood up. She walked around the tangle of dead limbs. “I could have shot you.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  “I know. Now, get this big splinter out of my hand.”

  He shook his head. “No. A surgeon will have to do that. I might damage the tendons.”

  “I don’t see any surgeons around here,” she said.

  He pointed at the distant sound of a helicopter. “That ship is going to take you and TJ to Lakeview. First stop, the hospital.”

  He set her pack on the ground and looked at the reverend. “Use your belt and make a sling for Miranda’s arm.”

  He looked at her pinched face, pain and disgust painted there. “You picked a good spot to keg up. Did your survival training kick in?”

  She nodded. “I never thought I’d have to use it. I’m an analyst, not an operator.” She winced as TJ worked his belt around her neck and under her left elbow.

  “There. How does that feel?”

  “Horrible, actually, but thanks.”

  TJ said, “I’m sorry. If I hadn’t come down here, you wouldn’t be hurt.”

  She patted his shoulder with her good hand. “Nonsense. You’d be dead by now if you stayed in Portland. Think of it as the Good Lord working a small miracle.”

  TJ stood as tall as he could and looked at Miranda, total adoration in his eyes. “The Lord works in mysterious ways. I guess that makes you my guardian angel.”

  BB grinned at Miranda over the top of TJ’s head, but he didn’t need to say anything. He knew his small friend was in love again.

  “Don’t let it go to your head,” Miranda snapped.

  TJ took a step back, feelings hurt. “Sorry.”

  Miranda waved his apology away. “Let it go, TJ.”

  The noise of the helicopter engine grew louder. Windows reflecting the fading afternoon sun, a blue chopper flew over the little meadow. Miranda’s cell phone buzzed and BB answered. He heard Sonny Sixkiller say, “I see three people on the west side of the meadow. If that’s you, wave.”

  BB waved. The helicopter turned and started a gliding descent into the meadow.

  Three minutes later, minus her cell phone, Special Agent Miranda Wright and the Reverend TJ Wildish ducked their heads and half-ran towards the ship. Sonny Sixkiller hopped out of the copilot door and helped Miranda into a rear seat. TJ climbed in beside her. Sonny pushed the door shut.

  Bent over, an instinct gained from walking beneath spinning rotors, Sonny carried his AR-15 and a small daypack to where Dell BeBe waited, then gave the pilot thumbs up.

  ***

  Dell BeBe and lanky Deputy Sonny Sixkiller, the soon-to-be undersheriff of Lake County – again – turned their backs to a small hurricane of dust, twigs, and dry grass as the rotor speed increased, then pulled the helicopter into the air. Sixty feet off the ground, the pilot turned and headed for Lakeview.

  BB looked at Sixkiller and said, “I thought you were to be our eyes in the sky.”

  “I was. But Bud knew you’d go hunting. He decided we couldn’t let a civilian get blown away by the bad guys. And he told me to deputize you. I don’t have a badge to pin on you, but that’ll be our secret. Now, what do we know, Deputy BeBe?”

  “Not much. TJ saw a man skirting the south end of the lake. And he thinks he saw one heading north past Bud’s cabin. If that’s true, then at least two people are trying a pincer movement – coming at us from both sides.”

  The sound of a distant rifle shot coming from across the lake rolled through the hills and BB shook his head. “That, I believe is an idiot trying to make us think the bad guys are still at my house so we won’t suspect two other idiots are hunting us in the woods.”

  “Sounds like amateur hour,” Sonny said.

  “I’d say so. Now then, I figure they should be getting close to converging on my canoe.”

  “Your canoe?”

  “Yes. My canoe. The asshole shooting at us from across the lake got lucky and drilled a big hole in my canoe. Sank it. I owe him for that. He also got lucky and broke Miranda’s paddle. That’s how she got the big splinter in her hand.

  “But that’s beside the point. I think we have time to set up and ambush these guys. I want them alive. And I want the asshole who sent them after TJ.”