by Ralph Dennis
“Let me see it.” He took the bottle from her and turned it in his hands. It was a Merlot from some California vineyard he’d never heard of. “An interesting coding system you have in your cellar. One-period-nine eight. What does that mean?”
“That it’s not to be uncorked until January of 1998.” A girlish shrug of her shoulders. “But for an occasion like this …”
“Touching. Sacrificed before its time.”
“Why don’t we open it? I assume you have jelly glasses. Such apartments usually come complete with a set of jelly glasses.”
Wilt placed the wine on the table and found the cork screw. “I’ve got the most expensive jelly glasses money can buy.” He pulled the cork and got down two wine glasses from the cabinet. They were from a good crystal set, a wedding present. After Mary Ellen vanished into Northern California, he’d received a bill from a storage company. They had used it to store their stuff during their last duty station move. There hadn’t been that much there — a set of good dishes, some silver, the good crystal and bed linen that was still in the packages it came in.
He poured and handed a glass to her.
She smiled at him over the glass rim. “Since you wouldn’t come to me …”
“I become a beast when I see your tattoo.” He sipped the Merlot. It seemed thin to him.
“All you men are alike. All you want to do is talk about a girl’s tattoo.”
“True. A man never gets enough of that.” He took a seat at the end of the small kitchen table, away from the stove. “You said something about supper.”
She placed a package that was wrapped in butcher paper on the table. “Ribeyes. How do you like your steak?”
“Crust on the outside. Pink on the inside.”
Diane cooked the two steaks in a huge cast-iron skillet that she insisted upon calling a “spider.” She found a can of artichoke hearts on his vegetable shelf. She made a salad with those and part of a head of lettuce she found in the refrigerator crisper. She dressed it with oil and a dash of lemon juice.
During the cooking, he watched her. He liked her grace, the sureness with which she moved around the kitchen. And, when the meal was ready, he liked the appetite that she didn’t bother to hide.
Later, the dishes rinsed and stacked in the sink, he clawed around the freezer among the frozen dinners and found part of a pound of frozen French roast Columbian coffee. He ground a couple of handfuls in the Braun and made drip coffee. There was part of a bottle of Armagnac he’d brought back from New York. The ABC store didn’t sell it. They didn’t sell anything unless it sold so many cases a week. They sat at the kitchen table and sipped the coffee and Armagnac. He liked the raw burn of the Armagnac, the harshness that a good Cognac doesn’t have.
Her glass was empty. He offered her more.
“You need your rest, Wilton.”
He followed her into the living room and helped her with her coat. “I’m sorry you have to leave.”
“It’s for the best,” she said. “I never show my tattoo on a first date.”
“Damn your tattoo.” He leaned forward and kissed her. It was a gentle kiss that held back his need. Her mouth didn’t meet him fully but it wasn’t slack either. When he backed away, he saw that her eyes were open. Her face was thoughtful, serious under his stare.
“I’ve got to go.”
“I’ll walk you to your car.”
“No,” she said firmly, “you go to bed.”
“Tuck me in. I’ll sleep better.”
A smile, a shake of her head. “Not that even on the second date.” She grabbed her purse and before he could protest, she was gone.
He stood at the living room window that overlooked the street. He waited and saw her come down the steps and stop on the sidewalk and look over her shoulder, toward his window. He didn’t think she could see him. A few seconds later she was in her car, a silver-toned Celica. She drove away.
He set the alarm for eight. He poured himself another shot of Armagnac and sipped it while he undressed. He fell asleep with the burn on his tongue.
It was a deep, full sleep. If he dreamed at all, he didn’t remember the dream the next morning.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
By nine-thirty, the listening post setup was in place at. Tall Pines. The main element, the core of it, was plain dumb luck. Joe Croft, relieving Wilt the night before, happened to mention in passing that the apartment next to the Moore was empty. D-4, he’D called it. Wilt remembered that bit of information while he was in the shower. He called Joe at the Station. Joe said it sounded good to him. A hurried call to Southern Bell got the telephone truck to Tall Pines within minutes. The crew strung a line that bypassed the Moore outlet and directed all calls to the empty apartment. As soon as the telephone truck left, Amos Wilson’s technician placed the tap for the tape recorder.
Any call intended for Jonas or Arlene Moore rang in the empty apartment. Jonas would answer every call. He was under instructions to keep the incoming calls as brief as possible. He was to discourage any lengthy talk without being rude, if that was possible and to be rude if the other methods didn’t work.
At the Station, Wilt put together a makeshift crew that would handle the other business of the day. Susie was back at her switchboard. Charlie Reaton, one of the more dependable new deputies and still in training, sat behind Wilt’s desk like he belonged there. One good day behind that desk and Charlie would probably decide to run for Sheriff, Wilt thought sourly.
Joe Croft, red-eyed and still groggy from his nap on the camp cot, arrived at the Tall Pines complex while Wilt was on his way to the Station. He scouted the near-by apartments and borrowed a card table and four folding chairs. To that Joe added an inflatable air mattress from the trunk of his cruiser. Wilt never quite got around to asking Joe how the mattress got there or what police work it was intended for.
There were calls from nine a.m. and on. Jonas was firm with the callers. He explained that he didn’t want the line tied up in case the police called. It worked. The only long call Jonas allowed was from his mother in Syracuse. He talked to her for almost ten minutes.
The length of the call didn’t bother Joe Croft. He and Wilt didn’t expect the call with the instructions from the kidnappers until after dark. The money would be handed over in the dark and there would be little lead time given them by the kidnappers. Lead time meant the police could try to set a trap. The less time between the call and the delivery of the money the more holes in the trap.
The assignment editor of one of the television stations called and wanted to set up a live interview during the evening news. Jonas tried the best he could to explain that he didn’t think an interview was a good idea at this particular time. The editor insisted and he argued that the live interview could be used as a platform from which Jonas could make a plea to the man who’d kidnapped Dana for a safe return of his daughter. When the editor became too insistent, and wouldn’t listen to Jonas’ refusal, Wilt took the phone and introduced himself. He told the man there wouldn’t be interviews until there was some news worth communicating.
The other callers were friends and well-wishers. Jonas turned them aside, prayers and all, as politely as he could.
He’s learning how to do it, Wilt thought.
At the edges of the activity, Special Agent Harriman wore his raincoat buttoned to the neck. There was no heat in the apartment. He had little to say. He split his time between a seat near the phone and a pacing area near the living room window. Most of the time, he stared out at the raw day. If Harriman approved of the way Wilt handled the situation, he didn’t say that. If he disapproved, he was silent about that as well. He watched, he listened, but he didn’t offer any advice.
By one that afternoon, the calls slowed and they had a makeshift lunch. Cold cuts, potato salad, cole slaw and coffee.
As the afternoon wore on, Jonas became more and more concerned about the ransom money. It was Wilt’s decision that no arrangement was to be made to acquire the five thousan
d dollars. We’ll do it with mirrors, he told Joe and Special Agent Harriman while Jonas was in the bathroom later that afternoon. But he had to deal with Moore, to calm him. He told Jonas that Special Agent Harriman had used his clout to assure that the money would be ready at the bank, even after the closing hour.
Harriman nodded uncertainly.
The call came in at three-thirty. Wilt was surprised. He didn’t expect any contact with the kidnappers for another five or six hours.
The tape recorder was running. Moore answered.
“You got the money?” The voice had the same muffled quality, as if the man spoke through cloth.
Wilt nodded at Jonas, who said that he had the money ready.
“Unmarked money?”
Moore said it was not marked in any way.
“Put it in a gym bag.”
“Wait,” Jonas said. “How is Dana? Let me …”
A click and the line was dead. Wilt saw the stricken look on Jonas’ face when he handed the phone to the police technician. It wasn’t pretty, it wasn’t easy to look at.
Joe inflated the air mattress and got a pillow and blankets from Arlene Moore next door. He coaxed Jonas into stretching out and resting in the other room. Joe remained with him until Jonas wrapped the blankets around him and closed his eyes.
Harriman stood next to the front window and looked over his shoulder to be sure the door to the bedroom was closed. Harriman’s voice was low. He was irritated. “What’s that about me arranging to get the money, even after hours?”
“You think I’d use real money? When I’m ninety percent willing to bet the little girl is already dead?” Wilt shook his head. “My switchboard lady is cutting play money out of the morning paper right now.”
“And what happens if he insists upon getting the money himself?”
“I let him write the check and give it to you.”
“And I pretend to use my clout?”
“You’ve got it,” Wilt said.
Harriman looked fresh. He was wearing the same suit but it looked like it had had a sponge and a press. He smelled of aftershave and talcum. His tie shirt still had the “bought and new” creases in it.
Wilt felt pretty good himself. His sleep, after the time with Diane, had smoothed some of the rough, tired lines from his body. Still, he knew next to Harriman he looked like a dirty sock.
“You better hope this works, Sheriff.”
“Come on,” Wilt said. “I know how you guys at the Bureau work. You lay out all this careful shit talk to cover your ass in case something goes bad. Okay, your ass is covered. You warned me. You want that in writing?”
“That won’t be necessary,” Harriman said. He’d stiffened. His feelings had been hurt.
“It’s just as well you don’t. I was going to put a heading on it: Ass Covering Agreement for the Bureau.”
“I’m not sure I like you, Sheriff.”
“Hell, go ahead and dislike me. What else can you do to me, un-elect me? Try to set up a bribery attempt? Try to involve me in some scam that proves I’m corrupt?”
“That might not be necessary,” Harriman said. “There’s some talk that you have a tie-in with the biker gangs that operate clubs in your county.”
“Do me a favor, Harriman. You make that charge in public, in the papers or on TV. I’ll gut you and the Bureau like a fish.”
“I’m not making a charge. I’m merely stating that …”
“You’d better make that charge or wipe it off your books. As soon as this is over, I’ll be in Raleigh to see what you have in your files on me. I might even know a lawyer who understands the Freedom of Information Act.”
“It’s nothing like that.”
“It better be nothing at all, a clean slate.”
Harriman stared out the window for a few more seconds. He looked stunned. People didn’t talk to Bureau agents that way. When he got himself together, he said that he had some calls to make. He left without looking at Wilt.
Wilt took a slow look around the room. The police technician had his earphones firmly in place and his head was down. He was reading a magazine. Joe Croft stood with his back to the closed door to the room where Jonas Moore was resting.
Neither man gave any indication they’d heard the conversation between Wilt and Harriman. Not that it mattered with Joe. But he didn’t want Amos Wilson spreading trash all over town.
Wilt took a couple of deep breaths and stretched. The suspicion, that was the price for showing an interest in Diane. The rumors that the Sheriff has a crooked back.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Jonas Moore didn’t sleep or he didn’t sleep long. Within minutes of stretching out on the mattress, he kicked the blankets aside and opened the door. He braced a shoulder against the doorframe. “It’s past banking hours,” he said.
“Don’t worry,” Wilt said. “Special Agent Harriman says he’ll furnish the money from a special fund the Bureau has. You can give him a check later. You’re good for it, aren’t you?”
“I am,” Jonas said.
“I want you to try to rest. It might be a long night. I want you fresh and alert.”
“I don’t think I can sleep.”
“If nothing else, close your eyes and rest.”
“If you’re sure there’s no problem with the money?”
Wilt assured him that the money was the least of their problems, the easy part of it.
Half an hour later, Wilt opened the door to the bedroom and looked in. Jonas was curled into a ball, snoring softly
Wilt decided that he would let Jonas sleep until eight or eight-thirty. Or until the call that gave the final instructions. Whichever came first.
Floyd arrived at Tall Pines around five-thirty. He said he couldn’t sleep any longer knowing there was so much to be done. Wilt sent him off with Joe Croft to go on with their door-to-door interviews.
Wilt propped a chair against the wall and closed his eyes. He spent most of the time thinking about what was ahead that night. All the possible ways that the transfer of the money could be made and how he’d counter any tricky ones the kidnappers might come up with.
The rest of the time he thought about Diane.
The Tattooed Lady. Who needs a Tattooed Lady?
Maybe I do, he thought. But he wasn’t one hundred percent sure. There were gaps and blank places and corners that were too much in shadow. The good warm sun didn’t shine in there.
What kind of man needs a Tattooed Lady? That was one of the better questions.
He didn’t have one of his better answers for it.
Joe returned a bit after seven. He carried two bags, “paper pokes” he liked to call them. The large bag held a number of foil-wrapped barbecue sandwiches. The other bag covered a six-pack of twist top Buds. He and Wilt and the police technician sat around the card table and had their supper.
Floyd looked in and left to relieve Susie at the Station switchboard.
“You ask all your questions?” Wilt asked between bites and chews and a swallow of Bud.
“Where’s J. Edgar’s boy?” Joe looked around.
Wilt ignore the question. “What have you got?”
Joe wiped his hands on a napkin and opened his notebook. “An older couple named Griffin say they saw a man and a puppy in the field between the complex and the highway. They’re not sure about the exact time but it could have been around three o’clock or a few minutes after. The man was a distance away and neither of the Griffins can see too well. The composite Gus Triffon gave us wasn’t much help.” Joe flipped a page. “They think he was young. But when it got to how young … well, for the Griffins, that’s anywhere from fifteen to forty.”
“That’s some range you’ve got there.” Wilt finished a sandwich. He did a count and saw there were four more. He took another one and peeled the foil away.
“Someone else saw a man in a raincoat. He didn’t see the puppy. Out in the courtyard, we ran into Ellis Wilbur who delivers the Raleigh Times. He was out here yesterday
collecting. That was around three. He saw a young man in a raincoat in the field between the complex and the highway. He was over near the edge of the field, where the woods are. But he didn’t see a puppy.” Joe put the notebook aside and had a bite of his barbecue. “My guess is, if this was the same man as the one the Griffins saw, then the dog was in the woods when Ellis Wilbur passed by.”
“An I.D.?”
Joe chewed and shook his head. He swallowed. “The man’s back was to him.”
“Where’d you get the barbecue?”
“Methodist church down the road.”
“Yeah, but not the beer,” Wilt said.
Most of the barbecue places in the south didn’t sell beer or any kind of alcohol. That attitude went back to the old days when the churches all had barbecue suppers to raise money. The churches didn’t approve of drinking and even if they had, they wouldn’t sell it on the church grounds.
“Happened to have it in the cooler at home.”
“You sure it wasn’t in the trunk of the cruiser next to the air mattress?”
“Would I lie to you, boss?”
“Only if you thought you could get away with it.” Wilt nodded toward the closed bedroom door. “What do we feed Moore?”
“I stopped next door. His wife says she’ll fix him supper when he’s ready for it.”
“She alone?” Wilt had been holding back. Now he reached for the next to the last sandwich. He unwrapped it and tore it in half. He passed half of it to the police technician. He pushed the last sandwich toward Joe. Joe had been talking so much he was behind.
“Not alone,” Joe said. “There’s a classy-looking lady keeping her company. A divorcee.”
“You get her phone number?”
“Not yet.”
Wilt opened two Buds and handed one to the police technician. “Maybe I ought to look in next door. I might need a phone number myself.”
“Not your type,” Joe said.
“Why not?”
“You like your meat raw. This one’s too ladylike for you.” Joe opened the final beer. “You never did say where the Bureau man is.”
