“I did, but I made the call because Steinman told me to. But for his message, I never would have called. Second, your phone was tapped and a wire truck was sitting in your parking lot before I called you.”
Andrea considered what he said for a long moment. When she spoke again, there was a reluctant acceptance in her voice.
“You’re right. Richie’s message seems to be the starting point. It’s just hard to believe. Richie wrote about local legal developments, like petty crimes, small trials, investigations—that sort of thing. Something like this … he must have stumbled into it. What exactly did Richie say in that message?”
“I’ll pull up the message and you can listen for yourself.”
Caine’s message service was through SBC, the local phone company. He dialed the message number and typed in his passcode. Instead of the typical greeting, he received a message advising him that the number was “no longer in service.”
Caine tried the number of again and received the same message.
“Something’s wrong here,” Caine said and dialed information for the SBC help line. After spending five minutes working through a series of automated messages, he was told by the last message that operators were only available between 8:00 a.m. and 6:00 p.m. Pacific standard time. Caine glanced at his wristwatch. It was still only 6:00 a.m. in California.
Caine turned to Andrea and said, “I can’t get through right now, but I have an idea that when I do, I won’t like what I find out.”
“What do you mean?”
“It would have been easy enough for someone to cancel my service and wipe out the messages. As long as you call from the phone the order came from, the phone company will usually accept the cancellation. That would be child’s play for this outfit, but we can find out later on. I can summarize the message. Steinman said that I owned land here in Texas, or that I, let me see … should, that’s what he said, ‘should own the land.’ The message was kind of cryptic, and there was a lot of noise in the background. He said the land was valuable. He suggested that I might be in danger because of this ownership interest.”
Andrea listened, but the picture didn’t make any sense to her. People stopped killing each other over title disputes a long time ago. There had to be more to it.
“Is it possible that you might be the beneficiary under a will or a trust that you’re unaware of? Maybe the next beneficiary in line wants to make sure that you don’t try to take back a property that was deeded to him or her on the assumption that you were dead.”
Caine shook his head. “I’m an orphan. If I had a rich uncle out there, I think he would have surfaced a long time ago.”
“This is too all too speculative. We need more information to figure this out,” Andrea said.
“Agreed. So, how do we find out more about what Richard Steinman was doing before he died?” Caine asked.
Andrea didn’t think about the question before she answered. “That’s easier than you think. Richie kept an extra key in the planter just down the hall from his apartment. He was always losing his keys.”
“I need to get into that apartment,” Caine said, with quiet determination.
Andrea almost choked on the coffee going down her throat when she realized what he was suggesting.
“What? We shouldn’t be going anywhere near that place. This is a police matter, or better still, an FBI matter. John, we were almost killed last night. Look, I mentioned this before. I know a prosecutor in Austin. This is someone I trust. We can’t do this without help.”
Caine could hear the frustration and fear in Andrea’s voice. From her perspective, seeking help from the police or the FBI was the only option. From his perspective, it was just one option. Caine also suspected that Andrea was putting too much stock in her friend’s ability to persuade either the Austin P.D. or the FBI to suspend the healthy skepticism they brought to cases where the facts were this far outside the box.
If he’d been on his own, Caine would have stayed away from the police until he had at least identified the enemy. If the opposition was a terrorist group or a foreign outfit seeking retribution, which he considered unlikely given Steinman’s involvement, then he would contact his own resources in the intelligence community. They would bring him in as a friendly. If the threat came from some other source, then he would approach the authorities through a referral from one of his own intermediaries. Although the FBI or Austin P.D. wouldn’t be too happy about his freelance efforts, they’d have a target other than John Caine to go after.
Caine looked up at Andrea. She was staring at him, her face a mixture of determination and anxiety.
“Okay. Let’s see what your friend has to say. Things can’t get much worse,” Caine said.
Andrea felt a wave of relief.
“Why don’t you call your friend and I’ll check us out,” Caine said and stood up.
After Caine closed the door, Andrea pulled out her cell phone. She started to press the first number when she realized that the phone screen was dark. Damn! The battery is out. She looked around the room and saw the phone by the nightstand. Then she pulled out her wallet to find her calling card.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-ONE
Austin, Texas
December 6, 1999 / Sunday / 9:00 a.m.
Jamie Wheeler was a professional, but not in the reputable sense of the word. Before being arrested by the Texas Rangers and spending five years in the Texas State Penitentiary, she’d been involved in hundreds of telephone scam operations. When Jamie Wheeler picked up the phone, she could become just about anybody, from simple, stupid, golly gee Jane, to Myra the demanding IRS agent. She could also mimic almost any accent and wear any emotion necessary to take down the mark. During her less-than-distinguished career, she’d fleeced hundreds of people out of hundreds of thousands of dollars.
Wheeler, who was a white supremacist by her own admission, had hated every day that she’d spent in prison. When she finally was released from that “sewer,” she’d decided to find another line of work. Unfortunately, not many employers were willing to pay a forty-five-year-old woman with her criminal pedigree a decent wage. After six months of serving hash at a small diner on the outskirts of Houston for minimum wages and tips, manna had fallen from heaven. A gentleman with a European accent had stopped in for a cup of coffee and offered her a job.
Now Wheeler used her prodigious phone skills to obtain information, not money. The company that paid her check was called Severon Information Systems. Mr. Paquin had told her that Severon was an investigative firm that helped well-heeled clients to obtain information about their competitors. He’d also told her that secrecy was a critical part of Severon’s business, and summary termination would result if she talked about her work outside the office. As far as Wheeler was concerned, that wasn’t going to happen. Working for Severon was a killer job. The pay was good, the working conditions were the best she’d ever had, and she liked what she was doing.
Today Wheeler was looking for someone called Andrea Marenna, a thirty-four-year-old lawyer from Austin. Her phone persona was Megan Walsh, one of Andrea’s old friends. Her story line was simple. Someone called Richard Steinman, a mutual friend, had unexpectedly passed away, and Megan knew that Andrea would feel terrible if she missed the funeral.
Wheeler’s supervisor had provided her with a list of potential contacts to start the search effort. These initial contacts had led her to others “who might be able to help.” Wheeler was authorized to advise the marks that Andrea had mentioned that she was going out to Granger Lake for the weekend, but for some reason she wasn’t staying at the Portman Lodge, where she usually stayed.
Each time she was provided with a possible location, Wheeler would hand it off to another caller, who would then telephonically determine whether or not they had a hit. She was on mark number thirty-six, an elderly aunt. The woman remembered a small motel out in that direction where Andrea and her dad had stayed one summer. Aunt Kate seemed to recall that it was called th
e “Blue something Motel,” but she was sure that the old place was closed by now. After hanging up, Wheeler took a pull on her coffee and ran a search on the computer in front of her. Sure enough, up came the Bluebonnet Motel. It was just outside Austin, about two miles from Granger Lake.
Wheeler dialed the number and put on her best “Southern belle” personality. She was an expert at pinning down the personality on the other side of the phone through voice attributes alone. In this case, she read the man who answered the phone as being over fifty and a smoker. His accent was East Texas, maybe even as far east as Arkansas. Once he started talking, she would nail down his social and educational pedigree and then modify her sales pitch to make him as comfortable and compliant as possible.
“Good morning. This is the Bluebonnet Motel.”
“Well, good morning yourself. How is everything today at the Bluebonnet Motel?”
“The air is clean and the fish are plentiful. Why, there is just no place you’d rather be in the world.”
“Well then, y’all reserve a room for me. I’ll be comin’ right over.”
The voice on the other side of the line became even friendlier. “Why, ma’am, it just so happens that I’ve been keeping the best room open for someone just like yourself, so just let me know when.”
“I wish I could just run right over there now, but I’m actually on an errand of sympathy. You see, a good friend just passed away … ”
It took Wheeler less than five minutes to wrap Joe Carter, the sixty-five-year-old proprietor of the motel, around her tobacco-stained finger.
“I’d love to help, ma’am, but I just don’t think I can. Last night only one party checked in, and he was a man.”
Wheeler sensed a slight hesitation at the tail end of the man’s answer, so she decided to coax a little more out of him.
“All right then, I guess I’ll just have to keep looking.”
The disappointment and the hesitation in her voice had its intended effect.
“I’m sorry I can’t help, ma’am, although … I could say this, but I probably shouldn’t.”
Wheeler could tell from the man’s voice that he was waiting for an excuse to continue. “Go on. I promise not to bite ya.”
“Well … that guest I told you about … Let me see … Mr. Perry. Well, when he checked in, I went out back to have a smoke. Now, it’s a good distance from the office to the end unit that he wanted, but I could have sworn I saw two folks get out of his pickup, and I was pretty sure that one of them was a young woman.”
Carter lowered his voice when he said the last part, and Wheeler smiled to herself. God, this good ole boy is a rube.
“Is that right? Well, you know, I just wonder whether Andrea has found herself a new boyfriend. That’s okay, mind you, but if she’s keepin’ him from the rest of us, that’s just not fair. But don’t worry, I won’t tell her you told me. Not a word.”
“Thank you, ma’am. We need every customer we can get this time of year, no matter what they’re fishin’ for.”
He laughed at his own joke, and Jamie joined him. Although the old proprietor wanted to keep talking, Wheeler politely cut him off.
“I am so sorry, Joe, but my mom’s calling on the other line, and I promised to talk with her this morning, so y’all have a great day out there. I’ll be comin’ to see ya for sure.”
“You do that, ma’am.”
Five minutes later, Paquin received a call from Wheeler’s supervisor.
Austin, Texas
December 6, 1999 / Sunday / 10:20 a.m.
Severino parked the Ford Expedition on the dirt road that bordered the far end of the Bluebonnet Motel. The motel office was about thirty yards from the road. Paquin was sitting in the passenger seat.
“Are Juan and Miguel in position at the other end of the lot?” Paquin said.
“Yes,” Severino said.
“I’ll walk over to the office,” Paquin said. “You stay here. If I see Caine or the woman, I’ll call. Otherwise, no one moves until I give the order.”
“Got it. What’s the game plan?”
“If we find Caine and the girl here, we take them out.”
“And the proprietor?” Severino asked.
“If we have to take out him out as well, so be it.”
“Got it.”
There were only two cars in the motel lot, an old red pickup truck and a blue minivan. Paquin knew that the pickup truck Caine was driving was a newer model and it was black. He suspected that Caine and the girl had already left the motel, but he kept his left hand on the Beretta in his left coat pocket.
Paquin had a new personality in place when he pulled open the old screen door and stepped into the worn office lobby. He intentionally thickened his slight German accent and smiled.
“Gutt morning. What a beautiful day!”
The old proprietor looked at Paquin’s expensive suit and turned on the charm.
“Yes, it surely is, but we have pretty fair weather out here most of the winter. Folks seem to forget that, which is a crying shame. Why, I can tell you … I’m sorry, I don’t want to run on here. How can I help you, sir?”
“My company is looking for a good spot for our annual retreat. A quiet, rustic place where our executives can rest, relax, and do some fishing.”
The old proprietor’s eyes widened and he broke into a description of the motel and the surrounding area that was rife with superlatives. Paquin interrupted him after a polite interval.
“Can I see the motel?”
“Of course. I’ll give you the tour myself. Let me put this sign on the door to let folks know I’ll be right back, and then we’re off.”
The proprietor walked with Paquin through the grounds, all the while promoting the unrealized charms of the Bluebonnet Motel, and the great fishing in nearby Granger Lake. Paquin quietly interrupted the other man’s monologue.
“What kind of guests do you have this time of year?”
“Why … all sorts of people. Serious anglers who want to get in some quiet fishing, couples just looking for a quiet weekend. Why, just this morning, a young couple left. And today I expect—”
Paquin politely broke in.
“You said a young couple just left?”
“Yes.”
“Did they say they had fun?”
“Well, most folks stop in for a chat before they leave, but these two were in a rush. Just stopped in for the night and scooted out about 9:00 a.m. They were in the Quail Cottage over there.”
“Quail Cottage. How quaint. It seems to have a nice view. Can I have a look inside?”
“Sure. The beds were made up an hour ago, so it should be right presentable.”
The proprietor continued his banter after they entered the bland interior of the worn but clean cottage. Paquin casually glanced at the phone on the nightstand between the beds and memorized the number. After they left the cottage, Paquin managed to extract himself from the proprietor’s grasp, but he promised to return with the whole executive team for a final look-over.
As soon as the Expedition was back on the road, Paquin called for a trace on all calls made from the line at Quail Cottage within the last twenty-four hours, and he ordered a work-up on each of the receiving parties. Thirty minutes later, Paquin received a return call.
“Our contact at Southwestern Bell says that a call was made from that line just before 9:00 a.m. The call was made to a residence in Austin owned by a Michael Bosmasian. We searched that name, sir. Bosmasian’s a lawyer. He’s a prosecutor with the City of Austin.”
CHAPTER
THIRTY-TWO
Houston, Texas, FBI Field Office
December 6, 1999 / Monday / 7:00 a.m.
William Spencer joined the FBI twenty-five years earlier, after graduating from Dartmouth College. He was Special Agent in Charge (SAC) of the Houston office. During his twenty-five years of service, he’d developed a reputation as a dedicated and effective special agent, and later, as an effective administrator and lead
er.
When he heard the quiet tones of the cell phone in his briefcase, Spencer glanced over at the small green clock, which looked like a small basketball, on his desk, Spencer, who was a lean six feet six inches tall, had received the clock from his teammates on the Dartmouth basketball team as a graduation present. It read 7:00 a.m. Spencer considered ignoring it, but the call was on his private cell phone. Not many people had that number, and those who did were important to him. He reached into the briefcase and pulled out the phone. The words “unknown” appeared on the screen.
“Spencer here.”
“Good morning, Agent Spencer.”
Spencer didn’t recognize the male voice on the other side, but he detected a European accent, possibly French or Belgian.
“Good morning. Who is this?”
“We have a mutual friend, who shares an interest in M-1 rifles.”
Spencer noted that the caller had ignored his question, but he didn’t press the issue. The caller was referring to James O’Connor, a classmate and friend from Dartmouth, who’d joined the CIA right out of college. The two men were avid shooting enthusiasts. Each year they competed together in two or three “service rifle” competitions, where the contestants used refurbished but standard M-1 Garand rifles.
Although Spencer and O’Connor recognized there was a formal “wall of separation” between the two agencies, both legal and ideological, on occasion they informally ignored it. Whenever Spencer suspected that he was facing an international enemy on his home turf, he unofficially turned to O’Connor for help. O’Connor did the same when he needed assistance with a domestic player.
“Our mutual friend knows his rifles. How can I help you?”
“Actually, we might be able to help each other. We believe a helicopter went down about five miles outside a place called Big Bear, California. The crash would have happened on Saturday night, or very early Sunday morning. The GPS coordinates for the estimated location of the crash site will be sent to your private e-mail account.”
“I see. Although I appreciate the tip, I’m sure the FAA and our Los Angeles office are already working the crash site. But I will check on it to make sure.”
Helius Legacy Page 17
