by Glenn Trust
“You mean like an after action report…a debrief?” Rince seemed thrilled with the idea of the team getting together and strategizing.
“I mean, we tell Bob what we did, he tells us what he and Barnes did, Sharon tells us all what we should be doing, and then Bob tells us what to do next. Then we eat.”
Completely enthralled at being part of the task force, it took a few seconds of staring at George’s deadpan face before Rince picked up on the sarcasm and grinned. Reaching over, George gave him a slap on the back, smiling, and said, “C’mon. Let’s find Sharon.”
Rince sat up front in George’s truck for the first time on the five-minute drive back into the heart of Everett. At the Colonial, he got the key to the room Sharon had reserved for him from the desk clerk and took the small bag he had carried from the plane up to his room.
George climbed the stairs to room four-fourteen, the number Sharon had given him when he called from the lobby. There was no elevator in the old Colonial Hotel.
After the third rap of his knuckles on the frame, Sharon opened the door. Standing barefoot in gray slacks and white blouse, George could not help but notice her form silhouetted from behind, the back lighting from the open window throwing out soft red tints from the tangle of auburn hair atop her head. He smiled.
“What are you grinning at, Mackey,” she said pulling the door open wider for him to enter. “Come on in, Bob will be calling soon. Where you guys been?”
Standing by the door, George watched her pad across the room to the open window. She took the half-smoked cigarette from the plastic ashtray, inhaled deeply, and let the smoke drift out of the window. Turning her head, she saw him watching and shrugged. “I know. Still haven’t given them up.” Another shrug and a puff, the gray smoke wafting over her head, and then suddenly pulled out of the window by the air currents. “One day maybe.” Sharon leaned over and stubbed the butt out in the ashtray. “You coming in, or not?”
George crossed the small room, taking a seat in a plastic chair by the round table under the window. He pushed the ashtray to one side, resting his elbows on the table and looking out the window at the main street of Everett. It was quiet. Six o’clock in the evening, and the streets were deserted, mostly.
“Not very talkative tonight, George. What’s up?” Sharon took a seat in the other plastic chair that constituted the room’s sole furnishings other than the dresser and the bed.
He turned his head looking at her for a few seconds. “Nothing really. Just thinking about Martz.”
“What’s he like?”
“Us, I guess. Grew up different, in the city, not the country, but does his own thing. Doesn’t like to be pushed.”
“Who does?”
Sharon crossed her legs, and George couldn’t help but notice the fabric of her slacks pulled tight over her thighs. He stood up and walked to the dresser, lifting the television guide, turning the pages and absently scanning it.
“No one, I reckon,” he said not looking at Sharon. “But he doesn’t give, you know what I mean? He speaks quiet and reasonable, but he doesn’t give.”
“Sounds like someone I know.” Sharon watched the big man standing at the dresser, engrossed in his study of the television guide.
Still not looking at her, George gave a wry smile. “That might not be so good, Sharon. If…when…they come for him, they won’t let him know. He won’t see it coming. These people are that good. He won’t know until it’s too late. Like Timmy never knew before the truck hit him.” He laid the guide back on the dresser and turned towards her. “I don’t think he understands that. I don’t think I got through to him.” He shook his head slowly. “Maybe you should have been the one to talk to him. You or Bob or Ronnie. Someone besides me.”
Sharon knew the sense of guilt that George carried around with him. He felt responsible for what happened during the ‘Predator’ case, for that and a lot of other things. Too many things, she thought.
“George, everything is not your responsibility. Understand?” She waited for him to look at her again. “You went because we needed you to go. Klineman would have been all over you today had you been around, talking to the Wrights, following up on things. You would not have gotten much done here. You were the one that had to go and see Martz, and as far as I’m concerned, you were the best choice to see him, Klineman be damned.”
He shook his head, as if about to speak, but Sharon continued. “George, you have a way of talking to people that puts you on their level. They get you.”
When Sharon finished speaking, their eyes remained fixed on each other. George found himself noting the shape of her neck exposed by the open white blouse, her hands folded across the knee of one leg crossed over the other, the curve of her leg and thigh as it arced over the other, her foot pointing towards the floor. Taking a rapid deep breath, he turned and walked to the window, staring out at the nearly empty street, seeing her in his mind sitting behind him in the chair.
Sharon watched the back of the deputy who had become her friend. Thinking about it, she figured she had spent more time alone with George Mackey than with any other man in years. The chase across Georgia last year, here in the room today, it wasn’t much, but men had not been a part of Sharon’s life for a long time. She and George had shared personal moments, even intimate moments, during that time together. Not sexual intimacy, but Sharon knew that life and death struggle brought with it an intimacy difficult to describe to those who have never experienced it, but real nonetheless.
Watching him stand there careful not to look back at her, she regarded him curiously, and she had to admit to herself, affectionately. Her eyebrows furrowed considering what she was about to say when a knock came at the door.
Crossing the room, Sharon opened the door for Rince who buzzed into the room like a fly looking for a place to alight. Rince took the chair at the table. George remained standing by the window, avoiding Sharon’s gaze. The group chatted for a few minutes about their activities, Rince intent on George’s description of his meeting with Martz and Sharon’s with Naomi Wright.
When they had finished briefing each other, Sharon’s phone rang. She punched the speaker button and placed the phone in the center of the table, taking the other plastic chair while George stood behind her.
“Hello, Bob. Everyone’s here.”
“Good,” Shaklee said and then introduced a new member of the Atlanta team. “We have Perry Boyd with us, captain from Atlanta homicide. He’s going to fly cover for Andy in Atlanta and help us with support that we might not be able to get on our own.”
The group acknowledged Boyd all around and the briefing began. Sharon and George gave the account of their day’s activities and the meetings with Rubin Martz and Naomi Wright, Rince hanging on every word as if he had not just heard it all fifteen minutes earlier.
“Security arrangements?” Bob asked
“Savannah PD is putting together protective surveillance for Martz. He’s not too thrilled about it but he accepted. Might take a day or so to arrange. Budget, overtime and all that.”
In the Atlanta conference room, Shaklee and Boyd nodded without comment. They were familiar with the administrative side of law enforcement. Things did not happen without money, and money in state and local budgets was always in short supply.
“Ronnie Kupman has a deputy watching the Wright home tonight. We’ll have them out of there early tomorrow,” Sharon added.
“Good.” Shaklee turned the time over to Andy Barnes who had been following up on the list and looking for links in Marswell’s appointment book.
“Spent most of the morning prioritizing the list by order of ‘Term Limits’ blog contributions. The next two after Martz and Wright are a former city council member in Brunswick and the owner of a car dealership in Valdosta who looks like he will be unseating the current mayor in November. At least he has a good chance.”
“Why does that make him a target?” George asked.
“Well, on the surface it doesn’t. B
ut, he is the next largest contributor to ‘Term Limits’. More interesting, his platform is simple. He promises to manage the affairs of the city like a business, but what has the voters excited is his pledge to serve one term only. At the end of that term, he promises to throw his support to another candidate who will make the same promise to serve only one term and then support another candidate who will make the same promise, and so on and so on. He calls it the ‘political aristocracy’ and says it must end. People in Valdosta believe him.”
“Brunswick and Valdosta,” Sharon said thoughtfully. “We’re gonna have our hands full in this part of the state.”
“I know,” Bob said. “We’re sending Andy down tomorrow. He can work with George on the Brunswick and Valdosta connections while you focus on the Wrights.” He spoke up to get the pilot’s attention. “Rince, can you get back to Atlanta first thing in the morning? Pick up Andy and do a round trip back to Everett?”
“Absolutely!” Rince’s natural exuberance was overflowing at being included in the conversation. “Andy, be at the airport, PDK, by zero eight-thirty, and I can have you back in Everett before noon. Earlier if need be.”
“That should be plenty early enough, Rince,” Andy said with a smile. Assigned a key role in support of the task force, bringing in the reinforcements, Rince beamed, even over the phone.
“One more thing to bring you up to speed,” Andy said. “Going through Marswell’s appointment book, I found a meeting the Judge had with Edward Paschal. He owns a chain of restaurants.”
“Right,” Sharon said. She had eaten at the restaurants. “So? Paschal is prominent in the black community, not so unusual to meet with another prominent member of the community is it?”
“Normally, no. But the appointment included one Prentiss Somerhill, Junior.”
“PT?” Sharon said. “He met with Marswell?”
“Yep.”
“What about?” She leaned closer to the phone as if proximity to the speaker would make things clearer.
“Well, that’s what I asked Paschal when I met with him at his home this afternoon. Pretty nice place by the way.”
“And?” Sharon didn’t give a shit about the Paschal estate.
“He said that he introduced PT to the Judge because PT was representing a client who was scheduled to go before Marswell, and he wanted to review the case.”
The ears of the two law enforcement officers in the hotel room perked up. Even Rince had a curious look on his face.
“Are you telling us that Marswell took a meeting with an attorney about a case and violated the ex parte rules?”
“I’m telling you that that is what Paschal said. I don’t believe it. When I pressed him on the issue, he backtracked, said maybe that wasn’t what the meeting was about, but he thought that’s what it was. He was very nervous.”
Bob added, “Marswell’s reputation as a by-the-book, impartial judge is rock solid. The idea that he would take a meeting like that, clearly violating ex parte rules about meeting with one attorney without the opposition present, is unlikely in the extreme. Captain Boyd and I will be following up with PT Somerhill.”
The briefing ended a few minutes later after a review of plans for the next day and determining the time of the next briefing. When the call disconnected, everyone in both rooms wondered what the hell was going on. It seemed there were more questions unanswered than answered since the task force had begun its investigation. Even Rince sat quietly for once, contemplating what he had just heard.
“Let’s eat.” George walked to the door and pulled it open turning to the others.
Sharon nodded. “Yeah, come on, I’m starved and we can talk over dinner. Busy day tomorrow sounds like.”
“Uh huh,” was George’s only reply as he followed the other two out letting the door click shut behind them.
Sharon and Rince walked side by side down the hall, George following. He found himself watching Sharon’s form, the way she moved and the sway of her hips. Embarrassed, he focused on the carpet in front of his shoes. What the hell was going on, he thought, but this time not about the task force’s investigation.
54. The Dance
“Where you boys from?” Roy Budroe, owner of Pete’s Place, placed his beefy hands on the bar and leaned towards the two men seated at the end. He was thick and heavyset, but not fat. His bare arms were covered with hair and muscle.
Bill Quince made no comment, turning the dripping bottle of beer on the bar top making wet circles and watching Budroe. Sim Lee looked up from his whiskey and Coke. “Up north,” he replied, taking a sip of his drink. The eyes of the two men remained focused on each other for several seconds.
Pete’s Place, the main gathering place in Roydon, Georgia, was an establishment where specialized business was conducted involving very specialized goods and services. It was a rough place with rough rules of conduct. You had to understand those rules if you were going to have a drink at Pete’s. As the owner of Pete’s Place, Roy Budroe was also the unofficial mayor, town council, judge, and enforcer for the small community.
Sitting astride I-95, Roydon was a ramshackle collection of trailers and small shacks that served as homes for the few local residents. A couple of gas stations, two dingy motels, and Pete’s Place made up the remainder of the community. Most people passing on the interstate would not have stopped. There were no fast food joints or shiny, fancy travel centers here. But if you were looking for those specialized goods and services, you would recognize Roydon for what it was.
Seeing it from the interstate after leaving Everett, Lee and Quince had immediately recognized Roydon for what it was, home away from home. It was a place where they could comfortably have a beer and think over their plans without worrying about prying eyes or ears. People did not put their nose into others’ business in a place like Roydon.
But they were new to Pete’s Place and to Budroe. As the chief executive officer of the community, it was his responsibility to check out the two newcomers and determine if they were a threat or customers, or maybe both.
It was clear that Budroe was not satisfied with Lee’s short response to his question. Looking him in the eyes, Lee gave a small nod. Fair enough, he thought. He would do the same thing if he were on the other side of the bar.
“We’re here to do a little local business,” he added, testing the water. If the big man behind the bar asked questions about the business, then they would know that Roydon was not the type of place they had thought. They would finish their beer and move on. Lee did not expect that to happen, however. He knew places like Roydon. They were not hard to spot if you knew what to look for.
Understanding the nature of the test, Roy Budroe simply nodded, said, “Well, I’m Roy. Roy Budroe. You boys let me know if you need anything,” and walked away.
The few words they had spoken to each had been sufficient to establish that Lee and Quince were serious men who knew their way around places like Roydon and that Budroe was in charge here. The exchanged words and looks were a dance. Both men knew the dance and neither had missed a step.
“So, what’s next?” Bill Quince sipped his beer and placed the bottle neatly in the center of one of the wet circles of condensation he had been making on the bar.
“Well,” Lee said thinking through the plan that was formulating in his head. “Tomorrow we head back to Everett and start watching the house. Maybe he’s out of town, but he got to come back some time. When he does, we watch until he leaves again. Wait for the right time. I’m thinking maybe an accident on a back road where he has to stop his car. We hit him, he pulls over to check the damage. Then we grab him.”
Quince nodded. He knew that Lee would fill in the gaps after they spotted Wright and determined a place to snatch him. Lee was good at thinking up shit on the spot.
“There is one thing we do need, though,” Lee said looking down the bar. “Hey, Roy, gotta minute?”
Budroe ambled along the bar, chatting with the rough looking men and the few women fi
lling the bar stools, until he reached the two men at the end. “What can I do for you boys?”
“We’re looking for a truck...pickup…cash deal.”
“Old or new?”
“Old. At least something that will fit in…no one will take notice of.”
Roy nodded. He didn’t ask why and he didn’t care. The look on his face was that of a shop owner considering his inventory for a paying customer. “Meet me in the field behind in fifteen minutes.”
Budroe walked back along the bar, spoke quietly to the large gray haired woman in spandex who was serving customers at the other end of the bar, and then left through the front door. Lee and Quince finished their drinks, paid their tab, pushed open the heavy steel door, and wandered outside. Walking around to the rear of the old block building, they saw headlights bouncing across the back field. When the old pickup came to a stop, Roy Budroe climbed out as they walked over.
“This should fit in pretty good around here.”
Lee looked it over. Tan colored, with a little rust around the fenders, the pickup looked like any farm truck used to heavy work.
Quince had the hood up, going over the engine. He sat behind the wheel, cranked the engine, and then went back under the hood. After a few minutes, he slammed the hood shut. Making a tour of the exterior, he examined the tires closely and the bed of the truck. Finally, sitting behind the wheel one more time, he turned the key, revved the engine, and spun the wheels testing the steering, moving the wheel back and the truck jerking left and right with each pull on the steering wheel. Hitting the brakes hard to test them, he brought the truck back to where Lee stood with Budroe. He nodded at Lee.
“Anything we should know about it?” Lee asked.
“Nope,” Budroe replied understanding the question completely. “Registration is valid, and the owner won’t be looking for it,” he said with a soft smile.
Lee did not ask why. “How much?”
Fifteen minutes later, the transaction completed, they were seated on their bar stools sharing a drink with Roy. The big woman in spandex had made sure no one took their seats while they were discussing business with the boss.
