It didn’t take long for the call, less than twenty-four hours. “Jack, you son of a bitch, I just finished whipping your ass in the court of appeals and here you go again.”
Jack smiled. “Can’t blame a guy for trying. You can black out the donors’ names and claim privilege. I won’t object. I’m after something different now.”
“You care to elaborate?”
“Now, Cecil, why would I want to educate you? I’ll see you in three weeks.” Now, he would start looking for an expert, a media consultant or professor who could review all of these materials and offer opinions as to which of the expenditures were political and which really were seeking to push a social cause. He didn’t think Christiansen would see this coming. And, while he was thinking of experts, he realized that he had neglected to line up an expert to testify that what Walt and his team did was in keeping with their oath. A retired Texas Ranger would be perfect. He pictured one, long and lean, white hair, bushy white mustache and white eyebrows outlining piercing blue eyes. His voice would rumble like thunder. His demeanor would command respect.
Jack picked up the phone and called J.D. “You have anything yet?”
“Come on, Dad, I just started working on it this morning. Tanya and I drove over to Frisco where the Cowboys new training facility is under construction to scout condos.”
“You and Tanya have something to tell me?”
“Not quite yet, but if you and Colby don’t get a move on, you may be the second Bryant man to be married this year. As to the computer drive, it’s going to take me a few days, but there’s hope.”
“Good, now here’s what I called about.” Jack described what he was subpoenaing from O’Connell and explained that he needed a credible political science professor to review the materials to determine if O’Connell’s dark groups were primarily engaged in social causes. J.D. said he would check around since political science was not a course he had taken.
As they ended the conversation, Jack said, “And, as to you and Tanya, I think I’m ready to start spoiling some grandkids. I vote for a granddaughter first, followed by a couple of football players. Call me when you’ve got something.”
Three nights later Jack and Colby were about to turn in when the phone rang. “Dad, you in bed, yet?”
“Just headed that way.”
“Stay up. I’ve got something. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
Jack turned to Colby. “I haven’t heard him that excited since he scored his first touchdown for TCU.” Twenty minutes later a buzzer announced that someone was opening the driveway gate. A minute later J.D. burst through the back door and into the living room. He handed copies of computer printouts to Jack and Colby.
“You don’t really need to look at the spread sheets. I know what’s in them. The old man and Miriam both had bank accounts in the Caymans. Not easy to break through bank security in the Caymans, but I managed it. For people living in trailers out in the middle of nowhere, they had a truckload of money flowing in and out of those accounts. A couple of times a year, two, three hundred thousand would be deposited in the old man’s account and he would immediately transfer fifty or seventy-five thousand into Miriam’s. My guess is that those were all murders for hire. Right now she’s sitting with half a million in her account. The last deposits were two weeks before the attack. He received $300,000 and transferred a hundred grand to her. You would think that he would have been a little more generous with his daughter since she was taking all of the risks, but that’s not for me to judge.”
“That’s a good start,” Jack said. “Only tell me more. I need to know the source.”
“Hold on. I’m not through. I traced the money through two more accounts in the islands and then to an account for a Cayman corporation that no longer exists. That’s where the trail ends. Looks like the corporation was set up just for this transaction and closed as soon as the money was transferred. There was originally $750,000 in that account. In addition to the $300,000 that went to Van Zandt, there were two cashier’s checks for “cash”, one for four hundred thousand and one for fifty thousand. Then the account was closed. Best guess is that someone had those two checks overnighted somewhere. As I said, it’s a dead end as far as anything more I can do.”
“Shit,” Jack exclaimed. “I can’t subpoena an offshore corporation to trial and blame it for causing the shootings. And it’s impossible to get cooperation from a bank in the Caymans.”
J.D. interrupted. “Hold on. There’s one more thing. Van Zandt was also wiring smaller sums to an account in New Orleans. They aren’t as big, ten, fifteen, twenty thousand once or twice a month. Only that adds up to some real money.”
“Wait a minute, Jack,” Colby said. “Miriam said that her dad talked about someone he called Cross who lived in New Orleans. You think he’s somehow tied in with Van Zandt, maybe even the attack. Maybe he’s the money man.”
“Good idea. I doubt if some ex-army buddy of Van Zandt’s put up $750,000, but he could have been the go-between to set up the attack. Again, we have to keep following the money. I’ll check with Walt about Cross first thing in the morning to see if they have anything on a veteran or criminal with a tattoo of a cross on his neck. Then, we’ll go from there.”
The next morning Walt picked up on the first ring. “Walt, you doing okay?”
“I’m good. I see we lost in the court of appeals on that discovery. Is that going to hurt our defense?”
“I don’t think so. I have a new strategy. You turn anything up on that guy Miriam called Cross?”
“I did. I got a verbal report, but I’m still waiting on his file. We went to the army and got a break with his tattoo. His name is Adam Crossmore. Went by the nickname, ‘Cross.’ Tattoo of a black cross on the left side of his neck. Spent thirty years and never got above a buck sergeant. Seems like he was always in trouble for one thing or another, fighting, drinking, AWOL a time or two. Every time he’d get three stripes, he would do something that would get him busted. Never married, no kids. He mustered out at Fort Hood. Hell, he even served in Desert Storm. We might have run across him. And one more thing. He served in Vietnam at the same time as Van Zandt, even the same damn platoon. After he got out, the army lost track of him. Only, his retirement check is wired to a bank in New Orleans.”
“That confirms what the old man told Miriam. And we’ve just turned up some other evidence that may tie Van Zandt to Crossmore. It’s possible he may have been the go-between and arranged for the attack. Now, we’ve got to find him. We may be heading to New Orleans in a few days.”
“You want me to go with you?”
“No need. I’ll ask J.D. He’s got a license to carry. I’ll also get my client, Ike, to go along. He seems to know half the people down there. I’ll fill you in when we get back.”
51
Walt came through. It took a few calls to Fort Hood and to the records center in Missouri. A week later, he received an email attachment with the records and a photo of Sgt. Adam Crossmore. The photo was faded, but close study identified a man in his late-forties with a craggy face and sandy brown hair. A portion of the tattoo on the left side of his neck was barely visible. He had a nose that appeared to have been broken numerous times and a two inch scar above his right eye. Another scar extended down his left cheek. He had a cauliflower left ear. Without knowing his age, one would have guessed it as somewhere north of sixty. Walt had his forensics department modify the photo, adding varieties of facial hair, showing him as bald and with long gray hair hanging down to his shoulders and then pulled back into a pony tail. When they were done, Walt emailed the package to Jack.
Jack took it home that evening and called J.D. He also asked Ike to drop by. They assembled around the kitchen table and spread the photos out to study. Jack had seen them when he was at the RV; so, he pored through the personnel file one more time.
As he flipped the pages on thirty years of the man’s life, he said, “Seems like anytime someone looked at Cross the wrong way, he’
d cold-cock them. Spent more time in the stockade than anyone I ran across in my day.”
“Looking at that photo, it looks like he may have lost a few fights along the way,” J.D. said. “If he’d been in the Marines, they wouldn’t have put up with his crap. Maybe things were different back then.”
Jack turned to Ike. “Any of these photos ring any bells?”
Ike shook his head. “I’d suggest we make a bunch of copies of all of these and start showing them around in New Orleans. Colby, some of the areas I’m going to suggest we visit aren’t very safe. Maybe you ought to stay back here with Killer.”
Colby paused before answering. “I’ve been thinking about it. I like New Orleans, but after my last experience there, I think I’ll stay home. You can bring Trousers over for dog sitting. He and Killer haven’t met, but Killer loves small dogs.”
Ike laughed. “Actually, the issue may be with Trousers. He’s been a street dog all of his life. No one would ever convince him he doesn’t weigh two hundred pounds and is five feet tall.”
Jack turned to J.D. “You got time to join us? Your size just might intimidate someone.”
“Wouldn’t miss it. I like New Orleans, too. I’m just sorry that I can’t drag Tanya along. I’ll invite her to stay with Colby. She can referee any altercations between Killer and Trousers. When are we going?”
“Day after tomorrow. We both need to carry our guns, just for good measure. You still have that Glock?”
“I do. It’s my favorite.”
“Okay, tomorrow I’ll make plane and rental car reservations and book three rooms for a couple of nights at the Sonesta.”
“Oh, my favorite.” Colby faked a pout.
“I’ll go by the gun store over on Camp Bowie and get a TSA approved hard case for two pistols and fresh ammo in the original cartons. I’ll email both of you when I get the reservations.” He turned to Ike. “You figure out that new laptop you bought?”
“I’m getting there. I can definitely send and receive emails. I’ll contact my friends and let them know we’re coming.”
52
Several years earlier at the Fort Hood station, Cross walked to the back of the bus, tossed his bag on the overhead rack, and sprawled out on the rear seat. As the local bus pulled away, he raised his right hand in a middle-finger salute to the army. The bus dropped him at the Greyhound station in Killeen. He surveyed the outgoing buses and picked the one headed to New Orleans, as good a city as any to begin civilian life. He knew no one there, but really had no friends anywhere, and the last of his family had died years before.
Once in New Orleans, he found a cheap hotel and spent three days riding local buses around the city. At night he wandered the bars in the French Quarter. On the second night he paid for a prostitute. Each morning he bought the Times Picayune and studied the rooms for rent. He had a limited budget, $2,000 in his pocket, a credit card with $10,000 maximum and a monthly benefit of about $1,200. It was the third morning that he spotted a room uptown in a house a block from the streetcar stop. The mansion was run down and in need of paint. Weeds filled the flower beds. When he knocked, an old lady appeared at the door, wearing a housecoat covered in faded flowers.
“Morning, ma’am. I’m here about the room you have for rent. Is it still available?”
The woman looked him up and down. “Don’t allow no drugs or loud music. Won’t hesitate to call the cops. Done it before.”
Cross tried to hide the exasperation on his face. “Can I see the room?”
The woman shut the door and returned with the key. “Follow me.”
She held the rail and inched down the steps from the porch and walked a brick path to the right side of the house and around to the back. “Got its own private entrance. Used to be servant’s quarters,” she said as she approached a door on the ground level and unlocked it.
The room was musty. The two windows were grimy. It was furnished with an old brass four poster, a couch, a coffee table and a scarred mahogany dresser that must have been a fine piece fifty years ago. A door with a mirror glued to the inside opened to the bathroom that contained a sink, shower and toilet, all with rust spots. Another door opened to a closet with a light that didn’t work. The floor was covered with a stained and frayed brown carpet.
“How much, ma’am?”
“Seventy-five dollars a week with a fifty dollar damage deposit.”
“Not much to damage. I’ll take it for a month. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a wallet from which he extracted $350. If I decide to stay longer, I’ll let you know.”
The woman sized up her new tenant as she handed him a key. “I suppose I ought to know your name.”
“Adam Crossmore. I answer to Cross. And, ma’am, I just got out of the army. I always wanted to grow a few vegetables. Would you mind if I worked on one of those beds here beside the house, get it in shape and plant a few tomatoes and beans and such? I’ll share with you.”
The old woman smiled for the first time. “Well, that would be nice. Use as many of the beds as you want. I don’t do anything with them anymore. And, you can call me Rose.” She looked down at the floor and back into his face. “And, I wouldn’t mind it if you planted a couple of red rose bushes in the front.” She turned to walk out, then looked back. “Oh, the house is old and a little run down like me, but I do have wireless internet that I think works in this room. You’re welcome to try it. Password is gardenrose.”
Cross took the key and walked the block to the streetcar stop. When he boarded it, he again admired the stately old mansions that lined St. Charles. He got off at Canal where he hoofed it the few blocks to his hotel, retrieved his suitcase and checked out. On the way back he stopped in an electronics shop and bought a Dell laptop on sale for $399. Just before he got back to St. Charles, he found a small grocery where he purchased some cleaning supplies. Back in his room he first cleaned the grime from the windows, then tackled the bathroom. He was walking the carpet, trying to figure out what to do about it when he noticed a corner that had been pulled up sometime in the past. When he jerked on it, he discovered it covered a fine hardwood floor. The more he pulled back the carpet the more he liked what he saw. He fired up his laptop and typed gardenrose. He was on the internet. He searched discount furniture and hardware stores that would deliver, buying three throw rugs, a new box spring and mattress, a couch and two chairs, a television, a new bathroom mirror, a small desk and chair, a microwave oven, a small office-sized refrigerator and a coffee pot. Total expenditures: $980. The only things that would remain would be the brass bed and the coffee table which was slightly scratched but useable.
He walked around to the front of the house and climbed the steps to the door. He rang the doorbell and waited. Rose came to the door, still dressed in the same faded housecoat. “Ma’am, I mean, Rose, what day is heavy trash pickup?
Rose looked puzzled. “It’s this Friday. Why?”
“I’ve ordered a few things for my room and want to replace some of that old stuff. By the way, I think I’ll be staying indefinitely. So you’ve got a renter for a while.”
“Trash is picked up in the alley behind the house.”
“Yes, ma’am. Nice thing about these old neighborhoods is that they have alleys so trash doesn’t have to sit out at the front curb. Once I get everything done, I’ll show you the room. Meantime, if any deliveries come knocking, please send them around. Oh, and I’ll be starting on that garden in a few days.” He smiled. He received a smile in return.
Cross ripped out the carpet and put it in the alley, behind a fence that had more holes than boards. While he waited on the other deliveries, he rented a floor sander and a polisher and sweated his way through the grime that hid the ancient oak beneath it. Doing so, he was reminded that the room was not air conditioned. That led to another session on the laptop to order a window unit. Two days later his purchases started arriving. He tossed the mattress, spring and bedding, along with the other furniture and replaced them as the new furn
ishings arrived. At the end of the week a pile of old stuff was in the alley. The room looked almost new, with the microwave on a new dresser, a 36 inch HDTV on a stand, the small refrigerator, a desk for his computer and a new bed along with brown Naugahyde couch and chairs. When it was done, he invited Rose to have a look.
He opened the door ahead of her and stood aside to allow her to enter. “Why, it’s beautiful, Cross.” She admired the floor that now gleamed. “You think that you could do that to my floors? I can pay you.” She hesitated, not wanting to be too bold with her tenant. “And, if you like, I can make some curtains for those two windows.”
Cross shook his head. “Tell you what, let me get my garden in and then I’ll take care of your floors. No charge, but maybe you can knock a little off my rent. As to the curtains, I accept. No hurry, though.”
Over the next several days, Cross slept late and then spent the afternoons working on weeding, spading, tilling and fertilizing three of the old flower beds at the side of the house. Once he was satisfied the beds were ready, he put tomato plants in one, potatoes and green beans in the second and squash, onions and a few black-eyed peas in the third. As he worked, it occurred to him that he needed to buy a small electric cooktop to go next to the microwave. Next, he moved to the front yard and did the same with the beds along the house below the porch, planting red roses in them. While he was doing so, the old lady came out to sit on the porch, now dressed in black pants and a flowery yellow blouse. She even wore a little lipstick.
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