Still, if Mills was worried about Duncan’s mysterious caller, he did not let on. Landry noticed that the body man did not breakfast with them.
He glassed the SUVs in the parking area. (You knew someone was rich when they had a large “parking area.”) Duncan’s Suburban was there along with the rest.
Then the door opened and Welty emerged. It was hard to tell his expression from here, but he greeted everyone heartily.
Landry could pick up a few words and phrases, and one of them was Duncan apologizing for “sleeping in.”
“Must be the air,” Cam said.
Hard to decipher these two.
Did Welty tell him about the call? Landry had no idea. The body man’s face was an impassive mask behind the dark glasses. After breakfast, he launched into his duties, directing the florists, the caterers, the sound people—all the while keeping his eye on the Big Dog.
But he also seemed nervous. He dropped a flower arrangement, but fortunately for him, the glass vase bounced on the springy lawn.
Was Duncan waiting for the other shoe to drop?
Landry thought he’d have to push him some more. Push them.
On to plan B.
CHAPTER 35
Landry drove his recently transformed Del Rey Bakery van up to the gates of the estate. An agent standing by the gate holding a clipboard held up his hand: just a moment.
Landry waited.
The agent consulted his list, then motioned to two vans parked in the holding area. “How many cupcakes do they need for this thing?”
“Danny forgot the coffee and doughnuts for the staff.”
“Can’t have that.” The agent motioned him through.
Landry parked and withdrew the pink boxes of doughnuts from the back of the van, placing the cardboard coffee caddy on top. There was another person with a clipboard closer to the staging area—a large swath of mowed grass now holding approximately sixty white folding chairs and tables.
He ran the gauntlet—one more agent outside and another inside the kitchen. The third agent said, “You just come in through the gate?”
He nodded. “More doughnuts and there’s fresh coffee, too.”
The agent sniffed appreciatively. “Any extras?”
“We’ll see, sir. Let me get them to the kitchen and see what the boss says.”
“Our little secret, okay?”
Landry obligingly opened the box. “You bet.”
The agent took a jelly doughnut and Landry proceeded on. He had to hold the top box—the caddy containing the coffee—with his chin. The pink boxes rested on the tightly folded suit jacket. Wrapped inside the suit-jacket folds was a manila folder, identical to the one he’d left for Duncan Welty the day before.
Nobody questioned him. In fact, nobody even noticed him as he strode purposely across the lawn in the cook whites. Underneath the smock, he wore a white dress shirt and suit trousers. A dark conservative tie was stuffed into the pocket. People only looked at his upper body—the boxes of doughnuts—not at his shoes. His shoes were black lace-ups of good quality. They wouldn’t be unusual even for a bakery employee—this was a special occasion.
Landry made his way into the kitchen and nodded to the caterer, who was busy and shorthanded. “More coffee and doughnuts for the staff,” he told her. The woman glanced at him from the large pot of soup she was stirring and said, “Put them on the counter.”
He did so, dropping his hands to his sides, the suit still crumpled up in one hand, hidden slightly behind his hip. “May I use the bathroom?”
She didn’t even look at him, just motioned with her chin. “That way.”
He went down a short hallway to the bathroom, removed the baker’s apron, and donned the neatly pressed suit jacket and clipped on the federal ID badge he’d printed up. Add shades, the conservative tie, and an earpiece that led to nowhere—and he was a Fed.
He followed the hallway down to another door to the outside, and worked his way back around to the front, where he spent his time standing around and looking alert. At one point he fell into step with Cam Mills and his people crossing the lawn toward the bunting-draped dais, where Cam checked the height of the microphone and couldn’t resist his own sound check: “Testing, testing . . . As future nominee of our party . . .” He grinned boyishly at the smattering of applause, and strode off the stage. He joined a knot of people standing nearby. Landry stood at the edge, paying no attention to Cam but looking outward as a good agent would, scanning the grounds for threats and assessing the area. Cam told a humorous story about his time in Iraq—not the story Landry would have liked to have heard—and everyone laughed. It had been Landry’s observation that powerful men were the soul of wit—even when they weren’t.
The time wasn’t quite right. He wanted to catch Cam walking.
And sure enough, soon Cam was walking, headed toward the koi pond, everyone else falling in line. Landry had joined a group strolling toward him from another direction. Cam was talking and Landry came close by and held out the envelope. “This just came for you, sir.”
Cam glanced at it, midconversation, still on the move. “Thanks,” he said, and went back to talking. Landry worked his way around the growing knots of people, back to the bathroom, and presto change-o! He was in cook whites again. He walked out to the van and drove out with a nod to the guard.
Landry followed the road over a couple of hills and, sure that no one could see him, dropped a lit match into some brush. He then changed the signs on the van back to Bell Telephone, drove to the telephone pole three-quarters of a mile away from Graybill’s house, and climbed up.
He watched the gathering crowd through the scope of his sniper rifle, Betsy. More and more cars were directed into a cleared area to the right of the small show ring, and people began flooding the grounds as time drew closer for the fund-raising event to begin.
Landry kept his eye on the ball, but even so, he almost missed it. He caught Cam in his sights, walking briskly back to the house, the manila envelope clutched in his hand. He clearly had something on his mind, and it wasn’t good. He disappeared inside.
Landry’s burner phone chirped.
Landry checked his watch. This would be a three-minute conversation and no longer.
“Who are you?” Cam demanded. “Is this some kind of shakedown? Because if it is—”
“Don’t waste my time,” Landry said. “I need to make you aware that your target is on to you. You’re going to act, I suggest you do it quickly.”
“What? What is this?”
Landry smiled. It was the same response Cam’s body man Duncan Welty had used.
He could see Cam—who had stiffened ramrod straight. He’d pushed his sunglasses up on his head, the phone jammed hard to his ear. “Who is this?” he demanded, with all the high expectations of an answer that a pampered and handled candidate could muster.
Landry could see the tension in every line of the man’s body. The way he held the phone in a death grip. The almost skeletal rictus of his face.
Duncan—the body man—frozen beside him. Listening but not listening. Close, but trying to appear unaware.
“I’m an acquaintance of yours, and normally I wouldn’t take up your time at an important event like this. But here’s the deal. The safety of my family is threatened by the guy standing at your right elbow.”
Cam stiffened, and looked over at Duncan.
“Whoever he’s working with knows I’m watching him.”
“What?” Cam lowered his voice. “What is this?”
“What this is: I don’t appreciate someone attempting to kill me or my family. Look to your direct right.”
Cam stared at Duncan. His lips moving.
“If I can see you, I can hurt you. Your body man can’t help you. If you are not involved in this, I won’t hold you responsible, but if you ignore what I’m
telling you, you will deal with me. I guarantee you won’t like the way it turns out.”
Can stared at Duncan. Duncan looked like he’d wet his pants.
Landry smelled smoke, and glanced in the direction of the brushfire, which was already licking the top of the hill. “Raise your hand if you understand me. If you don’t address this problem, then I will.”
“Look, I wouldn’t—”
“Fix the problem. If you tell anyone, if you involve the Secret Service, there will be no second warning.”
He disconnected. Down below, Landry could see people shading their eyes and looking in the direction of the fire. One of them pointing. People gathering, putting phones to their ears.
Landry drew the champagne glass on the table at Cam’s elbow into Betsy’s crosshairs. Took his time, allowed for the breeze, which was not enough to discourage him from the shot.
He squeezed the trigger.
The champagne glass shattered where it stood. Cam stepped back, his face white with shock. No one else had reacted—they hadn’t seen the glass break. He covered his eyes and scanned the horizon, then looked at the broken shards of glass in horror.
Landry said, “It’s that easy.”
He had no doubt that this time, Cam got the message.
CHAPTER 36
At breakfast the next morning, Landry paged through the LA Times. He was most interested in two headlines. The larger headline was slightly hysterical in nature: “Senator Unhurt in Assassination Attempt.”
The article recounted Cam Mills’s close brush with death, and the brushfire that burned twenty acres. Fortunately, the wind direction kept it from destroying any homes or other structures, and it was put out quickly.
The other headline was much smaller. It concerned the suspicious death of a man in an alley in a run-down part of San Diego. He had been burned beyond recognition and it would be a while before he was identified—if ever.
Two days later Cam Mills gave a speech in LA. Landry was in the audience. Afterward, he was able to get down to the underground garage and watch him leave.
Duncan Welty was not with him.
Landry kept tabs on Mills. It didn’t take him long to figure out that Duncan Welty was gone.
Perhaps permanently.
CHAPTER 37
Special Agent Andrew Keller used his own time when he surveilled Cindi Landry’s townhome. He was sure Cyril Landry was alive, but so far he’d seen no sign of him. Granted, he had very little time to keep up the surveillance, since it was off the books. But he was sure that at some point Cyril Landry would contact his wife.
For a day or two Landry’s photo was everywhere in the media—TV, Internet, newspaper. No one had come forward. Maybe there were people who knew him and were afraid of him. Or he had been like the virtual tree falling in the forest—nobody seemed to know who the mystery man was.
He’d interviewed the wife and daughter, and they had seemed mystified. They had presented a consolidated front. Neither had seen or heard from him, and were as shocked as he was that Cindi’s husband and Kristal’s father was still alive.
Landry had trained them well.
So he decided on surveillance. It could be true that they did not “give a rat’s ass” about him, as Cindi indelicately put it, or it could be that they were hiding him. So he made it a practice to watch the house as often as he could, especially at night.
Just an average townhome, no different from any other on the street, the car all locked up in the garage at night. Cindi would drive home from work and her daughter would drive in at different times in her little yellow car.
Sometimes he’d see the boyfriend. Cindi’s boyfriend, Todd Barclay, who seemed solid enough. Or, more likely, stolid enough. No excitement there. After being married to a Navy SEAL and black-ops specialist, it must have been soothing to be with a comptroller.
It was late afternoon and Cindi had just driven home. She parked out front. He’d already seen her daughter come home. The garage door had rolled up and she’d driven her little yellow car inside and closed the garage door behind her, entering the house that way. But her mother parked outside.
It was Friday, the beginning of the weekend. Agent Keller had seen this pattern before—last week, in fact. He’d followed them a ways last time, but had been called back in to work on another matter.
The thing was, they had overnight bags last weekend.
He waited on the short rise overlooking their subdivision—thank heaven for the fact that this area was mostly hills. He glassed the place, waiting to see if they would go somewhere this weekend as well. He thought the chances were pretty good, since Cindi had left her Hyundai Tucson out front.
Sure enough, they emerged from the house, loaded down with grocery bags and a suitcase for Kristal and a duffle for Mama.
This time he was ready to follow them.
He’d planted a tracking device inside the wheel well of the Hyundai.
All he had to do was track the signal.
On television, Cameron Mills appeared distraught. A body found in San Diego had been identified as an employee of his named Duncan Welty.
A reporter caught him in a sound bite—one that Landry had no doubt he’d rehearsed. Duncan had been his right-hand man, and he had been surprised and devastated to learn that he had been involved with drugs. “Prescription drugs are such a problem,” Cam said. “And it’s one of many issues I want to deal with. This is just untenable. Duncan leaves behind a wife and a beautiful daughter . . .”
He choked up, couldn’t continue.
Landry turned the TV off. Sitting, once again, on a bed that was too short for him in another hotel room.
He didn’t know if Cameron had put the hit on him. It could have been all Duncan Welty. But Mills had made the problem go away. It was a message to Landry, either way. Cam Mills was saying there would be no further attempts on Landry’s life. Not now, not ever.
But Landry decided he would keep in touch with Cam.
Just to keep him on the straight and narrow.
By disposing of Duncan, Cam was saying, “We understand each other.”
Landry hoped Cam was telling the truth. He probably was. Landry was too much trouble. He was now way too dangerous to mess with.
Could have been Duncan guarding his main man, or it could have been Cam running the show.
Either way, Landry thought it was over—
—but he wouldn’t let his guard down.
Special Agent Andrew Keller had found a good place to watch the comings and goings at Todd Barclay’s cabin. He was higher up, on a hill across from the cabin, and he had time—it was the weekend.
It seemed like the worst of long shots, but he was pretty sure that at some point Landry would visit his wife and daughter. Landry didn’t strike him as the kind of man who would give up on his family. It might not pan out, but if it did . . .
He was next in line for special agent in charge.
And he had a unique relationship with Landry. He had talked to him for a long period of time on the phone.
Too bad that Landry had only given him bullshit. The brother with the lodge in Montana. The school shooting that never was. The escapee—
Lies, all of it.
He’d been played for a fool.
Nobody does that to me.
So he would watch and wait. He couldn’t be here all the time, but he figured it was worth doing—if he hit with Landry, he’d hit big.
Darkness was closing in. As far as he could tell, everyone was home.
It was quiet at dusk. The lights came on in the cabin, warm and inviting. Gingham curtains. Keller had always been the cabin-in-the-woods kind of guy, and this reminded him of how he’d bought Landry’s story—hook, line, and sinker (pun not intended). All the man had to do was Google him and play to his bliss.
Maybe Lan
dry didn’t care about his wife and daughter anymore. But it was a lead worth following. There wasn’t any other way to hunt down Landry that he could see. And the upside would be incredible.
The night sounds started up. Rustling animals, insects buzzing and crickets chirping. He looked out at the dark lake through the trunks of the trees, lights from several homes glowing on the water. Settled in. But he was ready to go.
Time passed and nothing happened. Which was typical of surveillance. Around ten p.m. the side door opened and Todd Barclay came out. He walked around to the back of the house, where his boat was kept under a blue cover. He was carrying a trouble light, plugged it in, and worked on his boat.
More time went by. Keller couldn’t see Barclay, but he could hear him using a drill.
The area was quiet. Occasionally a car drove by, but none turned into the short lane that ran uphill to the cabin. While the road wasn’t far from Big Bear Lake, this was an isolated patch of woods, thanks to the configuration of the mountain.
Inside, through the sheerness of the gingham curtains (he thought them precious, and wondered if that was Cindi Landry’s taste), he could see the blue flicker of the television.
The drilling stopped, then started up again.
Added to that was the sound of a generator, a loud fuzzy hum.
Another car drove by, headlights casting beams on the small curve where it bottomed out. It continued on. He heard the engine cut, and a door open and close, farther up the road. Had to be another cabin in that direction, although he couldn’t see any lights.
He glanced at his watch: ten thirty p.m. It would be a long, boring night. Another car drove by. He watched the taillights disappear around the bend, and reappear farther along the mountain—not many cabins in this area, and fewer out that way.
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