Shadow Man

by James D. Doss

  Barely able to bear the suspense, the bright-eyed little schoolteacher put her teacup on the tray, leaned forward. She asked what, exactly, it was that he wanted to know.

  Moon told her. Exactly.

  The schoolmarm shook her head in a manner that suggested a mild disappointment in this former pupil. “Charles, I am surprised that you should have the least doubt on such an elementary issue. Such an outcome as you report is, well…so unlikely as to be immediately dismissed.”

  “But not impossible?”

  “There are rare exceptions.” She blinked at him. “But we’re talking very long odds.”

  “A lot depends on this.” The tribal investigator stared at the cookie. “I need to be dead sure.” Her scholarly assurance had given him some hope, but he was only halfway there. He needed technical assistance from someone who could be trusted to keep her mouth shut. “Miss Atherton, do you have a computer?”

  “Well of course I do.” Pride of ownership sparkled in her eyes. “A 3.6-gigahertz laptop with over 200 megabytes of RAM and a 600-gigabyte hard drive.”

  “And I bet you know how to find things on the Internet.”

  “In my sleep. What shall I Google for you?”

  “Google?”

  “Charles, Charles—you are so behind the times.” Miss Atherton sighed. “What sort of information do you require?”

  He told her.

  “If it’s there, I’ll find it.” She brought the laptop to the parlor, got right to work.

  Thirty minutes later, Charlie Moon was feeling good. No, three notches better than good. Blissful, even. Happy enough to drink a half-pint of hot, greenish water and enjoy every drop. He lifted the cup to salute the elderly scholar. “Miss Atherton, if you’ve got any left in the pot, can I have another dose of this fine beverage?”

  “May I,” she shot back.

  “What?”

  “May I have another cup of green tea.”

  “Sure,” he said. “While you’re pouring some for me, help yourself to a shot.”

  38

  At Big Tony’s

  Giving lie to the vile rumor that he operated on “Indian time,” the tribal investigator arrived at the restaurant four minutes early. McTeague’s government-issue Ford sedan was not yet in the parking lot, the lunch crowd was long gone, the proprietor was behind the counter, munching on a king-size carrot.

  Big Tony saw the customer, waved the vegetable like a flag. “How ya doin’, Chollie?”

  “Fine, Tony. How’re you?”

  “I’m on a horrible diet and I don’t want to talk about it.” The chef scowled at his customer, snapped off another bite of the orange root. “What’s that paper bag—you bring your own lunch?”

  “Just a precaution—I’m sure there’s something on the menu that’ll strike my fancy.” Moon homed in on his favorite spot by the window, jerked out a chair.

  Tony brought a menu and a mug of coffee, gave the table a hearty swipe. “You eatin’ alone today?”

  “Sure hope not.” Moon spooned six helpings of sugar into the beverage. “I’m expecting an exceptional lady.”

  “Whatta you mean by ’ceptional?”

  “I mean she’s a knockout on wheels and brainy to boot. And not only that, she is gainfully employed and well-heeled. Did I mention that she will be paying the bill?”

  This produced a derisive snort. “That’ll be the day—when some good-looking doll with the do-re-mi buys you lunch.”

  “Would you care to place a modest wager on that?” Moon laid a twenty-dollar bill on the table. “Mr. Jackson says she picks up the check.”

  For Tony, a bet involving hard cash in plain sight was harder to resist than a jelly doughnut soaked in honey. “Even Steven?”

  “Unless you want to give me ten-to-one.”

  “Hah! That’ll be the day.” The proprietor removed a crisp pair of tens from his wallet, covered the twenty. “You want I should put this dough in the usual spot?”

  “Certainly.” Moon consulted the menu. “How’s the lasagna?”

  Tony removed a cranberry-glass bud vase from a tiny bric-a-brac shelf, stuffed the rolled-up bills into it. “Please, don’t talk to me about that.” He gazed wistfully at the menu, imagined a big slab of that, licked his lips. “In fact, don’t even say the name of it out loud.”

  “L-word makes your mouth water, huh?”

  The famished fellow nodded. “Like Niagara Falls after a forty days and forty nights of rain upstream.”

  Moon made a face. “Try to go a little lighter on the vivid descriptions of your drooling, Tony. You’re not exactly helping my appetite.”

  “Listen to me, Chollie—you skinny guys don’t have no idea what a serious appetite is. If I should fall offa this diet, I’ll start off with a whole tray of baked…of baked you know what. And that’d be just for starters.” He turned his broad backside toward the customer. “If this knockout-on-wheels lady happens to show up, and you two get around to deciding what you want to eat, don’t tell me nothing out loud—just put a finger on the menu.”

  39

  A Gift for the Lady

  At three minutes and fourteen seconds past the hour, FBI special agent Lila Mae McTeague burst through the door.

  Moon got up to pull a chair out for the lady. He also scowled at his watch. “Among us Native Americans, promptness is considered a cardinal virtue.”

  “Can it,” she said, and seated herself. “I’ve had a hectic day.”

  Big Tony plopped a glass of water in front of the new arrival. He smiled down at the elegant woman. Chollie wasn’t kidding. She’s right up there with Audrey Hepburn. In fact, she’s a good head taller than Audrey was.

  Moon explained the rule that was in effect during Big Tony’s current diet.

  McTeague dutifully tapped the menu at her entrée selection, verbally requested iced tea. After Moon had put his finger on the lasagna and the restaurateur had departed, she gave her date the eye. “Well?”

  He gave it right back to her. “Well what?”

  “Well what’s on your mind?”

  Moon reached across the table, took her hand in his. “I’ll tell you what’s on my mind. You and me. Cozy little cabin on a lake.” He gazed at the ceiling. “Big sky full of twinkling stars and—”

  “None of your blarney.” The pretty woman blushed, pulled her hand away. “I’m on duty.”

  “Hmm,” he said.

  She straightened the collar of her blouse. “What does that mean?”

  “It means that I’m cogitating. And what I come up with is this—if you are on duty, then maybe I shouldn’t give you the present I brought.”

  She flashed him a little-girl smile. “What did you bring me?”

  “Guess.”

  “Apricot bonbons?”

  He shook his head. “I wouldn’t want to add an ounce to your trim figure.”

  Another blush. “Flowers, then.”

  “Nope. I had some yellow roses this morning, but I gave ’em to another lady friend.”

  She lost the smile, arched a perfect brow. “What, then?”

  He reached under the table, placed his offering between the candle holders. “This.”

  McTeague made a face. “You brought me a present in a brown paper bag?”

  “I was in a hurry.”

  She looked inside. “Charlie—it’s nothing but a filthy old tin can.”

  “They hardly ever make ’em out of tin anymore, McTeague. That is genuine American steel.”

  The FBI agent sniffed. “And it stinks!”

  “Now don’t go out of your way to hurt my feelings—I’m not made of stone.”

  She sniffed again. “But it does stink.”

  “It does not stink,” he said. “It has a particular kind of pungent scent.”

  “Like what?”

  “You’re one of Uncle Sam’s finest. You tell me.”

  A third sniff. This one more technical. “Kerosene?”

  “That’s what my aunt Daisy’s
nose thought.” Only she thought she was smelling her cup of coffee.

  She gave the can a long, hard look. “Is this some sort of evidence from your aunt’s trailer fire?”

  “There is no fooling Special Agent McTeague.” He took a deep breath. “I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again. There is no fooling Special Agent McTeague.”

  “Okay, okay. I’ll send it off to Forensics in D.C.” A thoughtful pause. “What should our white-smocked beaker geeks expect to find?”

  “If we was lucky enough to win the lottery, there’d be some prints on the can that wasn’t mine.”

  “And discounting such an unlikely piece of good fortune?”

  He shrugged. “It’s a shot in the dark.”

  McTeague studied the Ute’s face. “Thank you for the stinky can.”

  He raised his coffee mug. “You are entirely welcome.”

  “Now, in exchange for the piece of trash, I’ve got something for you.”

  “Okay.” He grinned. “But don’t go overboard. This is a public place.”

  “Don’t get your hopes up, cowboy.” The FBI agent leaned forward, lowered her voice. “My gift comes in two parts. First, there’s the information, then the advice. Both have something to do with your professional relationship to the late Dr. Manfred Wilhelm Blinkoe.”

  Moon did not look pleased. “This sounds like something that will ruin my lunch.”

  She continued, without a trace of sympathy. “Since his houseboat was destroyed, we’ve been collecting fragments that wash up here and there. Divers have recovered some of the heavier remnants. Forensics have detected traces of high explosives on a portion of the engine’s output manifold. We’re talking TNT—a type that is commonly used in mining and road construction. Your client was obviously murdered.”

  The lawman toyed with his coffee mug. “I appreciate the information. I bet I can guess the advice.”

  “I’m sure you can.” She reached across the table to touch his hand. “I know it’s tough to lose a client. You’ll want to find out what happened to Dr. Blinkoe. But leave it alone. This particular homicide is Bureau business. I have permission to keep you informed about our progress, but the bottom line is this: You stay clear of the case.”

  “Okay.”

  She shot him a suspicious look. “I warn you to keep clear of the Blinkoe homicide, and that’s all you’ve got to say—‘okay’?”

  He seemed to be thinking hard. “Okay, ma’am?”

  She was about to reply when the waiter arrived with her iced tea.

  The angry man in the pickup watched Big Tony’s Restaurant from across the street. He took a sip of whiskey from a pewter flask; his hungry stomach rumbled. So what’re the skinny Indian and the FBI gal gabbing about? The silenced rifle was behind the seat. I could shoot ’em both from right here. He grinned. Sure, knock ’em off in broad daylight, then just drive away. Boy, howdy—wouldn’t that be something to write home about? If I had a real home…The grin gradually slipped away. I’ve got to be patient. Wait till I can get the job done right.

  40

  The Luna County Incident Revisited

  Having finished a meal that had been dominated by the woman’s wary stare, Moon wiped his mouth with a linen napkin, leaned back in his chair. “How did you like your grub?”

  A little shrug. “It was okay.”

  He grinned. “That’s all you can say—just ‘okay’?”

  “You are beginning to annoy me.” Special Agent McTeague tossed an olive at him.

  Moon executed a deft one-hand catch. “Well, that’s a beginning.”

  “Let me be more succinct.” Her tone was acidic. “You are giving me heartburn.”

  “I never wanted to do that—what can I do to make up for it?”

  “Behave like every other local cop who believes he’s been stepped on by the Bureau. Put up a big fuss, bang your fist on the table, yell about how the FBI has no right to order you off the Blinkoe homicide case.”

  “I would if I could—but my heart wouldn’t be in it.”

  “Even so. Humor me.”

  “Okay, I’ll try to give you some trouble.” He helped himself to an after-dinner mint. “I suppose I could ask you why the FBI has latched on to this particular killing. But that’s no good. You wouldn’t tell me.”

  “Perhaps.” She flashed the sunshine smile. “But you won’t know unless you ask straight-out.”

  “I’m way too shy for the direct approach. Would you mind if I worked my way up to a guess?”

  “I could say yes.” She avoided his level gaze. “But that wouldn’t stop you.”

  “Thank you for the encouragement. Here goes: First time I met Dr. Blinkoe was when he came to my aunt Daisy’s place with his lawyer. While my relative entertained Mr. Trotter, me and this potential client had a private talk. Blinkoe claimed he was sure someone had already tried to shoot him that night on the restaurant patio. He wanted me to help him stay alive. When I asked why he didn’t go to the cops on the public payroll, he told me he’d already talked to our local chief of police, who didn’t believe the shooter had intended to put a hole through him. And as far as the feds were concerned, they weren’t. Concerned, I mean. Blinkoe claimed the FBI didn’t care a nickel’s worth whether he got shot or not.” The gambler was holding sorry cards. He hoped McTeague would show her hand.

  “Did Dr. Blinkoe tell you why he was not the Bureau’s favorite orthodontist?”

  Moon played the bluff. “Every cop shop in a dozen states has heard one version or another of the story. But the fact is, when some cold-blooded killer was stalking Blinkoe, he knew the FBI wouldn’t turn a finger to help him. The way he saw it, the feds wanted him behind bars for the rest of his natural life.” He paused. “But seeing as how the U.S. government hadn’t managed to get that done…maybe the Bureau would be satisfied just to see him dead. That way, they could close the case—without making the least effort to find out what’d really happened.”

  She clenched her hands into fists. “So that’s what he told you. And you believed him?”

  Moon shrugged. “I don’t necessarily believe everything a client tells me.” He put on a sad expression. “Even when it looks like he was an innocent victim of circumstantial evidence.”

  “Him—innocent?” Agent McTeague rolled her pretty eyes. “That’s a laugh.”

  “Sounds like you’ve read his file.”

  “Cover to cover.” She tapped a finger on the table. “And we’re talking upwards of two hundred pages.”

  “I don’t doubt he’s misbehaved from time to time—most of us have something to be ashamed of.” Moon looked ashamed of some unconfessed sin. “But there’s no hard proof he was mixed up in that particular business. From time to time, even the FBI makes mistakes.”

  “There was no mistake,” she snapped. “Blinkoe was there, manning the machine gun, when the cartel soldiers were killed in the shootout. The wounded pilot and his partners—by which I mean Blinkoe and the Colombian national—got away in the Humvee and the laundry truck with at least twenty bags of cash.”

  Machine gun. Cartel. Pilot. Humvee. Laundry truck. Bags of cash. This was a fit for only one of the felonies he’d heard of during the past decade. Now Charlie Moon knew what Blinkoe had been suspected of—and in all likelihood was guilty of. Suppressing the satisfied expression required all of his willpower. “Well, whoever the pilot’s partners were, that was quite some operation. The DC-3 they swiped from the aircraft museum near Santa Fe was supposed to land just south of the border in old Mexico. But the pilot puts the crate down a few miles north of the border, in New Mexico, where some of his buddies are waiting.”

  “You are rather well informed.” She arched an eyebrow at the tribal investigator. “Did Manfred Blinkoe tell you about this?”

  “Nope.” You did. “It was a pretty big deal at the time. There were stories in the newspapers, and on the TV. And from what I recall, the DC-3 jockey and his buddies were never found.”

  “Your inf
ormation from the popular media is incomplete.”

  He grinned. “Then fill me in.”

  She hesitated, then: “The pilot—a Mr. Hitchcock—was mortally wounded in the firefight. Manfred Blinkoe and his Colombian pal—a Mr. Pablo Feliciano—loaded the pilot into the laundry truck with the stolen money, but he died before they arrived at their destination. They disposed of the corpse in an arroyo somewhere in the Gila Wilderness. Hours later, they concealed their ill-gotten gains at a prearranged location.”

  Moon performed a rapid calculation: Three minus one minus one more equals one. “Of the three fellas who allegedly set up the hijacking, the pilot died that same night. On the reasonable assumption that Dr. Blinkoe did not inform on himself, Señor Feliciano must have been the guy who talked.”

  She smiled at this faultless piece of deduction. “Only a few weeks after the incident, Pablo Feliciano was arrested in Sonora on a murder charge. He made a deal with the federales. In hopes of having the charges reduced to manslaughter, he agreed to rat out his U.S. partners in the hijacking. A team of DEA and FBI agents interviewed him in the Hermosillo calabozo.”

  “And he implicated Dr. Blinkoe?”

  “Of course.” She gave him an expectant look. “This is where you ask me why Manfred Blinkoe was never formally charged by the Department of Justice.”

  “Okay. Why was Dr. Blinkoe never formally charged by the Department of Justice?”

  “Before the DEA could obtain a legally deposed statement, someone detonated a charge of high explosive against the cell-block wall. Three prisoners died as a result, but about two dozen others escaped during the confusion—including Mr. Feliciano. There were several rumors floating around about who had set up the jailbreak. Would you like to hear the one I like best?”

  Eager to please the lady, Moon nodded.

  “Okay, here’s my favorite: According to this theory, the Colombian drug cartel was behind it—they blew up half the jail just to get access to Feliciano. This score-settling scenario is supported by reports of his subsequent death, but his body hasn’t turned up.”