Shadow Man

by James D. Doss

  “So Hitchcock is dead, Feliciano is either dead or in hiding, and all you’ve got on Dr. Blinkoe is hearsay evidence from a known felon.”

  “Sadly, that is about the size of it. It would have helped to have Feliciano’s sworn testimony in a court of law that Manfred Blinkoe participated in the theft of the cartel’s money-filled laundry bags.”

  He thought it would be fun to twist this she-cat’s tail a couple of more turns. And just maybe, crank out some additional information. “That’s not the way I heard it,” Moon said. “The word going around was that Dr. Blinkoe was clean as a brand-new butterfly wing. In fact, he was in North Carolina at the time, attending a medical conference. The shootout was actually between two gangs of Colombian drug dealers who—”

  “What you heard from your doughnut-munching police-station buddies were baseless rumors. According to Mr. Feliciano’s informal testimony, Blinkoe and Hitchcock were his partners in the hijacking. On top of that, Blinkoe was the machine gunner. Without provocation, he shot down several Colombian citizens. The fact that they were drug runners is quite beside the point—Blinkoe was a cold-blooded murderer.”

  The Ute looked troubled. “It is bad form to speak ill of the lately deceased.”

  “Spare me the pithy proverbs. Alive, Blinkoe was a rotten apple. Now he is a dead rotten apple.” If he’s actually dead…

  “You are a tough lady, McTeague.”

  “That may be. Do you want to hear—as the famous news broadcaster Mr. Paul Harvey might say—the ‘rest of the story’?”

  “You bet. I have my ear to the radio.”

  “The Colombian who ratted out Blinkoe also told us where the bags of cash were cached.”

  “You have a way with words, Agent McTeague. But from the sad look on your pan, I’m gonna guess that when the feds got to the spot, those bags of greenbacks were gone.”

  “Of course they were gone. Manfred Blinkoe had undoubtedly heard through the grapevine about the leak south of the border. But this wasn’t some story Feliciano made up—forensics evidence of the presence of the loot was found.”

  “Forensics evidence—what are we taking about?”

  “A single twenty-dollar bill. Beside President Jackson, it featured a dime-sized smirking smiley face, sketched in red ink.” The FBI agent looked as if she would like to bite a railroad spike. “It is obvious that Dr. Blinkoe left this item behind to taunt the federal authorities.”

  “Not a smart thing to do.”

  “I hope you will remember that. But the main point is that your recently deceased client had removed the laundry bags filled with twenty-dollar bills. Dr. Blinkoe probably deposited this very considerable fortune in several foreign bank accounts.”

  “Well, that’s an interesting story. If those bags of money aren’t fiction, somebody must’ve made off with ’em. But except for some tale told by a felon locked up in a Mexican jail, there’s no proof my client had anything to do with—”

  “Your former client, Charlie. And I’m not interested in hearing an account of his protestations about being an innocent bystander or whatever.” She had twisted her linen napkin into a knot. “I hate it when bad guys get away.”

  “I hate to mention money. But what was the take?”

  “An estimated eighty million dollars.”

  Moon made a low whistle. “That much?”

  She nodded. “I am authorized to tell you that the Department of the Treasury is offering a substantial reward for information leading to the recovery of the cash.”

  “How substantial?”

  “Ten percent of the amount recovered. So if you should happen to come across any information that might assist the government—such as numbers to foreign bank accounts—it would be well worth your while to pass such information on.”

  “Seems unlikely to come up, but for the sake of discussion, let’s say it did. I’d have to think about what I should do.” He leaned back in his chair. Thought about it. “I don’t know, somehow it just wouldn’t seem right to turn that drug money over to the Treasury.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Well, that cash came from private U.S. citizens who were buying crack and heroin and Mary Jane and the like. Seems to me like the money ought to be returned to those poor, addicted souls.”

  She stared. “Tell me you are kidding.”

  “Okay, I’m kidding.” He grinned at her big eyes. “But there is another problem.”

  “I don’t want to hear about it.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  “Oh, go ahead. Tell me before you burst.”

  “We rural westerners don’t burst. We bust.”

  “Okay, cowboy. Tell me before you bust.”

  “If I knew where eighty million in unmarked cash was stashed, why should I settle for a measly ten percent?” He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Why not take it all?”

  She flashed a charming smile. “Because I would have a low opinion of a man who did such a thing?”

  “But how would you know?”

  “If you should buy up eighty million dollars in prime ranch land and purebred cattle and shiny red pickup trucks, I would become mildly suspicious.”

  “Yeah.” He sighed. “There is that.”

  She suddenly looked very tired. “I will not rest until this mess is sorted out.”

  “Look, McTeague—don’t take your work so personal, or it’ll get you down. That drug-money heist happened quite a while back. Whoever was responsible, odds are ninety-nine to one against the stash ever turning up—or anybody going to jail.” He took a sip of tepid coffee. “But let’s get back to more recent times, and the issue of who took a shot at Dr. Blinkoe—and when that didn’t take him out, blew Blinkoe’s houseboat sky-high with a charge of dynamite. Does the Bureau figure it had something to do with that DC-3 hijacking?”

  Her lips went thin. “That possibility has occurred to us. It is possible that the drug cartel has decided to get even with the only survivor of the team that hijacked their stolen aircraft, mowed down their soldiers like grass, and hauled away several bags of their ill-gotten gains.”

  “Well, I’m more than happy to let the FBI and DEA deal with the drug cartel.”

  She pitched him a hardball. “So who is your lady friend?”

  Moon caught it, felt the sting. “Which lady friend?”

  “The one you gave my roses to.”

  “Oh. That was Miss Atherton.”

  “Is she good-looking?”

  Moon thought about it. “She’s what I’d call cute.”

  The FBI agent closed her eyes, frowned, scanned the pages. “Are we talking about Phyllis Atherton? Your eighty-year-old schoolteacher?”

  He stared. “How did you know about her?”

  “I have what is commonly known as a photographic memory.” She laughed at him. “You have a pretty thick file too.”

  This is an amazing woman. “And you’ve read it all?”

  “Every page, including footnotes.” She winked at her date. “I know every bad thing you’ve ever done. All of your former girlfriends’ names.”

  Charlie Moon was trying to think of a suitable response when the waiter arrived with the check, smiled benignly at the diners, departed like a wisp of fluff in a summer breeze. Moon noticed Big Tony heading into the kitchen, probably to nag the hired help. He produced his wallet, cracked the pocket where he kept his greenbacks. “Dang!”

  Lila Mae McTeague looked up. “What?”

  “I know I had a brand-new twenty-dollar bill. Now all I see is a scruffy five and a couple of beat-up ones.” He pocketed the billfold. “Well, it’s not an earthshaking problem. After yelling and cussing some, the Big T always takes my IOUs.”

  “You don’t have a credit card?”

  He tried to look embarrassed. “I’d rather not talk about that.”

  She reached for her purse. “Never mind. I’ll take care of the bill.”

  He shook his head. “No. I’d never stick a lady with the check. I�
��ll have a man-to-man talk with Tony and—”

  “No,” she said firmly. “I said I’d take care of it and I will. So let’s not have another word about it.”

  With a doubtful look, he shrugged.

  McTeague shifted gears. “Charlie—there’s something I should tell you about. But you must treat it as strictly confidential.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “It’s about that body part that turned up in Moccasin Lake.”

  The tribal investigator nodded. “The infamous dismembered arm.”

  “Right. Which Mrs. Blinkoe identified as having once been a functional portion of her husband’s body.”

  “So what about it, McTeague?”

  “Bureau Forensics has completed a series of tests on the specimen—including a detailed DNA analysis.” She watched his face very closely. “A comparison was made to tissues obtained from a prostate biopsy Dr. Blinkoe underwent eighteen months ago. Bottom line is this: That particular arm was never attached to Manfred Blinkoe’s body.”

  Moon returned a blank stare.

  “Excuse me, Charlie—but you don’t seem particularly surprised.”

  “It’s probably because in my duties as a law-enforcement professional, I’ve seen and heard just about everything. I am a hard man to surprise.”

  “I don’t buy that.”

  “Then put it down to my legendary gambling skills.”

  “Your what?”

  “I was referring to my exceptional poker face.”

  “Then you are surprised?”

  He picked up a highly polished silver cream dispenser, carefully examined the reflection of his exceptional poker face. “I don’t know, Lila Mae—I’m so good at this, it’s really hard to tell.”

  “Charlie, don’t fool around—this is serious. Some John Doe’s arm has been found with Dr. Blinkoe’s watch and ring on it. Which forces one to consider some rather disturbing possibilities.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well, it’s rather obvious—Blinkoe could still be alive. He might have staged the boat explosion to fake his disappearance. And to make it look convincing, he might have left a corpse behind—or at least a portion of a corpse—with his ring and watch attached to it.”

  “Yeah. I guess it could’ve happened like that.” Moon turned the creamer in his hands. “But Dr. Blinkoe would be bound to know that a DNA test would ruin his evidence—even suggest he was still among the living. Seems a lot more likely some bad guy took Dr. Blinkoe’s watch and ring by force.”

  “Oh, sure.” She flung her hands in the air. “And then blew himself up in the houseboat!”

  “That sounds just a tad unlikely, McTeague.” He set the silver creamer aside. “But I won’t say you couldn’t be right. After all the strange things I’ve seen in this world, nothing amazes me.”

  “Listen, Charlie—if you know something you aren’t telling me—”

  The waiter appeared. “Was everything quite satisfactory?” Assured by both diners that it was, he continued. “I am directed to tell you that if you should wish to order dessert, it will be on the house.”

  Big Tony was wedged behind the counter, beaming at Moon and the good-looking tootsie. There ain’t no way that long-legged cutie pie is goin’ to pay for Chollie’s lunch.

  “Thank you,” McTeague said, “but I will not want any dessert.”

  This has to look good. Moon sighed, as if he had lost his appetite for sweet things. “Me neither.” He gave the waiter a sad look. Sad enough to make an IRS auditor weep. Then he added a dash of humiliation. “Uh—tell Tony I need to have a word with him. In private.”

  “No!” McTeague snatched the check. “Lunch is on me.”

  Big Tony’s double chin fell twenty dollars’ worth.

  41

  Family Business

  At shortly after ten that night, special agent McTeague’s telephone rang. She smiled at the readout on the caller ID screen. “Hello, Charlie.”

  “Hello yourself, McTeague.”

  She put her book aside, leaned back on a flowered sofa. “It’s only been a few hours since we had lunch. You missing me already?”

  “You bet.”

  “How much do you miss me?”

  “Three or four bushels. Matter of fact, aside from an ailing heifer down in the riverside corral, you’re all I can think about.”

  “I come in second to a sick cow. You are very sweet.”

  “Either that, or I suffer from limited mental capacity.”

  “I’ll buy that. What’s up?”

  “At Big Tony’s, while you were ruining my appetite with all that talk about rotten human flesh, there was something I wanted to ask you about—it completely slipped my mind.”

  “Define ‘it.’”

  “Uh—I forget. Just a second. Oh, now I remember. It was about Mrs. Pansy Blinkoe.”

  “Before you ask—no, the Bureau has not located her. And her brother, Clayton Crowe, also continues to elude us.”

  “Then maybe you’ll be interested in what’s on my mind.”

  McTeague closed her eyes. “Don’t tell me—another hunch.”

  “All right, I won’t.”

  “It was merely a figure of speech, cowboy. It’s okay for you to tell me.”

  “I’m glad you explained that.”

  “So what’s on your mind?”

  “I think you oughta check out Mrs. Blinkoe’s family.”

  “That’s routine procedure, Charlie. I already have a preliminary report on my desk from the field office in Nashville. Pansy Crowe grew up in western Tennessee with her parents and her older brother. She was a C student, a cheerleader, had a few minor run-ins with the law. Nothing too serious. Usual teenage stuff.”

  “What about her brother?”

  “Clayton was a better student. He trained as a diesel mechanic.” She curled up on the couch. “You have a particular interest in Pansy’s brother?”

  “I’d like to know what happened to him.”

  “So would I. But I’d much rather know where Pansy is hiding. Perhaps she’s with her brother.”

  “Could be. But I think you should take a close look at her family.”

  “What, exactly, am I looking closely for?”

  “First time I met Mrs. Blinkoe, I was struck by her pretty blue eyes.”

  McTeague smiled. “I’m sure you were.”

  “I think she got ’em from her parents.”

  “From what I’ve been told, that is nature’s usual course.”

  “Well, I’d like to talk to you all night, Lila Mae.”

  “Would you?”

  “But I got me a sick heifer to doctor.”

  “Good-bye, Dr. Moon.”

  “Good night, Special Agent McTeague.”

  42

  Another Man Done Gone

  Phillipe’s Streamside Restaurant was immersed in that hushed transition between lunch and dinner, when tables were being draped with clean linen cloths and decorated with cunningly folded napkins and spotless silver flatware. It was also the time when the heavily tattooed dishwasher stepped outside to smoke a skinny little Jamaican cigar, whilst speculating about the ultimate meaning of Life and the Universe and what the Red Sox might accomplish late in the season.

  With the entire customer parking lot at his disposal, Scott Parris edged his black-and-white into the shade of a perfectly conical blue spruce. He nodded at the meditating dishwasher, entered through the kitchen, exchanged a few words with the pasty-faced pastry chef, passed down a narrow hallway, knocked on a door marked MANAGER.

  Phillipe jerked the door open, looked down the hall. “Did anyone see you come in?”

  Parris responded in a serious tone. “Nope. I slid down the chimney.”

  As he closed the door behind the burly cop, the proprietor showed not the least sign of amusement.

  The Granite Creek chief of police removed his hat, grinned at the nervous fellow. “So what’d you want to see me about?”

  “It’s my
groundskeeper.”

  “Old Willie—the senior citizen who works for table scraps and a bed in the shed?”

  Phillipe chose to ignore this display of impertinence. “Ever since the unfortunate incident—”

  “You refer to the brutal murder of one of your customers?”

  The thin man paled. “If you must be so blunt, yes. Ever since that unfortunate incident, my groundskeeper has been—how shall I say it?” He tried to think of just the right expression.

  Parris waited.

  It finally came to him. “Ill at ease.”

  The town’s top cop leaned forward, his palms making spots on Phillipe’s previously spotless glass-topped desk. “Is he worried we’ll ID him as a witness to the killing?”

  The businessman winced at the word. “I suppose that’s a possibility.”

  “You want me to have a talk with Willie, reassure him the department won’t mention his name to the media—that it?”

  Phillipe’s dark eyes did not blink. “That is not it.”

  Parris’s patience was running close to the empty mark. “Then what do you want me to do?”

  “I don’t know.” Phillipe nibbled at a fingernail. “It’s just that he’s gone.”

  “Gone where?”

  “I haven’t the least idea. My headwaiter informed me this morning that the old man was nowhere to be found. I took the liberty to inspect his lodgings—”

  “You mean the equipment shed.”

  Phillipe glared across his desk at the coarse policeman. “All of his belongings appear to be in his quarters. It’s as if…as if he simply walked away.”

  “This Old Willie—he have a last name?”

  “Everyone has a last name.” The restaurateur shrugged. “But he was not an official employee, so I didn’t keep any records. He merely slept in the—” Phillipe was about to say shed, “in his assigned lodgings. If he volunteered to do some work, that was fine with me. But it was not required.”

  “You didn’t pay him?”

  Another shrug. “Oh, from time to time I gave him a few dollars.” He frowned at a Tiffany lamp. “A man that old, he must have had a pension of some sort—or perhaps he was drawing Social Security.”