Shadow Man

by James D. Doss

  “You are and I am.” The attorney got to his feet. “And you?”

  The newcomer mirrored the professional smile, shook the lawyer’s hand. “Me, I’m new in town.” He glanced at the window. A smoke-gray Mercedes was parked at the curb. “Matter of fact, I just blew in with the wind.”

  “I don’t believe you’ve mentioned your name.”

  The stranger gave the attorney a slow, appraising look. “My friends call me Smitty. I suppose you can too.”

  “Okay, Smitty. Have a seat.” Trottman indicated a comfortable armchair by a potted palm.

  “Thanks, but what I need is some standing-up time.”

  Trottman seated himself behind the desk. He prided himself on being able to size up his man. This one is interested in real-estate investments. “How may I help you?”

  “Now that’s the spirit! I like a man who gets right down to the meat on the bone.” Smitty produced a gray suede pouch from an inside jacket pocket.

  The attorney watched the mysterious stranger remove twelve South African Krugerrands, line them up on his desk. “This should cover a few minutes of your time.”

  Trottman nodded, stared dumbly at the golden disks, nodded.

  The visitor produced a gray cell phone that matched his suit and hat and boots and Mercedes. “’Scuse me for a sec. Gotta make a call.”

  The attorney watched with keen anticipation. He’s representing a well-heeled investor who prefers to remain anonymous.

  Having pressed a programmed button, Smitty spoke into the small instrument. “Yes sir, I’m here. Is he ready?” A pause. “Okay, put him on.” He smiled. “Hello there, hotshot—I’m with your lawyer. You want to have a word or two with him? Good, I thought you would.” He offered the cell phone to Spencer Trottman.

  Puzzled, the attorney pressed the phone against his ear. “Who is this?”

  Though strained, the voice was crisp and clear. “It’s me.”

  Trottman felt the blood drain from his face. “Manfred? You’re alive?”

  “For the time being. Look, Spence, I’m in a bad spot and I don’t know how long they’ll let me talk. So don’t ask any questions, just listen and do exactly what I say. You understand?”

  “Of course.” This cannot be happening. “Please continue.”

  “I need something. And it’s really, really important that you get it for me.”

  “What?”

  “A series of numbers.”

  Manfred Blinkoe’s attorney had heard the rumors about the millions hijacked from the Colombian drug cartel, and the alleged foreign bank accounts. It must all be true. He heard himself say: “Account numbers?”

  “No questions, Spence—please!”

  “Uh—I’m sorry.”

  “I kept one set on the boat—we can forget about that. Pansy has the other copy.”

  “Manfred, I haven’t seen Mrs. Blinkoe for quite some time—”

  “Keep your mouth shut and listen, dammit! You’ve got to talk to her, get those numbers. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “Yes. Certainly.” Spencer Trottman looked up at Smitty, whose long face was grinning wolfishly.

  Blinkoe’s voice continued. “Thing is—Pansy don’t even know she’s got the numbers.”

  “But, Manfred, if your wife doesn’t—”

  “Just shut up and listen!” There was a brief silence. “I’m sorry, Spence. It’s just that I’m in serious trouble.” An intake of breath. “Now pay attention—Pansy has the information right on the tip of her tongue.”

  As a remarkable notion occurred to him, Trottman frowned. “Did she learn the numbers under hypnosis? Is there some trigger phrase one must utter to release her from—”

  “If you’ll keep quiet for ten seconds, I’ll explain.”

  The attorney listened. Could barely believe his ears. “Manfred, are you serious?”

  “Serious don’t half cover it, Spence. If you don’t get Pansy to provide that information within twenty-four hours, these—uh—gentlemen are going to make things very tough for me. This situation I’m looking at is what you could call terminal.”

  “But I have no idea where Mrs. Blinkoe is—”

  “Then you better get busy and find her. I am in serious trouble and—”

  Trottman heard a distinct click. Almost before he realized what had happened, Smitty had removed the cell phone from his grasp.

  The visitor placed the leather suitcase on the lawyer’s desk. “The Krugerrands were chicken feed. Now I’ll show you something that’d make a duck’s mouth water.” He opened the case. “Take a gander at that.”

  Trottman stared in disbelief at the wrapped stacks of twenty-dollar bills. I wonder how much…

  Smitty read his mind, and smiled. “A hundred grand. I’ll leave it here, let you count it.”

  “But I don’t understand.”

  “It’s yours, Mr. Trottman. A good-faith down payment for services we expect you to render.”

  “But as I have already told Dr. Blinkoe, I have no idea whether Mrs. Blinkoe will contact me—”

  Smitty leaned on the lawyer’s desk with gloved hands, stared through the pink spectacles. “The outfit I work for has more cash flow than General Motors and Ford combined. It’s not like my bosses worry about a thousand bucks falling through a crack now and then. But a few million here, a few million there, it cannot be ignored. If such misbehavior is not properly dealt with, it could set a bad example. So a meeting is called, a decision is made. What it comes down to is this: If Mrs. Blinkoe would like to get her hands on five million bucks, all she has to do is come up with the numbers to those foreign bank accounts where her old man stashed our liquid assets. She comes across, I will deliver the five mil’ tomorrow afternoon, her husband will be cut loose in good health. The Blinkoes will have a potful of cash to purchase expensive trinkets and fancy duds and this and that. And you will have your fee on the five mil’, which I imagine will be at least twenty percent. But my bosses are not patient men, Mr. Trottman. You will get a call,” he checked his wristwatch, “at precisely ten forty-two A.M. tomorrow. You have the list of numbers for us, everything is jake. You don’t, your client is history.” He gave the attorney a lopsided grin. “And I would not want to make odds on your probable life span, or Mrs. Blinkoe’s. And don’t even think about calling the cops. My outfit has top-notch technicians placed in every phone company in the USA. Every time you call for a pizza, we know whether you asked for Italian sausage or anchovies.” A grimace. “Or pineapple. Did you know that some weirdoes are asking for fruit on their pizza?” He shook his head. “I mean, what next—prunes?”

  Trottman’s mouth gaped. “But…but…”

  Smitty shook a finger in his face. “Don’t give me no buts.” He paused to straighten a cuff. “To tell you the honest truth, hardly anybody expects you to hear from Mrs. Blinkoe. Among the higher-ups in my organization, the general consensus is that she has already left the country.” He glanced at the case stuffed with greenbacks. “If I were you, I’d try to spend that little bit of cash fast as I can. If Mrs. Blinkoe don’t happen to contact you pretty quick, you’ll be goin’ to that bad place where a hundred thousand bucks won’t buy you a shot glass of cold water.” With this observation, Sooty-Suit turned on his Tony Lama heel and departed.

  Half an hour after the door had closed on his earlier life, the attorney was still pacing back and forth, occasionally pausing to stare at the paneled wall where his law diploma hung. The sheepskin was slightly skewed. He reached out to straighten the frame. What on earth should I do? Call the authorities, no doubt, and report this astonishing incident. But there were other things to consider. Two other things. Mentally, he enumerated them.

  If Pansy does not yield up the account numbers, Manfred will no doubt be murdered.

  If she does, quite a substantial amount of cash will be forthcoming.

  Spencer Trottman’s Juris Doctor diploma was surrounded by scores of photographs of himself with important people. He squi
nted to examine a recent photographic image. The picture had been snapped the last time he had dined at Phillipe’s. He was standing between Manfred and Pansy Blinkoe. Manfred looks oddly pensive, like he was worried about something or other.

  Mrs. Blinkoe, on the other hand, appeared absolutely ecstatic. Indeed, behind Pretty Pansy’s beautiful toothpaste-advertisement smile, there was a sly look. As if she knew a delightful secret.

  55

  A Long Night’s Work

  The best friends sat side by side in the darkness.

  The GCPD chief of police zipped a wool-lined leather jacket to his chin. “You’d never believe it was summertime—it’s cold up here.”

  The tribal investigator did not respond.

  Scott Parris blinked at a waning moon. “What time is it?”

  Charlie Moon pressed the button on his wristwatch, eyed the luminescent green disk. “Eleven minutes past one.”

  “When I was a rookie cop, I always looked forward to stuff like this. Stuff that detectives do. But after a dozen times sitting in a car all night, drinking gallons of bad coffee, always waiting for somebody who never showed, always needing to pee—that was enough for me. And this ain’t that much different. There’s nothing to see. Nothing to hear.”

  The Ute saw a coyote trot through the cemetery. Listened to a ghostly breeze rattle dead elm leaves.

  “I hate stakeouts, Charlie.”

  “I hate stakeout partners who talk all night.”

  “You have hurt my feelings. I’m not gonna say another word.”

  There was a whuf-whuf of wings as a famished mouse hunter passed by.

  Parris grimaced at the unseen fowl. “I never liked owls.”

  Moon hung a Cheshire grin. “Why’s that?”

  “Ah, when I was a ten-year-old kid in Indiana I paid nineteen dollars and ninety-nine cents for one of those ‘you can learn to be a taxidermist at home’ courses. You know—the kinda thing that was advertised on the backs of comic books.”

  “And you didn’t get your money’s worth?”

  “All I can tell you is never ever kill an owl.” The failed taxidermist cringed at the memory. “And if you do, don’t skin it. And if you skin it, don’t try to stuff it with sawdust.”

  “Unpleasant experience, huh?”

  “Write this down in your book, Charlie—owls stink. And we’re not talking ordinary stink, like skunk spray or rotten eggs. And taking a bath don’t help; owl stink seeps down deep into your pores, and stays there till you shed your old skin and grow a new covering.”

  “I’ll try to remember that.” The Ute hoped for a few minutes of silence.

  “And another thing. I feel stupid, perched up here on top of Mr. DeSoto’s roof. Not to mention how it makes my butt ache.”

  Several semiclever responses came to mind, but Moon let the opportunity pass.

  Grunting, Parris got to his feet. He hung the heels of his cowboy boots over the pinnacle of the peaked structure. “You know who I feel like?”

  “Nope.”

  “Here’s a hint—I’m a fictional character.”

  The Ute chuckled. “Inspector Clouseau.”

  “Charlie, that was a cheap shot.”

  “Okay. You’re the Fiddler on the Roof.”

  Parris’s response was somewhat tart. “Do you see anything tucked under my chin that resembles a violin?”

  “Good point. But I’m fresh out of guesses.”

  “I’m an animal.”

  “Sure. I can see it now. You’re a long-legged stork, about to take wing and fly away to wherever those big white birds go when they get bored with work.”

  “You’re not very good at this, Charlie.”

  “You have hurt my feelings. I’m not going to guess anymore.”

  “I’ll make it dead-easy for you. I feel like that beagle.”

  “The one who lays on his back, on top of the doghouse?”

  “Right.” Having helped his circulation, Parris seated himself again. “But it wasn’t no ordinary doghouse.”

  Moon nodded. “Mr. Snoopy had a pool table downstairs.”

  Parris sighed. “My favorite character was Heathcliff.”

  “Who?”

  “The little bird that flew upside down.”

  “That was Woodstock.”

  There was a tense silence, during which Parris cogitated so hard it made his head hurt. “You sure about that?”

  “Sure enough to give you two-to-one.”

  “Forget it.”

  “I can’t forget it. Matter of fact, I remember every single one of Woodstock’s little feathered friends.”

  Parris snorted. “Poppycock.”

  “Nope, Poppycock wasn’t one of ’em. There was Bill—”

  “There wasn’t no bird in the strip by the name of Bill.”

  “—And Conrad, and Harriet. And Oliver.”

  “I know a bluff when I see one, Charlie. You’re making those names up.”

  “Lay your money down, Chief. I’ll give you three-to-one.”

  “I don’t intend to lay no money down on a tilted roof that’s slippery as snail spit.” He could almost hear Moon’s smirk. “Remind me again why two grown men are sitting on top of Mr. DeSoto’s house at one o’clock in the morning.”

  “Because you accepted my gracious invitation. And it’s closer to one-fifteen.”

  “Why did I accept your gracious invitation?”

  “Because it is in your interest to determine the whereabouts of Mrs. Pansy Crowe Blinkoe.”

  “Is Mrs. Blinkoe staying in Mr. DeSoto’s house?”

  “I’d rather not say.”

  “Okay, have it your way. But tell me this—what do we do if DeSoto comes home?”

  “I don’t know about you, but I intend to be very quiet.”

  The chief of police was not reassured. “But what if he looks up here and spots us and—”

  “Scott, you don’t need to worry too much about DeSoto coming home.”

  “Why?”

  “You don’t want to know. Trust me.”

  “Trust you? Charlie, you know saying something like that just gets me worried sick. I’ve got to know—so start talking.”

  “Okay, pardner. It’s like this—a certain Someone found out DeSoto was using his cellar to stash about forty kilos of cocaine, all in pint-size plastic sandwich bags.”

  “Charlie, please don’t tell me how you know this.”

  “That suits me just fine, pardner. Now, the way Someone figured it, DeSoto was providing a temporary storage location for big-time operators, who were likely moving the stuff up from Juarez.” Moon paused. “You got the picture so far?”

  Parris nodded. “I can guess what happens next.”

  “No need to guess—I’ll tell you straight out. Mr. Someone found the stash, flushed it down the toilet. Soon as DeSoto figured out what’d happened—and realized the bad guys would skin him alive when they found out their property had gone down the drain—he hit the road. The man was doing ninety miles an hour before he got out of Garcia’s Crossing, which is only about a half mile wide. This is why I have a feeling he ain’t comin’ back anytime soon.”

  “Charlie, you should have tipped the DEA, let them handle this DeSoto punk—”

  The tribal investigator raised his hand for silence.

  There was a pair of headlights off to the west. But the pickup did not slow. The lawmen watched the taillights vanish over a distant rise.

  Parris broke the silence. “Let’s just pretend you never said a word to me about Mr. DeSoto.”

  “Mr. Who?”

  The chief of police sighed. “I’ve got a couple of sandwiches in my coat pocket.”

  “What kind?”

  “Ham-and-Swiss-cheese kind. Grilled.”

  “Grilled sounds good.”

  “They should still be warm. I wrapped ’em in paper towels.”

  The Ute considered his choices. “Okay, I’ll have a grilled ham and Swiss. You can have the other one.”
r />   Parris gave his friend the preferred sandwich.

  “What else’ve you got in your pockets?”

  “Cookies.”

  “What kind?”

  “Pecan Sandies.”

  “That’ll be just dandy.” Moon was about to take a bite of the lukewarm sandwich when his friend intervened.

  “Hold it!”

  “What?”

  “You can’t eat that ham-and-Swiss, or have any dessert—not till you tell me what you know that I don’t know.”

  “Pardner, that would take a long, long time. I could starve to death.”

  “I mean about the Blinkoe business.”

  Moon felt a severe case of Stubborn coming on. But the sandwich smelled good, and a Pecan Sandie would sure hit the well-known spot. “It is common knowledge that Pansy Blinkoe has an older brother by the name of Clayton Crowe.”

  Parris made a big show of enjoying a cookie, and said with a mouthful: “I am well aware of this.”

  “Did you know that the man who calls himself Clayton Crowe is not her brother?”

  “Well of course I do.” The chief of police swallowed. “The fake Clayton Crowe was Pansy’s high school sweetheart—a guy by the name of Roger Culpepper.”

  The tribal investigator stared at his friend. “Where’d you hear that?”

  “Oh, through the grapevine.” Parris smiled in the darkness. “From what I hear, some clever FBI agent figured it all out. Something about genes and eye color. But you’re tight with Agent McTeague, so I suppose you already know about that.” He took a bite from his sandwich. After swallowing, he continued. “While guys like you and me do all right with ordinary police work, it takes those college-trained feds to do the really clever stuff.”

  The college-trained Ute made a guttural sound.

  “What’d you say?”

  “Uh—nothing.”