by Glenn Trust
Day Three
*****
A good plan, violently executed now, is better than a perfect plan next week.
*****
George S. Patton
Zeus does not bring all men’s plans to fulfillment.
*****
Homer
29. Business Meeting
A map of Georgia was spread over the rough wooden table. It was just a standard road map available at any gas station or convenience store. It was sufficient for their purposes.
The group of men, huddled around the table and map, pointed to various locations and then referred to a list of names that sat on top of the map and then back to the map. Their rough hands and fingers traced and followed various routes to cities and towns that correlated with the names on the list. They spoke quietly and with purpose among themselves. This was a business meeting. They were serious about their business. As in all business, planning was crucial.
After a time, Rodney Puckett, his hands planted on the table leaning over it, looked around the circle of men, his team.
“Questions? Everyone clear?”
There were no questions. The next assignments had been made and the timing set for the plans to be executed. Puckett noted the looks on the faces of the men and checked them off in his mind.
Simon “Sim” Lee, who had headed the Marswell team, and Bill Quince, the team’s truck driver, were going south. They would follow up with Porter Wright, the owner and editor of the Everett Gazette, and Timmy Farrin’s employer. Once they had resolved issues there, they would move to Brunswick, just across the intracoastal waterway from Saint Simon’s Island on the Atlantic coast. A former city council member had gathered quite a following on the east side of the state. He seemed to be on the local radio and television stations daily, not to mention his constant editorials in the newspapers. He was creating problems. The problems would go away.
Lee, one of Puckett’s reliable men involved in many of his projects, had been given the assignment to ‘handle’ the city council member. He was smart, adaptable, and loyal to Puckett, good qualities to have in their line of work. Quince was not sharp or quick of mind, but he was solid, reliable, and followed instructions to the letter without question. Quiet, friendly, and affable by nature, there was no pity in the man if you were on Quince’s list of assignments. Looking at the big man, Puckett thought that he would not want to be on Quince’s list of assignments. There would be no reasoning with him, no deals to make. Quince would be incapable of doing anything other than fulfilling the assignment he had been given, or die trying. Good man, as long as you knew what you were dealing with, and how to deal with him.
Terrell Perkins, the third member of the Marswell team was going to Savannah. There, he would encounter a local jewelry store owner who was a contributor to various candidates and a leader in Savannah’s Jewish community. He had been swaying liberal voters in the Savannah precincts. It should be a fairly simple task. It would look like a robbery, something with which Perkins was intimately familiar. He would not even have to act, just play himself, Puckett thought with a smile.
He regarded Perkins with interest for a moment. He was young, almost youthful. But, he had proven himself to the group as the man who had pulled the trigger on Judge Marswell. Now he seemed excited to be part of the team and to have his own assignment. At the same time, he was composed and confident. Puckett nodded inwardly, Lee had brought him a good one. There was a future for the young man.
The final member of the group was Big Bud Thompson. Bud, too, had proven himself in his handling of the Somerhill assignment. Now, he and Bud would be taking care of some business locally. After all of these tasks were completed, the group would reassemble and go over the list again for new assignments and instructions from the leaders, Montgomery and Greene.
“All right then, make yourself at home. There’s beer in the cooler.” He pointed to an ice chest in the corner of the small cabin’s main room. “Fishing’s pretty good this time of year. Rods and tackle on the porch. Just follow the path through the trees about a hundred yards and you come to the lake.”
“You hanging here?” Sim Lee asked, twisting the top off a beer bottle.
“No. Bud and me have business to attend to.”
“Business? You and Bud?”
Big Bud looked at Lee’s questioning face with a look that said ‘let it drop’, and Lee did just that. “No problem man, just asking. Me, I’m gonna go down to the lake and catch me a fish. Maybe cook it up for supper. How ‘bout you, Bill? You coming?”
Bill Quince shrugged and followed Lee out of the cabin. He and Lee got along well. Lee did the talking, and Bill was happy to do as instructed. Right now that meant carrying the rods and tackle boxes down to the lake while Lee gathered more beer.
Terrell Perkins grabbed a couple of bottles from the ice chest and walked to the door. “Well, I’m outta here.”
“No fishing?”
He turned, smiling at Puckett. “Naw, didn’t do much fishing in the projects…you know, Techwood Homes. Wasn’t no water around there, least none with no fish in it. No, I got me a little thing waitin’ for me and thought I’d spend a little time with her before I head out.”
“Right. Well, take care Terrell. We’re counting on you.”
“Yep,” he smiled. “I’m always careful, man.” Turning, he left the two men alone in the small cabin.
Puckett looked at Bud Thompson. “We have some planning to do.”
Thompson nodded. “Yep.” He was quiet like Quince, but not slow. There was a seriousness about him that Puckett appreciated. In the short time they had come to know one another, Thompson had gained the respect of the team and, most importantly, of their employers. Now as a trusted member of the group, he and Puckett sat planning the next assignment. It was a particularly sensitive one, and one that required finesse. It would have to look like an accident. That was one of Puckett’s special skills, devising unfortunate accidents. Thompson was happy to learn from a master.
After an hour of discussion and of working their plan over, the two walked out into the spring sunshine. The small cabin, situated off a dirt road and near a small lake two hours out of Atlanta, belonged to Rodney Puckett. It was his getaway place. A place to relax, drink beer, and fish. There would be none of that today though. They had work to do and preparations to make.
Walking to his truck, he cranked it up and turned down the dirt road that led to a two-lane road, which led to a state highway, which led to the interstate. The big cabin cruiser was still on the trailer behind. They had taken it out of the water earlier that morning and come straight to the business meeting. Puckett didn’t like bringing the big boat to the cabin. The overhanging trees along the dirt road brushed the boat and left scuff marks he would have to buff out later. Couldn’t be helped today though. They had business to conduct, after their day of fishing on Lake Hartwell.
Bud Thompson followed Puckett in his old, beat up pickup. Watching the big super duty truck pull the huge boat down the narrow road, he thought to himself for the thousandth time in twenty-four hours, I’m gonna get me one of those.
30. Uppity White Boy
The intercom on the desk phone beeped, startling Bob Shaklee from his study of the notes Sharon had given him on the Somerhill murder.
“Yes?”
“You have a visitor in the lobby, Bob.” He recognized the voice of Marilou, the reception desk screener and security supervisor for the building.
“Did he give you a name?”
“Prentiss Somerhill Junior.”
“Really?”
“What he said, Bob. Should I badge him and send him in?” Marilou was businesslike and to the point as usual. No one was going past her post unauthorized. She would make damn sure of it and god help the person who tried.
“I’ll be right out. You can sign him in.”
Bob walked through the office building used by the GBI, took the elevator three floors down to the lobby and found PT Somerhi
ll leaning against the counter. Marilou’s eyes never left PT as she spoke on the phone to another tenant in the building. It was clear that she did not appreciate his reclining position against her counter and invasion of her workspace. Bob would hear about it later, no doubt. He should teach his guests better. Except, of course, PT was not his guest, and he had shown up without notice and uninvited.
“Mr. Somerhill?” Shaklee extended his hand for a brief handshake at the nod from the man’s head. They had not yet been introduced. Sharon had handled all interaction with the Somerhills to this point. “What can I do for you?”
“Call me PT.”
“Okay, PT, what can I do for you?”
“Just thought I would stop by and see if there was any update on the investigation.” He didn’t need to say which investigation. There was only one.
“Not much. Agent Price is going through the list of names from your father’s computer. We’re going to track them all down, ask a lot of prying questions and then see what we come up with and who looks like they might have been involved.”
“That’s it?”
“For now, that’s about it.” Shaklee looked PT in the eye, assessing. “Is there something else you feel that we should be doing at this point?”
“No, no not really. Just trying to get a feel for how things are going.”
“Slow. They are going slow.” Shaklee’s eyes never left PT’s. The gaze was returned calmly. Shaklee remembered what Sharon had said about feeling that she was being cross-examined by PT. “I am sorry I don’t have more to tell you. Agent Price will be working this case intensively. All others are put aside for the moment. We want to find your father’s killer as much as you do.”
“Yes,” Somerhill paused dramatically before continuing. “Yes, well that brings me to my next question.”
Yep, Bob thought, definitely feels like a cross-examination. “What might that be?”
“Do you think that Agent Price is…” PT seemed to consider his next words carefully. “Is she the most qualified person to be handling such a delicate and sensitive case?”
“I think she is eminently qualified, Mr. Somerhill. You seem to have your own reservations though. Why?”
Unused to being challenged when he was in cross-examination mode, PT was visibly uneasy at the direct question and by Shaklee’s penetrating gaze. He had the feeling that the GBI agent was trying to see through the lawyerly veneer PT habitually threw up. The thought that he might somehow succeed made Somerhill uncomfortable.
“No reason in particular,” PT knew his response was weak and struggled to find something to add. “Inexperienced maybe. Not quite up to the task. My father was a very well-known and respected person of influence who…”
Shaklee interrupted, determined to maintain the initiative in this conversation and keep PT on the defensive. He too had been in a number of courtrooms in his career. “Yes, I know. Your father was a very important man, and we are giving this case high priority. That is why we have assigned Agent Price as the lead investigator on the case. She is, in fact, the most qualified.”
Continuing to watch PT intently, Shaklee wondered what this was all about. There was more to Somerhill’s visit than a quick update on the case. He had hoped to have Sharon relieved from the case. Why?
“Right then, if you feel so, I will take your word for it. My mother and I were just concerned that perhaps someone of slightly higher stature might be more suited to handle such a high profile case.”
“Your mother?”
“Why…uh yes, she and I…”
“I was under the impression that Mrs. Somerhill and Sharon had developed a good working relationship, perhaps even closer.” Although PT’s facial control was excellent, Shaklee picked up the nervousness from his posture and movements. Moving from foot to foot now, and shifting his posture repeatedly, he was suddenly a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. Interesting.
“Well, yes, I suppose they do…”
“Good then,” Shaklee interrupted, ending the interview. “Price stays on the case, and we will keep you advised of all developments. Now if there is nothing else, I have to get back to work.”
PT nodded, making an effort to regain his composure and mastery of the situation. “No, that’s all, Agent Shaklee. Thank you for your time.”
Somerhill turned and walked quickly through the glass lobby doors. Shaklee watched his back recede down the broad stone steps in front leading to the street.
Turning towards the elevators, he caught sight of Marilou’s round face smiling at him.
“What?” he asked.
“Oh, nothing. Just admiring the way you put that uppity white boy in his place.”
“Oh, that.” Shaklee grinned back. “You noticed, huh?”
“I did indeed, Agent Shaklee.” The phone rang and Marilou lifted the receiver to her ear as Bob moved into the elevators.
Uppity white boy. Seemed like the perfect description for Prentiss Somerhill Junior.
31. A Wry Smile
The brick walkway led to an ornate front door with stained glass sidelights. Rodney Puckett noted the azaleas in bloom in front of the house and the bank of yellow forsythia along the walkway. Very pretty. It was not the Paschal estate, but very pretty.
Reaching the porch, he turned and surveyed the neighborhood. It was mid-morning and all the joggers had gone to work, children were at school, and the stay-at-home moms were busy inside feeding or napping their little ones. Dappled morning sunlight shone through the trees, and there was the slight fragrance of some flower in the air, but Puckett could not place it. Springtime in Georgia was his favorite time of year.
Assured that all was in order and that there were no prying eyes nearby, he reached out and pressed the doorbell. A few seconds later, the shuffling sounds of slippers scraping along the hardwood floors made their muffled way through the heavy door. A middle-aged graying man in pajamas opened the door and stood before him blinking in the morning sun.
“You know who I am? We have a mutual friend.”
Focusing on the tall man before him, Stanton James’ pale face lost whatever color remained until it seemed translucent. Puckett thought he could see into the man’s skull for a moment and smiled, which only made Stanton’s face even paler.
James could not bring himself to speak, although his mouth opened and closed as if trying to say words, something, anything. Eventually he just nodded.
“Good. Mind if I come in?” Puckett did not wait for an invitation. Stepping through the door, he stood in the paneled entryway of the Stanton home waiting for the master of the house to close the door behind him. Turning, he looked at James and said, “We should talk.”
James nodded and led the way from the entryway into a large study. Puckett seated himself in a large leather chair. It was James’ chair, but he did not object. He stood mute, while his visitor made himself at home.
“I…we…are not alone here.”
“Yes we are,” Puckett replied calmly. “Your wife has gone to visit her mother and your daughter, pretty little thing by the way, has gone out with friends. Oh yes, and she had classes at the community college this afternoon. I believe she’s trying to get her grades up before she applies to the University of Georgia...for the third time.” He crossed his legs comfortably and smiled.
Stanton James stood swaying. For a moment, he thought he might fall, passed out, to the thick carpet.
“Sit down, Stanton. I am not going to hurt you. We need to talk, and then I will leave.”
James managed to shuffle to the chair behind the desk without falling. Seating himself, he slid the chair close to the desk and the center drawer in front.
Puckett smiled his wry smile that had a way of seeming eminently threatening. He pulled the lapel of his sport coat back revealing the .45 Colt ACP in the shoulder holster under his armpit, and then let the jacket fall back into place.
“I know there is a Smith and Wesson .38 in the desk drawer. Don’t do anything
stupid, Stanton. I would hate for your wife to find the mess I would make of your head if that hand goes into that drawer.”
James pushed the chair back from the desk, waiting. There was nothing else to do.
“Do you know why I am here, Stanton?”
James shook his head, his eyes focused on the spot under the jacket where Puckett’s pistol rested in its holster.
“I am here because we have concerns. Do you know what they are?
Again, James shook his head.
“Speak, Stanton. I want to be able to report that you understood our conversation.”
James swallowed hard. His mouth seemed plastered shut, and forcing the words out was one of the hardest things he had ever done. “N-no. I don’t know.”
“Good. Well, I’ll explain. We are concerned that you may not be completely committed to our…uh, project, that you might be tempted to say something to someone, anyone. That would not be good for anyone, Stanton. You understand that?”
James nodded.
“Not good for anyone,” Puckett continued, “especially you.”
“But I…I uh, haven’t said anything, not to anyone.”
“You broke protocol on the phone. That endangered people. That can’t happen again.”
James nodded. “I know. I’m sorry.” Was he going to survive this interview, he wondered.
“Why did you do that, Stanton. Why did you break the protocol we agreed on...everyone agreed, including you? Explain that to me.”
“I was nervous. I’ve never been involved in anything like this before.”
Puckett’s brow furrowed in curiosity, as if seriously trying to understand James, assessing him. “Nervous? Why?” His gaze penetrated through Stanton James, trying to see what was beating inside, wanting to see his throbbing heart and the blood pulsing feverishly through his arteries, wanting to get inside and know him for what he really was.
