by Dave Balcom
She grumbled some more, but she got moving, and I turned the radio up and found a local station that still did news.
By the time we walked into the FBI offices that could have been mistaken for a real estate agency what with its strip mall location, Jan was approaching civility, but to be honest we were both really dragging, and that wasn’t lost on Richards as he came smiling up to us.
“Road warriors return!”
That got a surly yet soft “humph!” from Jan. I shook Richards’ hand without comment, and he jerked his head for us to follow him as he turned and headed for an open door in the back of the office filled with empty desks.
“Just move in?” I asked as we walked.
“No, but we only have five agents, including the Special Agent in Charge here; the rest of the FBI forces work out of the Federal building downtown. We’re out here on the fringe because we spend most of our time working places like Elliotsville, and we can respond quicker from here.
He ushered us into a conference room with a table for ten or more. Agent Hurst was sitting at the head of the table. She had a computer and slide projector before her.
“Good morning, folks!” She sounded chipper, and then I saw her eyes change a bit as she took a better look at Jan. “I have coffee, juice and bagels on the sideboard. Can I get you anything, Mrs. Stanton?”
Jan gave her a weak smile, “I’m in dire need of good coffee, Agent Hurst. Do you have good coffee?”
“I think it’s better than Starbucks; we make it here. It’s a smooth dark roast.”
“Lemme at it,” Jan said with a mock rush towards the coffee pot. That was greeted by polite chuckles and I noticed another agent, a slim, well-dressed African American, sitting at the far end of the table.
“This is Special Agent in Charge Henry Forks,” Richards said. Forks stood and reached a hand across the table from me. “Please sit here, Mr. Stanton,” he said in a soft drawl. “Can I get you a cup of coffee?”
“I’ve got it, agent,” Jan said from behind him. “It’s really good, Jim.” She set my coffee down in front of me and turned to shake Forks’ hand. “Nice to meet you.”
Forks settled back into his chair as Jan walked around the table to sit beside me. “It’s my pleasure to meet both of you. I’m going to get going on my own work here in a minute, but I wanted to let you know how much we appreciate your effort this past weekend. I’m actually a bit surprised that that schedule didn’t take a bigger toll on you. That was a great deal of travel and focus in a seventy-two hour span. And your reports have been everything we could have dared to hope for. They’re insightful, succinct, and complete.
“Now, agents Hurst and Richards are going to provide you some information that will fill in a few spaces, give you a fuller view of what you’ve accomplished, and then we’re going to send you on your way with the utmost respect and appreciation.”
I listened and realized we were getting the velvet kiss off. I realized they were expecting us to be offended that our usefulness was over, but I wasn’t at all sure that what I was actually feeling wasn’t relief.
As he left the room, Forks dimmed the lights, and Hurst switched on her projector. “This morning we’d like to get your take on the full overview we’ve compiled,” she said in a no-nonsense voice. “We’ve broken it down the way you interviewed...” and the first slide showed Riley and Roxie Parker with their 12-year-old daughter, Marie, and their 9-year-old son, Gerald, as they filed down the steps of their home. They were all dressed up and in the bright light, they looked healthy and happy.
“They’re on their way to church,” Hurst said. “And our folks spent the next hour in their home. We came away with the knowledge that they are exactly who you thought they were.”
“And that’s legal?” I wondered out loud.
“Nine-eleven made it legal. We’re dealing with a terrorist threat, here,” Richards said without emotion or irony.
“Makes me shudder,” Jan said softly, “almost as much as the threats Ed and Rita are dealing with...”
The next slide captured Crawford, Clara and Jentrelle Parker on their back porch in Chesterfield. The three seemed to be laughing about something. I could almost hear the din from the community pool. Again, the photo captured their good health and pleasant natures.
“Did you break into their house, too?” I asked.
“Didn’t have to,” Hurst said without any apparent discomfort at my tone. “Their lives are an open book. They, too are exactly who you thought they were.”
“We didn’t have the chance to meet the daughter,” Jan said. “She’s as lovely as Marie.”
“She’s older by a couple years, but, yes, she’s beautiful. Popular in school, too; an athlete. She’ll start on her high school basketball team this year, and she’s a standout in track – runs sprints and hurdles,” Hurst added.
Richards spoke up, reading from a file. “They are financially secure. Like his brother, Crawford has enlisted Ed Sweet’s talents and has slowly and surely begun building an investment portfolio. He’s very talented as a car salesman; he’s not so highly regarded as a play-by-play announcer, but he’s getting better in the view of radio and television talent scouts around here. He may dream of announcing, but the auto business is where his bread is buttered.
“Mrs. Parker is no stranger to wealth. She was raised in privilege by parents who were careful to instill in her the desires to earn and to give back. They, too, are just who you thought they were.”
The next slide was of Cindy and Gene with their 7-year-old daughter, Donna, and their 2-year-old son, Eugene Jr.
“Here we have maybe the first question mark,” Hurst said, flipping to another slide, “This is Marcus Miller. He’s a runner for Elvis Dumont who is known to us as a street-level gambler working out of East St. Louis.
“That sounds like rough customers; what do they have to do with the Hastings?” I asked.
“This photo was taken as Miller was leaving Gene’s law office in Columbia. We couldn’t ascertain if he was collecting or paying off, but we can’t think of any other reason that would have him making a house call there,” Richards said. He then went on to read Miller’s record, which included several arrests and one conviction for crimes that go with debt collection efforts, especially gambling debt collection.
“Is there a history?” I asked.
“I’m afraid there is,” Richards said. “It looks to us like Gene Hastings is a serious plunger; betting on baseball is a fool’s game. We are not aware of any casual bettors laying money on baseball games.”
“I’m sure you now know his entire financial history,” I said.
“He’s extended; I wouldn’t say over-extended at this point, but if he keeps on the way he’s been, he will be. If Dumont has his hooks in them, the Hastings may not be beyond suspicion.”
I felt Jan shudder next to me, but she kept her thought to herself.
The show-and-tell program continued. Matt and Liz were found to be steady and beyond reproach, but Peter’s gambling history raised concerns out in San Diego.
Then, after the final slides of Peter, Janine and Sylvia, the screen went white and then we saw Alvin Cartwright, Sammy and the gunslinger from my adventure on Friday morning.
“You met these guys Friday, right?” Richards said.
“Are they...” Jan started to ask.
“Yeah, they’re the guys,” I said.
Richards was reading again, “Alvin Cartwright is a rarity – an American-born native of Southern California – born, raised, and never left San Diego County. His parents were also natives. They started Twilight Beach Modeling back after the Second World War. Alvin and his three brothers all were involved in the agency – the two older brothers were successful models in their day. They have since retired. Alvin is the youngest of the four, and he has done some specific modeling, apparently he has great, masculine-looking hands and his eyes are in demand for both movies and cologne advertising...”
“Wh
at are you reading?” I asked in wonder.
Richards stopped and laughed, “Alvin’s older brother, Cory, has been looking for capital to expand the business up the coast in Hollywood, so he has written a prospectus and this is part of it.”
A new slide clicked into place. Jan giggled, “You didn’t mention what lovely eyes he had, Jim.”
That slide was replaced with a shot showing two men, one in a wheelchair, the other with both arms in slings and both with bandages on their faces exiting what appeared to be a hospital.
Richards picked up the report, “The guy in the chair is Sammy “Buttons” Orlando, a twice-convicted felon, employee of Twilight Beach; the other is Gordon “Gordo” Grant, another employee of Twilight Beach.
“Following their treatment at the emergency room, they were interviewed extensively by an old friend of yours, San Diego Police Lieutenant Aaron Sawyer. Those two, using a lawyer who is mentioned in the Twilight Beach prospectus, had been making noises about filing a complaint against you, but after they met with Lieutenant Sawyer for more than an hour, they chose to drop those charges.
“It pays to have influential friends,” Richards concluded, finally finding his ironic voice.
“So where does all this leave us?” Jan asked.
“Your mission is accomplished. Thanks to you we have two possible, albeit unlikely avenues to pursue within the family – Gene and Peter – and two other possible areas of investigation – misters Dumont and Cartwright.
“We think your work for the Sweets is done, but Ed and Rita want to see you and hoped you’d go back up to Elliotsville and spend another day or so with them.”
“I think we’ll do just that,” I said. “Jan’s got a pile of receipts from the weekend; you want us to fill out some kind of form?”
“Not necessary. Leave them with us, and be sure to add the receipts for the First Class upgrades... you earned it. We’ll send a check to your home or you can stop by and pick it up on your way home; your choice.”
“Just mail it, but I’d also like to think that we’ll hear about the end of this, too,” Jan said.
“That would rely solely on the Sweets, Mrs. Stanton.” He said in way of dismissal.
As we got into our vehicle to head back to Elliotsville, I could see a look of concern working around Jan’s eyes.
“Don’t take it personally, Jan. We wanted to help; we helped. Now it’s time to get out of the way and let the pros handle it.”
She didn’t respond, so I started the big engine and buckled up for the ride.
Chapter 26
The Sweets were happy to see us, and Ed went straight to work on a batch of martinis when we arrived at their door just after 5 Sunday afternoon.
As Rita finished setting the table, she took one of the offered glasses and, with a hand on Jan’s elbow, led her to the porch.
Ed and I retired to his den where he picked up a piece of paper and handed it to me, “This is what the FBI in Quantico suggested we send to the paper.”
“Grandchildren are precious, and we love all of ours with all of our heart. We can only wish for them long, healthy and successful lives, and, if given a chance, we’d do anything in our power to ensure that.”
I read it several times, wondering what the behaviorists in Quantico had told the Sweets about how the antagonist would receive this note as opposed to what he’d demanded.
Ed drained his glass. “Want to test fate with another drink?”
“No, thanks. I might take something a bit less powerful after dinner. Right now I’m trying to picture how this will play with the perp.”
“Perp?”
“I like it better than ‘unsub,’ which is the way the Feds identify the “unknown subject.”
“Perp? Like short for perpetrator?”
“Exactly; what did Richards tell you this would do for the safety of your grandkids?”
Ed pushed his chair back away from his desk, “That’s the tough part; they can’t really predict without a whole lot more information... but they think there is a real profit motive, and as long as we’re keeping the possibility of a big payday in the scenario, there won’t be some rush to punish us.”
I let that set for a minute. “I have a great deal of faith in those guys in Quantico. They’re pretty sharp. They have scads of information from which to create scenarios, and nifty computers to weigh and value the options and permutations of the possibilities...”
“But?” He had assumed a wary look.
I shook my head and said, “I just hope they’ve got a great web cast over the top of those children.”
“Amen to that.”
We went to dinner, and Rita talked about her day, asked about her kids and grandkids, all of whom we had seen since the last time she’d been in contact.
Jan gave her every bit of detail she could dredge up without talking about the real reason for our visit.
Ed finally broke into that make-believe. “So, could you see any evidence of protection around the kids?”
“No, nothing,” Jan said, “And I would have been disappointed if I had. You have to believe that the federal agents are professionals – perhaps the best of the best in this country.”
Ed looked a little sheepish, “I suppose you’re right, it’s just that...”
Jan reached out to touch the back of his hand, “I can only imagine, but I’ve been there with Jim, for example, and I was never disappointed with how the agents performed.”
Rita took that bait, “You two have had adventures, haven’t you?”
“We have had episodes where we had to deal with difficult and sometimes horrible people, and every time we’ve been fortunate to have professionals – FBI, state police, city cops – all of them have been exactly what we needed. They’ve performed with courage, efficiency and intelligence every time.
“Not a night goes by that I don’t send up a prayer of gratitude for those men and women who brought my husband back to me safe and sound.”
“They’ve earned your trust and respect,” Ed said, “and they’re earning ours, now we just have to play it out.”
We left them that evening. Ed said he would drop the personal ad off at the newspaper on his way to the golf course. We were planning on sight-seeing for the day, and we all agreed to have dinner together again. We were going to wait until the paper came out, and then? Nobody knew, but we had seats reserved on a plane heading west for Thursday.
Chapter 27
I had decided overnight that I wanted to be with Ed when he dropped off the ad, and we met just outside the paper’s door at ten on Monday morning.
As we walked in, an elderly gentleman was just saying good-by to Editor Smith. Sonny saw me and broke into a wide grin, “Mr. Trisker,” he said grabbing the elderly gentleman’s sleeve, “let me introduce you to Jim Stanton, a visitor to our town.”
Ed had been making a beeline to the receptionist, but when he heard Smith he turned abruptly and came back. “Hi! Sam,” he greeted the older man with a wide smile of his own.
The guy they called Trisker was shaking my hand and trying to answer Ed’s greeting at the same time, and I thought we might make a funny scene if we weren’t careful.
“I’m Sam Trisker,” he said to me. “I used to have Sonny’s job back in the day when my family owned newspapers; I come by every now and again to try and keep him on an even keel.
“I understand you had a pretty good career in this business yourself.”
“It’s nice to meet you, sir. Sonny, good morning.”
Trisker had let go of me, and had moved to face all three of us, “Ed, what brings you here on a Monday morning?”
“Oh, just taking care of some family business, Sam. Jim and I were going to have coffee next door after he got done jawing with Sonny here” at which he gave a nod and a smile at the younger man.
“Why don’t I join you?” Trisker asked.
“That’d be great,” Ed assured him. “I’ll just go see to my stuff...”
“Oh, your column? I have to admit I haven’t. Jan,” I turned to Trisker, “my wife, and I were traveling late last week. Rita told me about it, but I didn’t get a chance to read it yet.”
“Here,” he said, picking a copy of the issue off a nearby desk, “take this one.”
“That’s the difference in newspapering today as compared to when I was in harness,” Trisker said. “We’d a charged you the full cover price, maybe even double seein’ as your name’s in it.” He followed that up with a good-natured chuckle and both Sonny and I joined in.
“Okay,” Ed said, rubbing his hands as he rejoined us. “Sonny? Can you have coffee with us?”
He looked at his watch and I could see real disappointment in his eyes as he shook his head, “Nope, sorry. I’ve got an interview in fifteen minutes out in the country. I hope to see all of you soon.”
With that we walked out and turned immediately into the coffee shop Jan and I had seen on our first walk.
The single large table in the corner with windows facing both the main and side streets was unoccupied except for one younger man.
“We’re just ahead of the daily coffee klatch,” Trisker rumbled. “We’ll have to solve all the city, county and state troubles on our own, I guess.”
“Ron?”
“Good morning, Sam,” the man said without looking up from his Wall Street Journal.
“I’d like you to meet Jim Stanton, a friend of Ed’s from out of town,” Trisker said. “You might remember some shred of your upbringing and stand up and shake his hand.”
Ron’s head snapped up immediately and he stood up, “I’m sorry. I saw Sam and Ed come in, but I didn’t see a stranger’s reflection in the glass.”
“Not a problem,” I said, shaking his outstretched hand. “Jim Stanton from Oregon.”
“Ron Flynt, from right here all my life,” he said as he sat down.
