by Roger Johns
“How big is that pasture?” Whitlock asked.
“Too small to be used as a landing strip, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“You’re reading my mind, Detective.”
“Too small and not enough level area. It’s big enough to be a drop zone, but only a helicopter or a hot air balloon could take off and land here. I think the shed and whatever vehicle was in it are the main event. We’re going to move along and try to pick out the rest of the trail. Can your guys take over on the shed?”
“As soon as we can. Any sign of Gable himself?”
“Not yet. No bodies, no dead smells, no buzzards circling overhead.”
“Can you send me shots of those tire tracks?”
“Will do,” she said.
“Ready?” she asked Mason, after she finished sending the pictures to Whitlock.
“Aye, Cap’n.”
They continued in silence, for another twenty minutes. The terrain inclined gradually, but steadily, until they arrived at the foot of a rise. A foot-worn path rose from the forest floor for several yards, eventually curving back to the left. Wallace’s phone told her they were close to the Tunica access road. As they ascended, the path widened and led beneath a tall, dense patch of scrub overhanging the trail. In the cavernous cleft beneath the overhang a black Ducati motorcycle rested on its kickstand. A Tunica Lab parking decal in the shape of a lazy triangle was affixed to the rear fender.
“Well, well,” Mason crowed.
“I get a gold star for bringing us out to this miserable place,” Wallace said. She photographed the motorcycle, its tire treads, and the license plate, then texted the images along with the coordinates to Whitlock. Then she sent the picture of the motorcycle to Louise Mautner—the woman she and Mason had spoken with in the garden under the power lines—asking if it was the crotch rocket she and her friends had seen the day Overman was killed.
Within sixty seconds, Whitlock texted back that the bike was registered to Gable.
“Look,” Mason said, pointing back in the direction they had come from. They had gained enough elevation since leaving the pasture that they could see over the treetops back along the trail. The rooftops of some of the houses in Matt’s neighborhood were visible in the distance. Between two of the houses there was the empty space where Matt’s house had been.
“Matt could have seen his house burning from here, and decided to hit the road,” Mason said.
“I’m starting to think the good Dr. Gable had a healthy streak of paranoia in him. He saw his house going up in flames, so he ditched his bike and fled in a car he had hidden in the shed.”
“Which raises the question of why he felt the need for such preparations,” Mason said.
“Just because you’re paranoid, doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you,” Wallace replied. “If this is the motorcycle our friends under the power lines saw, then almost certainly Matt was at the warehouse with Overman. That means Matt was dealing with some very dangerous people. Maybe he was afraid they would turn on him.
“Let’s keep moving,” Wallace said, leading them back onto the trail.
“What if my new theory is correct?” Mason began. “That Gable actually figured out a way to significantly increase the yield from a given quantity of coca leaves.”
“Do you think bales of leaves were being dropped in the pasture back there?” Wallace asked.
“Maybe. Maybe Overman was getting the leaves and turning them over to Matt,” Mason continued. “They could’ve had some arrangement, but then Overman got the idea Matt was skimming or overcharging.”
“Or maybe Matt was using Overman to try to sell his method further upstream—”
“And the people he was trying to sell it to got their noses out of joint at having to pay for something they thought could be theirs for the taking, so—”
“So Echeverría or one of his people came up here to do the taking,” Wallace finished, as they emerged from the forest onto the access road. “Let me call our ride.” She texted Whitlock that they were ready to be picked up. She was about to reopen their discussion when her phone vibrated.
“Detective Hartman, this is David Bosso.”
“Yes, David, and please just call me Wallace.”
“Something’s changed since we spoke with you and your boyfriend from DEA.”
“I’m listening,” she said, letting the dig pass. Turning away from Mason, she lifted the hem of her T-shirt and wiped the perspiration from her face.
“You wanted to know if we had anybody deep enough in Overman’s organization who could maybe shed some light on his recent comings and goings. If you’re willing to get your hands a little dirty, I may have something for you. You ever heard of a guy named Stacky Vincent?”
“Not that I can recall.” She sat on a log near the edge of the roadway and watched Mason as he wandered back a few steps into the edge of the tree line.
“A real creepazoid. But … he’s got a connection that might be useful.”
“What’s his story?” she asked.
Mason reemerged from the trees several steps from her, fiddling with his phone. He looked in her direction with an inquisitive expression. She patted the log next to her and motioned him over.
“Couple a years ago he happened to spend a few days in the same holding cell as our good buddy Ronald Overman, who, believe it or not, was waiting to bail out on a DUI. Stacky was back on the street before Overman was, and the theory is he musta done Overman a favor. Something Overman didn’t want anybody from his regular band of douche nozzles to touch.”
“Okay…?” she said, as Mason sat down next to her.
“So Overman was grateful enough that, once he made bail, he gave Stacky a job. Just as a jerkoff member of his entourage, but he’s somebody on the inside. You know, drive him places, pick up and deliver. Shit like that.”
“Why would this guy be willing to turn?” She put her phone on speaker and held it between her and Mason. They both leaned in to listen. “Do we have any leverage?”
“We might have. It’s kinda weird. See, Stacky had this old aggravated battery charge from about two years ago that was never prosecuted. And, well, fortunately or unfortunately, depending on your point of view, the victim of said battery died about an hour ago. Nothing’s happening on it just yet, but if we’re willing to push a little, we might be able to get the DA to at least threaten to bring it as a manslaughter charge. Then you could tell Stacky that, in exchange for whatever it is he’s got that you need, you would try to talk the DA into reducing the charge.”
Wallace was having trouble concentrating on the call. Mason’s scent was invading her airspace. It was just him—no cologne or soap smell—just him, and it was making her head swim.
“It took the vic two years to die?” she asked, recovering her focus. “For something like that to turn into manslaughter, doesn’t there have to be some kind of, you know, direct link between the original act and the eventual death of the victim?”
“That’s just it. The agg battery, which was the reason Stacky happened to be in the same cell with Overman to begin with, was because of a fight between Stacky and the now-deceased victim. During the altercation, the vic took a knife to the abdomen. It was the vic’s own knife, but Stacky was the aggressor in the fight. Exactly how the knife came into play, and exactly whose hand was on the knife at the critical moment, was never crystal clear. But, apparently, there was enough there to make it look like they could pin it on him.”
“Why was it never prosecuted?” She looked over at Mason. He seemed to be listening intently to the call. Even though she was tired from the hike through the woods, his proximity was causing a surge of nervous energy.
“Stacky had information on some guys who were going into the bomb-making business. How he knew that, I don’t know, but he did. In exchange for rolling over on the would-be bombers, the DA agreed not to prosecute the battery. Since it was never prosecuted to begin with, there’s no double jeopardy bringin
g it as manslaughter now.”
“I still don’t see a connection between the original act and manslaughter.”
“The knife was dirty. It caused an infection of the body cavity, uh…”
“Peritonitis,” she blurted, trying to hurry him along. She needed to get up and walk off all this energy.
“Correct. Apparently, the docs could never get it under control. One a those drug-resistant bugs. And in two years’ time it went from bad to worse.”
“What’s the victim’s name?” Her knees started jumping.
“Farrell Macklin.”
“Do you know if the DA will have any interest in this?”
“Macklin just died, so it’s probably too soon to tell. Plus, this is an orphan crime—something nobody gives a shit about. Unless there’s family out there, pushing on it, stuff like this usually just falls through the cracks and gets forgotten. There’s no system for keeping track of people who might die someday from a crime committed against ’em way back who knows when.”
“Then how did you happen to hear that Macklin died?”
“He was my little sister’s first ex-husband. At least now I ain’t gotta lean on him for rugrat payments.”
“Is your sister going to file a complaint, so we can get an arrest warrant?” Wallace willed her legs to remain still.
“She will if I tell her to.”
“Good, because I can’t see this guy getting too worried if we pick him up without a warrant. He’ll know the DA isn’t interested, so he won’t have any incentive to play ball.”
“Like I said, she’ll do it if I tell her to.”
“So, if we can get this thing going, do you know where we can find Mr. Vincent?”
“That won’t be a problem. Are you telling me you’re interested?”
“I am. But since it’s a homicide, I want in on the arrest.”
“You got it.”
“David … why are you doing this? This’ll burn one of your bridges into Overman’s organization.” If the call didn’t wrap up soon, she felt like she might explode.
“You’re assuming you’ll be the only one interrogating this fuckup. I got a lotta open investigations this guy’s gonna help me out with.”
“But you don’t need me on this. You could bring him in without me being involved at all.”
“Think of it this way. You’re Colley’s partner. I owe Colley a few favors. We all know the time for paying up is … growing short.”
A wave of emotion crested over Wallace at the mention of Colley’s situation, and all the energy drained out of her. She went silent for several seconds, then turned to look at Mason. He was giving her a worried look.
“You there, Detective?” Bosso asked.
“Yeah, I’m here. Listen, thanks for doing this. Call me when it’s showtime.”
“Stay by the phone ’cause it shouldn’t be too long.”
Their ride back to Bayou Sara arrived just as Wallace ended the call. It turned out to be Jake, the guy who had taken the first look into the birdhouses. Jake took a few pictures of the bike, then wrapped it in a plastic sheet and stuck an evidence sticker on the sheet. After that, they loaded the bike into the bed of Jake’s pickup and headed back to Wallace’s car.
During the drive, Whitlock called to give Wallace the results of the records search on Matt. Several hundred dollars had been taken out of a personal checking account on Sunday night and his credit cards had been used twice in the last few days. The latest charge came from a motel on the outskirts of Baton Rouge. The Baton Rouge PD sent a car over but there was no sign that Matt had actually stayed in the room. If he had ever been there, he was gone now.
“Do you have a photograph of Matt?” Wallace asked.
“I’ve got a head shot Carla Chapman gave us when she filed the missing person report.”
“Can you scan it and send it to me? I just found out I’ll have a chance to interrogate someone who could shed some light on how Gable fits into this business.”
“Will do, Detective. But don’t forget me now.”
“No chance of that. You get what we get,” she said, hanging up, then turned to Mason. “I’m inclined to push this thing with Stacky Vincent as fast as I can. Do you want in on the arrest or just the interrogation?”
“Just the interrogation. How long do you think the warrant will take?”
“A few hours, at least. David’s got to type up the application and affidavit, then get it in front of the magistrate. My guess is it’ll happen sometime tonight.”
FOURTEEN
THURSDAY 4:00 P.M.
By the time Jake had dropped them off, it was too late for lunch and too early for Mason’s meeting with the state police investigators, so Wallace drove them to the police station.
Wallace sat at her desk and checked messages, then pulled up the file on Stacky Vincent’s unprosecuted aggravated battery.
Mason took an empty chair a few cubicles away from Wallace’s, and called Don Brindl’s cell, but the analyst didn’t answer, so Mason left a message. “Don, this is Mason. Sorry to bug you while you’re home sick, but I need to clear up some details from the presentation you made at the analyst meeting two Mondays ago. Call me on my cell, as soon as you get this.”
Before he could hang up, his phone showed an incoming call from Don.
“How are you feeling?” Mason asked.
“Sorry, I couldn’t get to the phone quick enough, and I may not make it through this call in one go. Anyway, I don’t feel so great. But I’ll live. What’s up?”
“Let’s go back to your theory about the source of the new cocaine that’s coming into south Louisiana. I’ve got a competing theory I want to bounce off of you, about where that extra supply might be coming from.”
“I’m listening.”
Mason rattled off the highlights of what he had learned about the Overman homicide, his trip to Tunica, the disappearance of Matt Gable, and the strange things Carla Chapman had found in Gable’s lab. He finished by telling Don his theory that Gable might have developed an improved method for extracting the powder cocaine from the leaves.
“It would have to be a hell of an improvement to produce enough cocaine to account for the changes we’re seeing. And it wouldn’t account for the falling supply in the nearby states.”
“Those may prove to be unrelated events,” Mason said. He caught a sudden movement out of the corner of his eye and turned to look. Wallace was rocking gently in her chair, studying her computer screen. He watched as she drew one foot up onto the seat and draped an arm over her knee. With her other hand she absently wound her hair into a twist and piled it on top of her head. Loose strands trailed down her neck.
“Hello. Anybody home?” Don asked.
“Sorry, I got lost in my notes for a second,” Mason said, realizing he had missed something. “What were you saying?”
“I was saying that for your theory to work, Overman would have to be getting hold of the coca leaves themselves. Have you found anything to support that?”
“There’s an isolated patch of cleared land in the woods near Tunica, and there are signs Gable has recently spent time there. It could have been used as a drop site for the coca leaves, but I don’t know if that actually happened.”
“This is quite a story,” Don said, his voice taking on an almost manic intensity. “When can we test this equipment from Gable’s lab, to see if you’re right?”
“As we speak, it’s being examined at the state crime lab. They’ve promised to turn it around as fast as possible, so we should know something in pretty short order.”
“The state lab?” Don asked, sounding incredulous. “That’s crazy. We should be in control of this, not some backwater shop nobody’s ever heard of. Have our people do it.”
“I’m confident we’re getting top-drawer work here, so I think we’ll be okay.”
“Who’s going to reassemble this stuff from Gable’s lab?”
“His lab assistant, Carla Chapman.”
“She’s our best bet—our only bet, actually.”
“Could she be involved in Gable’s disappearance or Overman’s death?”
“She pursued us. She told us about the stuff hidden in the storeroom and she filed the missing person report. If she was involved, why tip off anyone about anything? Why invite all that scrutiny?”
“Could be a manipulation calculated to make her look unlikely as a suspect?”
Mason had to admire Don’s thinking—the same game-within-a-game strategies that undoubtedly fueled his success at the card tables.
Wallace stood and walked out of the detective area and down the hallway. Mason struggled to keep his thoughts from following her. “I’ve seen her up close,” he said. “I think she’s for real. If she’s bluffing, she’s damn good. Not someone you’d want to play poker against,” Mason said, gently ribbing his colleague.
“I’ll remember that,” Don laughed.
“She and this guy Gable were involved on a personal level, so she may know more than she’s saying, but we’re not currently looking at her.”
“Who’s we?” Don asked.
“Me and Wallace Hartman—the local detective I’m working with.”
“It he doing you any good?”
“Not he. She.”
“She good-looking?”
“Indeed. She’s a head-turner,” Mason said in a low voice so none of Wallace’s fellow detectives would overhear him. “But that’s not why we’re on the phone.”
“Suddenly you’re whispering. Hmmm. That probably means she’s close by. You gonna go for it?”
“Are you gonna get your mind back on this case?” Mason responded, testily.
Don sighed. “Never mind. Another one slips away. Oh, well. Listen, have you got any leads on this Gable fellow?” Don asked. “Seems like he could be the key to everything.”
“I think you’re right, but so far, he’s managed to remain invisible. Carla Chapman filed a missing person report, so the Bayou Sara police are looking, but they’ve had no luck. They got access to his phone and financial records and Gable, or somebody, we don’t actually know who, registered at a motel in Baton Rouge under his name, using one of his credit cards. But he’s not there. A sizable withdrawal was made from his checking account the day he went missing. So, it looks like he’s on the move. In any event, when will you be back in the saddle?” Mason asked.
