Secret Undertaking

by Mark de Castrique

  For a few seconds, Archie could only sputter unintelligible syllables, then managed to plead, “You’ve got to help me.”

  “Then here’s what you’re going to do: Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  Tommy Lee leaned forward and set his coffee cup on the table. “You can send your family away, but keep it low-key. You go about your business as if Sonny’s murder had nothing to do with you. How did you leave it with the Sinclairs?”

  “They said they’d think about it and get back to me.”

  “What would your role be?”

  “Get the paperwork from the insurance companies, help them fill out the forms, and then send it in.”

  Tommy Lee nodded. “So, you’ll do exactly what they want. Your goal is to learn their real names. No less, no more. Can you do that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good.” Tommy Lee stood. “Keep us posted through Barry. If you need to meet, do it at the funeral home and stay clear of the Sheriff’s Department. My guess is if they’re going to take your suggestion, they’ll do so within the next few days. If not, place a follow-up phone call. That would be natural and also you’re expecting that ten-thousand-dollar donation.”

  Archie and I rose from our chairs.

  “And if they renege on that?” Archie asked.

  “Then let it go. You’ll have done all you can.”

  “And you think I’ll be safe?”

  Tommy Lee stepped close and gently grasped Archie by his arm. “You will be, if you do as I say. And remember, the Sinclairs might have nothing to do with Sonny. The decision to kill Sonny could have been made earlier and have nothing to do with you. It sounds like their concerns go back to July before any of this happened.”

  “That’s right,” Archie said. “They wanted to talk about this back then.” He looked at me, relief flooding his face. “Just like the funeral planning.”

  “Yes,” I agreed. My mind jumped back to the day of my conversation with Janet Sinclair, Uncle Wayne’s phone call from Forest Glen Cemetery, and Susan’s setting of Robert Sinclair’s broken leg. A possible connection flashed and I saw a new investigative path open. One that for the time being, I’d keep to myself.

  Tommy Lee and I stood on the front porch and watched Archie’s taillights wink out as he drove around the bend in my driveway.

  “You going to check with the U.S. Marshals?” I asked.

  “Not yet. Like I said, they’ll neither confirm nor deny. They wouldn’t tell me if they placed a mob informant next door to my house. I need to draw a few more cards before I play my hand.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like the real identities of the Sinclairs. If Archie gets them to reveal their names on the forms for the transfer of the policies, I go in with the leverage to embarrass the marshals.”

  “Embarrass them?”

  “Yes. They may have placed active criminals in my county. A big scandal broke last year in Arizona when a mob killer used his new identity to commit fraud across the country. He was an alleged real estate developer who took millions of upfront money, and then drove the projects into bankruptcy after pocketing the funds. It was a sixty-five-million-dollar debacle. The investors had no clue who they were dealing with because our own government fabricated a squeaky clean new identity and history for him.”

  “And the man was a killer?”

  “Self-confessed. But his testimony brought down some mob kingpins, which made the prosecutors happy. Then the marshals protected him for being a witness, but who protects the public from him? Local law enforcement’s never told that a career criminal has just settled in their community.”

  “And Robert Sinclair could be like this guy in Arizona?”

  “Why not? I don’t believe the Sinclairs simply ran out of time to change their policies before disappearing into the program. I think they were hiding money. Probably from the marshals themselves. Relocation support includes a financial stipend until the protected witness gains employment. They would want to qualify for as much as they could.”

  “But exposure could endanger them. I assume there’s still a mafia bounty on Robert Sinclair’s head.”

  Tommy Lee poked me in the chest with a forefinger. “That’s the damn point. The marshals won’t let that happen, so I’m hoping they’ll tell me what I need to know. If it turns into a murder conviction, they’ll drop the protection. Then if the mob bumps off Robert Sinclair, it’s not on their watch. They can still tout they’ve never lost a witness while in their program.”

  Tommy Lee stepped off the porch and headed for his patrol car.

  “You made a good point that Sonny could have already been a marked man,” I said.

  Tommy Lee turned. “I know. Robert Sinclair could be a wild goose chase. That’s why our main areas for pursuit are the ballistics we’ve got, Rufus and Toby’s financial records, and the trail of EBT card-use.”

  “And finding out who Rufus took as a new partner in the store,” I reminded him.

  “Yes. Roger needs to see the attorney as soon as possible. But enough for tonight. We’ll start first thing in the morning.”

  “I need to be at the hospital.”

  “Oh, sorry.” Tommy Lee walked back to me. “I should have asked how Wayne was doing.”

  I gave him a summary of my uncle’s condition.

  “You take care of your family first,” Tommy Lee said. “In the morning, I’ll just be pushing Ferguson and the SBI to expedite their findings.”

  I found Susan in bed reading Southern Living magazine. Democrat had flopped out on my side. He grudgingly hopped off when he saw me pull my pajamas from a dresser drawer.

  “Everything all right?” Susan asked.

  “Things have taken a strange turn. Tell me whatever you can about Robert Sinclair.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  At seven the next morning, a uniformed state trooper stood outside the door to Uncle Wayne’s hospital room. He held a paper cup of coffee in one hand and a pastry in the other. As he saw me approach down the corridor, he set the coffee on the plastic chair beside him.

  I, too, was in uniform, and I trusted he freed his hand to shake mine rather than draw his service weapon.

  “I’m Deputy Barry Clayton. My uncle is the patient. Is there some problem?”

  He returned the greeting with a handshake and a smile. “Commissioner James insisted on seeing your uncle. He was released last night but is flying out from Asheville to Raleigh. A four-hour car trip would be too taxing, given his wound.”

  “Are you here because of further threats?”

  “No. I’m here because the governor wants James to have an escort, at least till he’s home.”

  “Am I free to enter?”

  The officer glanced at his wristwatch. “Yeah. Please do. You might help hurry the commissioner along or we’re going to miss the plane.”

  I knocked as I opened the door and found James standing at the head of the bed. Uncle Wayne was awake and either James or a nurse had inclined the mattress to a more comfortable sitting position. My uncle’s color looked better and he smiled when he saw me.

  “Here he is. The man I was telling you about. My nephew.”

  From the effusiveness of his words, one would think I’d discovered a cure for cancer.

  The commissioner had his right arm in a sling and the bulge beneath his shirt indicated protective bandaging on his shoulder. Graham James was around sixty, a big-boned, square-jawed man who looked like he’d be as comfortable in bib overalls as he would in a tailored suit.

  He extended his left hand. “Pleased to meet you. Your uncle says you’re the Sherlock Holmes of Gainesboro.”

  “Obviously, he’s delirious,” I said.

  “He’ll get to the bottom of what happened, Graham. You wait and see.”

  Graham, I thought. Uncle Wa
yne and his new best friend were certainly chummy.

  “I don’t doubt it,” James said. “Not if he takes after his uncle. Anything you can share with me, Barry? The SBI reports that the man Wayne stopped just flipped out.”

  I hesitated to answer. Ferguson had given the commissioner the story as far as his investigation had gone. And the SBI was being extremely cooperative so I didn’t want to throw Ferguson under the bus. But it dawned on me that the Commissioner of Agriculture could be both an asset and an ally as our own case followed a trail into the world of food stamps and state-administered benefits. The USDA and James’ agriculture department had to have a close working relationship.

  “That’s correct, as far as what we know regarding your attack. But there are some other elements that we are tracking that could reveal additional pressures that created Toby McKay’s mental state. This isn’t for public consumption, so I need both of you to keep the information confidential.”

  A politician loves nothing more than to get confidential information. I didn’t trust him not to leak it, or Uncle Wayne to remember it was confidential, so I restricted my comments to indications that Toby McKay might have been involved in a food stamp scam which further squeezed him financially. When he lost the second crop, he took it out on the commissioner as the symbol of his troubles.

  “We’re pursuing the food stamp fraud in connection to McKay and others. In fact, we might need your department’s assistance as we dig further.”

  “Absolutely.” With his free arm, James fumbled in his pocket for his wallet and awkwardly fished out a business card. “Have you got a pen?”

  I pulled a ballpoint from my shirt pocket.

  “You write. My left-handed chicken scratch will be illegible.” He handed me the card. “I’m giving you my personal cell number. Day or night, you call if we can assist. I know many of the FNS investigators, if this thing moves into federal territory.” He gave me the ten-digit number and I repeated it back.

  Commissioner James turned to my uncle and patted him on the shoulder. “You’re going to lick that pneumonia, Wayne, and then you’re coming to Raleigh. That’s an invitation from me and the governor. Bring the whole family. I don’t care about your political persuasion. We’ll have a good meal and a good time.”

  As he left the room, he whispered to me, “I want you to keep me informed on his progress. If we need to get him to a bigger hospital, just say the word.”

  I thanked him and promised to stay in touch.

  “That man’s a talker,” Uncle Wayne said, as I returned to the bedside.

  “What time did he get here?”

  “I don’t know for sure. The nurse had just been in, and she said it was six-thirty.”

  “I hope he didn’t tire you out.”

  “No. It was good to see him.” My uncle took a deep breath. “It let me know I didn’t simply kill a man. I saved a life. I can rest easier having seen that life in the flesh.”

  “And how are you feeling?”

  “Weak as a newborn kitten. But the nurse said the fever broke during the night. Looks like I won’t be family business quite yet.”

  I had to laugh. He sounded like he was apologizing for not being a customer of Clayton and Clayton.

  Mom arrived a few minutes later and was ecstatic at her brother’s progress. Dr. DeMint came by on his rounds and agreed that it looked like the worst was behind us. But, he said Wayne would need another day or two in the hospital and then a few more days in on-site rehab. DeMint wanted no chance for a relapse.

  I had breakfast with Mom in the hospital cafeteria and then said goodbye. Rufus Taylor’s service was at eleven and I decided I should cover the funeral home while Fletcher and Freddy Mott were up at Twin Creeks Baptist Church for the burial. I also had a call to place and I wanted to have the Sinclair file in front of me.

  “Forest Glen. How may we serve you?”

  The woman’s voice sounded familiar but it had been almost two months since I’d made the original call.

  “This is Barry Clayton. Clayton and Clayton Funeral Directors in Gainesboro, North Carolina.”

  “Yes, Mr. Clayton. We’ve spoken before, haven’t we?”

  “That’s right. I had a question about the cost for opening a grave. But you said things were crazy and you called back later and spoke with my uncle.”

  A few seconds of silence followed. I could visualize her trying to reconstruct the phone calls.

  “Yes, the day we had the excitement at the graveside service. I’m sorry I had to be so abrupt. Do you need that grave prepared?”

  “No. I was just reviewing the file and thought I’d better double-check the information.” I repeated the figure Uncle Wayne had entered in the estimate.

  “That’s correct,” she confirmed. “And I remember now that I couldn’t find the family’s plots listed in the registry.”

  “Confusion on our end. Don’t worry about it. I’m curious, since we both deal with a lot of funerals, what was so crazy that day?”

  She laughed. “Have you ever had someone fall out of a tree?”

  “No. That would be a first.”

  “Well, one of the mourners climbed a tree about forty yards away. Rumor was there was some kind of family rift and he didn’t want to be seen. One of our gardeners spotted him. In his hurry to climb down, he fell. He gave a yell loud enough to be heard by those at the graveside. Then he ran, or rather hobbled, through the monuments to his car on the other side of the hill. Some of the men sitting under the funeral canopy got up and started chasing him, which caused even more confusion.”

  “They catch him?”

  “No. He managed to get away. We don’t know how long he’d been up there. The interment was at ten. One of those gravesides before the church service at eleven. When you called, we were dealing with the police.”

  “The police were there for a man in a tree?”

  “The police were monitoring the attendees. The deceased was Bobby Santona, alleged head of the Santona crime family. He died in prison. Police speculated the man in the tree could have been taking pictures for some rival.”

  “Did he have a camera?”

  “Not that anyone saw. And as far as I know, he was never identified. Our gardener was asked to look at mug shots. Either he didn’t recognize the man or he was too scared to say he did.”

  “Are there a lot of Santona plots?”

  “Oh, yes. They’ve got a big section with who goes where all recorded. When a gang war breaks out, we can have multiple burials on the same day. I guess things must be calmer in North Carolina.”

  “Not really. I was once shot at a graveside service. I’ve got father and son gunshot victims to be buried next week. Some guy falling out of a tree would be a welcomed relief.”

  When I hung up, I looked at the notepad where I’d written “Bobby Santona.” Was a jailed crime boss in Paterson, New Jersey, connected to our killings? Bobby Santona—Robert Sinclair. They couldn’t be the same person, but they could be in the same family. I did an Internet search on Bobby Santona. He’d been convicted four years earlier on racketeering charges. One of the frauds involved tire disposal where his crew would pick up worn tires from trucking firms and then have an inside man process them through a New Jersey state-run facility without charging the firms the required fee. Instead, Santona would collect a fee lower than the state’s. The trucking firms had lower expenses and Santona kept the money. New Jersey couldn’t understand why tire disposal expenses were out of ratio with collected revenue. Then one of the family members was flipped by the FBI—not only on the tire scheme but other illegal operations as well. He was said to be close to the mobster’s books and his identity was withheld from the press.

  Robert Sinclair, on the day of Bobby Santona’s funeral, needed treatment in Gainesboro for a broken leg. I logged onto Google maps and checked the travel time from N
ew Jersey. Just under eleven hours. Susan got the call from the hospital twelve hours after the tree escapade. The trip was doable, although he must have been in a hell of a lot of pain. How much pain could you endure if you had a mob hit team pursuing you?

  Another thought struck me. Was Janet Sinclair’s sudden need to meet with Archie and me that July day fueled by her husband’s return to New Jersey? Had he insisted on attending a funeral service despite her objections? Was that urgency rekindled by Toby McKay’s attack on Commissioner James? The connections were tenuous at best. I feared so tenuous that if we moved too quickly and telegraphed our suspicions, evidence would be destroyed and the Sinclairs could disappear. Following that trail had to be done quietly and secretly.

  I printed out the information from the computer and took it to Tommy Lee.

  His assistant Marge stopped me as I passed her desk.

  “The sheriff’s in with Special Agent Ferguson of the SBI. He said you should join them.”

  I looked at the closed door and then the pages in my hand. I didn’t want to disclose the Santona possibility beyond Tommy Lee. “Marge, can I leave these with you? I’ll discuss them with the sheriff after Ferguson leaves.”

  “You got it.” She slid the papers into her top drawer.

  “How long has Ferguson been in there?”

  “Maybe fifteen minutes. No longer.”

  “Thanks.” I knocked on the door and waited until I heard the familiar gruff, “Come in.”

  Tommy Lee and Ferguson were both seated, the sheriff behind his desk and the SBI agent in one of the two visitors’ chairs. As I took a seat, I noticed a stack of computer printouts under Tommy Lee’s right hand.

  He patted them with his palm. “Sid was kind enough to bring these by in person. It’s the ballistics report on the slugs from both murders. Rufus and Sonny were killed by the same gun. A twenty-two. No match to either man’s rifle. Gas and powder burns on Sonny’s entry wound prove the muzzle was placed directly against the skull, an awkward angle to use if the gun was a rifle.”

  “A revolver or semi-automatic?” I asked.