Secret Undertaking

by Mark de Castrique

  Silence. I thought for a second the call had been dropped.

  Then Brookshire spoke, his voice a deep rumble with a hint of menace. “What are you getting at, Tommy Lee?”

  “I think you know. A green Ford Escape parked in her driveway, and a Semper Fi sticker on the bumper. ‘Semper Fi. Always faithful.’ At least it wasn’t on her car.”

  “Knock it off. And I’ll thank you to leave now.”

  “Would you care to give me an explanation for my report?”

  “Okay, okay. She and her husband are in WITSEC. The Santona family would get to them if they could, so be damned careful what you spread around.”

  “And you’re her, dare I use the word, handler?”

  “I’m their contact. She called me. She’s spooked by these murders that look like mob hits. She’s been jumpy since Robert made the harebrained attempt to sneak back to his father’s funeral. I tried to calm her down. When I left, she was feeling better. End of story.”

  “I see. So, that’s your explanation? You calming her down? Does she always wear a white terrycloth robe over nothing but her new identity? Do you always say goodbye with a kiss and what appears to be a strip search?”

  “That’s your word against mine and hers,” Brookshire barked.

  “Not against my word. My deputy was the witness. It’s your’s and Janet’s word against his…and the pictures.”

  Pictures? Tommy Lee was really playing hardball.

  “Pictures?” Brookshire echoed my own question.

  “Great thing about these new cell phones. They’re also high-definition cameras, and the files can be stored in the cloud immediately. An easy download to the U.S. Marshals’ office in Washington.”

  I mentally kicked myself for not having the sense to have actually taken pictures. Tommy Lee’s lie carried such devastating consequences for Brookshire that the marshal would either cave or try to kill him.

  I heard rough scratches as Tommy Lee evidently lifted the phone from his belt.

  “And if I don’t report to Barry within the next ten minutes, he’s been told to send the photos on. Then it’s out of our hands, Luther.”

  “You son of a bitch. You’re threatening me.”

  “I don’t like being lied to. You’re much more involved than you told us. I want to know everything about the Sinclairs and everything about your relationship with Janet.”

  “And in exchange?”

  “The pictures won’t exist. You have my word.”

  I heard the scraping sound as Tommy Lee returned the phone to his belt. Then a moment of silence.

  Finally, Brookshire cracked. “All right, damn you. Robert and Joan Santona were placed here about three and a half years ago. I wasn’t involved with their flip in New Jersey. Prosecutors handled that. They were admitted to WITSEC after giving up documents proving Bobby Santona, Robert’s father, oversaw a major fraud conspiracy in the state’s tire-recycling program.”

  Brookshire’s statement matched what I had learned from the news reports of the trial.

  “So, Robert Santona didn’t have to testify in court?” Tommy Lee asked.

  “No. The evidence was presented to the grand jury with the story it had been confiscated in a raid of Robert Santona’s home. Actually, Robert and Joan knew the raid was coming. They had alerted the FBI as to the existence of the records.”

  “Why would they turn on the family?”

  “Because the family discovered Robert and Joan had been skimming off the top. Joan actually kept the books. They might spare Robert, but his wife wasn’t blood kin.”

  I remembered Brookshire’s earlier comment that Robert Santona wasn’t the smartest bee in the hive. That would be the queen bee. Queen Joan. And I felt I had learned the source of the money that had gone into the single premium insurance policies.

  “So, Robert and Joan went into WITSEC before the arrests and trial?” Tommy Lee asked.

  “Yes. The marshals pulled them out at three in the morning. We put the word out on the street that they’d gone to join Jimmy Hoffa.”

  “Do you have any reason to believe the Santonas, aka Sinclairs, are involved in any way with a food stamp scam?”

  “No. Frankly, I don’t see how they could even set it up. They’re outsiders. Who would trust them?”

  “It might not be about trust. It might be about fear.”

  “Okay,” Brookshire conceded. “But who would fear them? Look at Robert. That human butterball’s not exactly an intimidator.”

  “How did they wind up in Gainesboro?”

  “Janet thought out west would be too alien, but she was afraid to stay in the northeast. The North Carolina mountains seemed remote enough with a small town less likely to attract any of the people from their old lives. Then Robert had to go screw it all up last July by sneaking back for the funeral.”

  “Any evidence that he was trailed back to Gainesboro?”

  “No. But the dummy didn’t have the sense to use a rental car. He’s pretty sure he got away from the cemetery before anyone read the license tag. But they could have seen the colors of the plate. And these two gangland-style murders have put at least a regional spotlight on Gainesboro. That’s why Janet’s been upset.”

  “How long has your affair been going on?” Tommy Lee asked.

  “Only a few months. And that’s all it is. Comfort and companionship. Tommy Lee, you don’t know what it’s like coming home to an empty house every night.” His voice choked. “Janet’s lonely too. Her husband’s about as affectionate as a dead trout, and she’s afraid to make friends because of her history. She and I…well, it just happened.”

  “All right, Luther. I’m taking you at your word, although the cop part of my brain is screaming you’ve shoveled in a lot of bullshit. Tell me this, and for God’s sake, don’t lie to me. Have you told Janet Sinclair anything about our investigation?”

  “No. Not a word. I have a cop brain too. I might have used poor judgment in the affair, but I’d never compromise your case.”

  “How often do you see her?”

  “When Robert plays golf. Sometimes during the week if he’s on a sales route that we’re confident will keep him away.”

  “Was Robert playing golf last Saturday?” Tommy Lee asked.

  “No. He wanted to watch the parade. He and Janet weren’t too far from the shooting. They left almost immediately. She dropped Robert at home, and then made an excuse to run an errand so she could phone me. She was worried she might show up in some cell phone video if it made the news. That’s the kind of footage that can go viral.”

  “Sid Ferguson headed up the SBI investigation,” Tommy Lee said. “Talk to him if you’re concerned.”

  “I’ve looked through YouTube and Facebook. Mostly posts of the first responders. You’re in some clips, keeping people back. I looked carefully and Robert and Janet never appeared.”

  Another pause, and then Brookshire added, “Your deputy. Shouldn’t you phone him?”

  “Did you hear everything?” Tommy Lee asked me the question as soon as he returned to his car.

  “Yes. Do you believe him?”

  “For the most part. Unless he’s withholding damning information, he doesn’t offer anything that links the Sinclairs to the EBT scam. All we have is Archie’s leak to them the night before Sonny’s murder.”

  “Does that change our approach?”

  “No. I’m going to look into this Staples Sources company. Next week I might have you sit in the post office in Spartanburg to see who collects mail from the P.O. box.”

  “I forgot to tell you. My EBT card came this morning. If Wilmer’s Convenience Corner is open tomorrow, I might drop by.”

  “So much for your weekend off,” Tommy Lee said. “But, yeah, go ahead and get underway. Monday afternoon, I’ll be at the double burial for Toby and Sonny. Pauline
McKay called the department and asked for protection. I’d promised that, so I’ll do it.”

  “You also promised to feed her chickens. You been doing that too?”

  “Reece is on that assignment.”

  “Reece? Didn’t he take that as an insult?”

  “Nah. I told him he could have the eggs.”

  Mom, Susan, and I attended church Sunday morning. Afterwards, we went to Rockwells’ Cafeteria, a Gainesboro fixture for over fifty years. Half our congregation was eating there and a steady stream of diners came by our table to ask about Uncle Wayne.

  We took Mom back to the funeral home where she wanted to get ready for Wayne’s return the next day. I’d forgotten to alert Tommy Lee that I couldn’t stake out the Spartanburg post office until we got my uncle settled. Given the way hospital paperwork can be processed, his actual release time was anybody’s guess.

  I’d also wanted to have a conversation with Mom about her intended move to Alderway. Fletcher’s suggestion to get three appraisals of the funeral home made sense, and Susan’s offer to use the money from the sale of her condo meant we might be able to borrow enough funds for the shortfall with the existing lease to the funeral business covering the monthly mortgage payment. Fletcher’s fiancée, Cindy, would be the first banker I’d approach. Of course, the wild card was still Uncle Wayne.

  My unannounced family conference was short-circuited when Mom said she’d like to lie down for a few minutes. The barrage of well-wishers at church and lunch had been exhausting. She insisted that Susan and I should leave and enjoy our Sunday afternoon.

  After Mom retired to her bedroom, Susan said, “You wanted to use that EBT card today, didn’t you?”

  “Yes. But I don’t know if the store is even open. It’s kind of a long drive for nothing.”

  “Did you check the Internet?”

  I laughed. “You think a place called Wilmer’s Convenience Corner is going to have a website?”

  She pulled out her smartphone, rapidly thumbed the virtual keyboard, and then studied the screen. “No website.”

  “See.”

  “A Facebook page. ‘Wilmer’s Convenience Corner—If we don’t have it, you don’t need it.’ They’re open one to six, Sunday afternoons.” She dropped her phone back in her handbag. “You can thank me tonight. And, Sherlock, you’d better change into some jeans and an old shirt if you want half a chance at pulling this off.”

  I found the store on the outskirts of Clyde, North Carolina, a small town two counties over from Gainesboro. Wilmer’s Convenience Corner was indeed on the corner of Highway 23 and an unlined blacktop that wound through a warren of modest houses. It was the kind of place where kids would ride their bicycles for a Coke and a candy bar, and retired men would stop to chew the fat. There was one island of gas pumps and a single pump by the left corner of the white concrete-block building that dispensed kerosene.

  A man in his mid-thirties was pumping gas into an old muddy Bronco. I parked along the side of the building, and, as I walked to the front door, he gave me a nod that was nothing more than an acknowledgment of my existence.

  A thin man with tired eyes sat at the front counter. Behind him on a stool was a red-haired girl of ten or eleven. Her nose was in a Baby-Sitters Club paperback, and she didn’t look up when the bells tinkling above the door announced my entry.

  The man spoke the universal line—“Can I hep ya?”

  “Just picking up a few things. Y’all take EBT cards, don’t ya?”

  “Yeah, for qualified purchases.”

  I glanced at the door to the man at the Bronco. “Oh, these will be qualified, all right.”

  I picked up a green plastic hand-basket and started walking the aisles. The Bronco’s engine roared to life and the gas customer drove away. Now it was just the three of us.

  I chose some bread, a box of breakfast cereal, a can of pork and beans, and then some items that weren’t covered by SNAP benefits. I picked up a small bag of dog food, a roll of paper towels, dishwashing detergent, and then I hit the cooler for a six-pack of Budweiser.

  I carried my purchases to the counter. “I’d like a carton of Winstons too. I flipped open my wallet and laid the EBT card atop the box of cereal.

  “Some of these items don’t qualify, sir.”

  I ignored him and turned to the girl. “How’s the book, Norie? I hope it has a happy ending for everyone.”

  The child looked up at me with a smile that transformed into confusion when she saw a total stranger. She glanced at her father.

  A tremor ran through his body. “Sorry, but they don’t qualify.” The words came out as a nervous whisper.

  “Oh, Buddy, I’m sure they do. Go ahead and ring them up, and then they can find their way back to the shelves. The usual split is fine.” I looked back at Norie. “Didn’t mean to interrupt your reading. Your dad says you’re a smart girl. He’s very proud of you.”

  “Thank you,” she said, obviously aware that something wasn’t right.

  “Oh, and I’ll need the receipt, Buddy. You know, just a routine audit to make sure what you report and I report are the same.”

  He gave a barely perceptible nod and began keying in the prices. The total came to sixty-three dollars and seventy-six cents. I gave him my card and he swiped the stripe. A few seconds later the machine spit out an approved slip. The item prices matched but he’d changed the codes to nothing but approved products. I realized the normal procedure might have been nothing more than ringing up a phantom sale. On the other hand, Buddy Smith probably read my behavior as a test, a test he was desperate not to fail.

  He handed me thirty-one, eighty-eight—half the purchase total. “Have a nice day,” he murmured.

  “Sorry to make you restock this time.” I left him with the pile of groceries.

  Once in the jeep, my stomach unknotted. Still, I felt godawful. Scaring that poor man and his child. I dreaded the next step which would put Buddy Smith in a vise. I’d be back with my deputy credentials, and after a repeat performance, threaten to take him into custody. But that could wait a day or two. I wasn’t going to do that in front of his daughter. I’d make the bust while she was in school.

  On the way home, I phoned Tommy Lee.

  “You did well,” he said. “Let’s plan a return visit on Tuesday morning.”

  “Okay, but after the girl’s at school.”

  “I understand.”

  “And then, after we get my uncle home tomorrow, I’ll go to the Spartanburg post office.”

  “No, you won’t,” Tommy Lee said.

  “I won’t?”

  “Funny thing about that post office. I’m on my way back from Spartanburg now. I decided to ride down and check it out. Even though the post office is closed, you can still get to the boxes. Except the P.O. box on the Staples Sources invoice, 8009, doesn’t exist. The highest number is 8000. Those checks were either picked up at the stores in person or mailed to another address. I guess we’re back to your new friend Buddy Smith and the hope that each week he’s writing a check to Staples Sources.”

  “That’s one avenue,” I said. “Yet, the checks are being cashed at some bank, if not in Spartanburg, then it could be anywhere in the country. But if this is a local operation, they might keep it here. What do we need to do to get account names?”

  “I can get a court order. Or I could first ask my lead investigator to use his winning smile and charm the information out of every bank contact he knows. So, be sure and brush your teeth, you charmer, you.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Sunday evening, Susan and I sat in our customary chairs on the back deck with Democrat stretched out at our feet. I’d opted for a beer; she chose sparkling water over wine, citing seven o’clock surgery the next morning. I’d briefed her on my encounter with Buddy Smith and his daughter and she’d agreed with my efforts to shield the girl as much
as possible.

  “You think they’re in any danger?” she asked.

  “Not at the moment. I made my approach when it was just the three of us. He’ll continue whatever the established practice is. If we succeed in getting his cooperation, then things could change. I’d want to make sure the girl was someplace out of harm’s way.”

  “Did you have your gun with you this afternoon?”

  “Snug in the small of my back. But I don’t think I have anything to fear from Buddy Smith. The man was terrified by whom he thought I represented.”

  “I don’t know about that,” she said skeptically. “Don’t underestimate what people will do to protect their children.”

  Democrat lifted his head and growled. I heard the crunch of tires on gravel.

  “Who could that be?” Susan asked.

  “I don’t know.” I laughed. “Archie’s supposed to be out of town.”

  “Let’s go see.” She rose from her chair. “I’ll put on a pot of coffee.”

  We went to the door, Democrat leading the way. Through the front windows, I saw a gray sedan behind my jeep.

  “That looks like Sid Ferguson’s car. He’s with the SBI.”

  I was wrong. The driver’s door opened and a man in a dark suit stepped into the glow of the front porch lights.

  “It’s the food stamp investigator, Collier Crockett. This is definitely police business.”

  “Then I’ll put on the coffee and take Democrat and a book to the bedroom. Let me know when he leaves.”

  I stepped onto the porch. “Good evening, Collier.”

  “Clayton,” he snapped. “Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?” His jaw was tight and his eyes narrow slits. Whatever he thought I’d done was driving him to either slug me or have a coronary on the spot.

  “Standing on my porch. On my property. And if you don’t ratchet down that tone I’ll have to charge you with trespassing.”

  He stopped at the bottom of the porch steps and looked up at me. “You think you’re cute, don’t you? We’ll see how cute when I report you blew an undercover operation months in the making.”