by Randall Wood
As Phil rang up Sam purchase, he counted fourteen trophies, all airplanes.
“Cash or credit today?”
“Is cash okay? My wife will say I spent too much.”
Phil smiled back. He knew that deal.
“As long as the boy appreciates it, it’s money well spent, right?”
“You bet.” Sam watched Phil put the receipt in the bag and slide it across the counter to him. “Tell the boy to keep the nose up. You have a nice day.”
“Thanks, Phil. I will.”
• • •
“One more night, my man, and you can retire very rich!” The heavyweight champion of the world was in the green room with his manager about to give an interview for the upcoming fight. His manager was expounding on the wisdom of the arrangement they—or rather he—had made with the promoter. Junior tuned him out.
Junior Mayfield was never considered much of an intellectual. He had made his way through life with his fists from a young age and had done very well. He’d been the champion for five years, and had defended his title four times with little difficulty. But in this last year, he’d found himself doing more commercials than training. His manager was no longer spending as much time with him. His failed marriage and subsequent divorce earlier this year had also taken its toll, on both his wallet and his body. As a result, he was not up to his usual shape for the last fight. Nor was he ready for the young Englishman’s speed and strength. It was only his experience and longer reach that had saved him, and he knew it. He had seen the tapes. According to his manager and the promoter, the man was unaware that he was being used and had fought with all he had. Junior had to accept the fact that this was his last fight. Tonight, he would step into one of those sledgehammer left hooks and go down as agreed, collect his nice check afterward, and then disappear. A rich man with a good life, as his manager kept telling him—if he didn’t get hurt.
A knock on the door was followed by a shouted, “Five minutes, Mr. Mayfield!”
Five minutes, he mused. This was all over five months ago. Only a few knew it for sure. There were lots of rumors out there at every fight, but this one was definitely strange. The bookies believed the rumors this time. They should have had the kid in on the deal at the last fight. Maybe they had tried, but he wouldn’t go for it? Who knows? He would see what the kid did in five years. Would he be sitting in this chair like he was now, contemplating the end of his career and counting his money? Would his manager take care of him or sell him out? His was still babbling from a couch on the other side of the room. Money-money-money; it was all he talked about. Well, after tomorrow, he wouldn’t have to ever see him again. After tomorrow he was going to visit his grandmother. Maybe buy her a newer house, one with a bigger kitchen so he could sit and watch her cook for him. She loved to cook for him.
“One minute, Mr. Mayfield!” Some kid with a clipboard at the door. He got up with a sigh, straightened his tie in the mirror, and walked out to the stage. He would do the usual trash talk for the host and predict another victory. He would try to be civil: his grandmother might be watching.
• • •
While Junior Mayfield gave his last interview as heavyweight champion, Sam enjoyed a quiet game of blackjack. His table had himself and what looked to be a retired gentleman from the north; Sam could tell by the freshly sunburned nose and farmer’s tan. As the man bobbed his head to get his cards in the proper lens of his trifocals, Sam looked over the man’s shoulder at the noisy craps table. Profit and his crew had been holding court for the last hour and were getting louder. He thought he recognized one of the other players from a commercial. Or maybe it was a movie? Probably a rap star from Profit’s old days who now thought he was an actor.
“Sir?”
Sam looked down and saw he had an ace to go with his jack-of-hearts. He flipped it over, and watched as the dealer promptly dealt himself a nine for nineteen. Sam was up around six hundred for the hour.
It looked to Sam like Profit was settled in for a while. But his ladies were missing; maybe in the room? Sam collected his chips and left the table to cash out. Another yell went up from the craps table as he walked by.
Once in the room, Sam locked the door and turned off the lights he had left on. He paused as his eyes adjusted, then walked to the bed. There was enough light from the neon for him to see his target clearly. Reaching under the bed, he removed the two tripods and quickly set them up. First the laser: he moved it into position behind the plant and thumbed it on. The beam was invisible to normal human sight, so he had to look through the targeting scope to aim it. The lens allowed him to actually see the light. He panned it across the floor he knew Profit always stayed at, and listened at each window. This laser wasn’t just some fancy light; it was a highly effective listening device. By shining the light on a pane of glass, it allowed him to use it as a sounding board. Any sound made in the room vibrated the glass. The laser detected these vibrations, and was able to convert them back into sound, which would then be transmitted through the earphones that Sam was now wearing. He had spent the afternoon tuning the laser to the size and thickness of the MGM Grand windows. He had Profit’s room down to a possibility of three, and was even able to recognize a few voices. Sam thought it was one of the coolest toys he had ever played with. He heard one of the crew bitching to another about having to stay in the room with the hardware. A TV was on in the background, but Sam could make out most of the conversation. Obviously junior members of the crew; most likely one of them was the driver. Sam tightened the set screws to hold the laser on target, and reached for the camera. After training the camera on the same window, he plugged in the monitor and let it warm up. A green tinted scene slowly came into view. He could make out a TV and what looked like a person sitting on a couch. The infrared capabilities were at their maximum range, but Sam just wanted it to determine numbers of people in the room. This would be fine. The second man could now be seen walking across the room from the bathroom.
“Where you park the girls?”
“Dropped them off at Caesars; they probably spent ten grand by now. Luther’s with them. He’s too big and ugly to screw, so Profit don’t worry about him tagging along. Better him playing baby-sitter to them two. At least the car don’t bitch, ya know? Hate being stuck in this room, though.”
“Shit, man, I’m here all night. At least you get to go out later.”
“What you mean ‘later’?”
“The boys said they going to Cheetahs! Why you think he had you dump them girls at the damn mall?”
“No shit? I’m up for that. Don’t worry, my man. I’ll get a lap dance for ya.”
“Fuck you. Change the damn channel. Lakers playing tonight.”
Sam put down the earphones long enough to check the phone book for Cheetahs. A big strip bar not too far away. Must be popular by the way the page was dog-eared. He opened the small room safe and pulled out the transmitters and directional radio. He applied the self-adhesive strips to the first three transmitters, and the magnetic mounts to the remaining two. He then pulled out the laptop and punched up three different routes to and from Cheetahs with his mapping software. The boys should be well liquored up and have their guard down by the time they got there. He would be ready when the driver left. He slipped the earphones back on and settled down on the bed to wait. He muted his own TV, so he could listen to the game from across the street.
The state of Georgia holds 47,208 inmates in its prisons.
Approximately 31,629 are repeat offenders.
—TEN—
Sydney Lewis was in her dungeon cell. At least that was what she called it. It was the one she had been assigned when she first came to work for the FBI. It was in a sub-basement of the building. No windows, little heat. The ceiling was decorated with a variety of pipes leading in all directions. It was government gray with thirty-year-old furniture. But it did have some things she liked: it was close to the labs; it was far from the brass; nobody else wanted it; and best of all, it had a
sticker on the door that designated it a bomb shelter. She was one of the only people to have two offices in the building, although she hardly used the one upstairs that came with her promotion.
Sydney was tired. After three long days and nights, she was going over the stack of information that she and her team had compiled. It added up to a few inches of paper that had landed on her desk an hour ago. The worst part of it all was that despite all the money and man-hours that had gone into the report, they had not turned up anything that she would call solid enough to use in court. Nevertheless, she had to review it all to make sure before she signed her name to it.
First the car. The car contained thirty-two different sets of prints. Twenty-eight of which had so far been identified as various friends, clients, girlfriends, and the wife. Her team would work at identifying the remaining four until the case was closed, but she doubted it would matter. She also had the now famous 9-iron that had deflected the round after it had done its job. The impact had been on the reverse side of the club, and had been rather obvious. The round was still out there in the suburban woods of Orlando. Mel’s people would keep looking until they found it. Since the target had moved through the intersection after the shot was delivered, plus the subsequent deflection through the windshield, which may have altered the trajectory even further, the possible places the round could have landed were numerous. Better Mel than her.
“Good luck, guys,” she voiced out loud. She squirmed in her seat to get her gun out of her ribs.
Next on the list was the thick report on the rifle. A Remington 700 in .308: it was pricier than its competitors but not out of reach of most incomes. It was also the same rifle used by the US Army snipers. Coincidence? Jack didn’t think so. He claimed shooters usually stuck with what they knew. He should know; he was a shooter himself. And this shooter had impressed Jack. She knew Jack’s skill with a rifle, and if Jack was impressed, she was too. She was still working on her skills with a pistol, something Jack had helped with once. She had improved—at least Jack had said so; she needed more work.
Anyway, the chamber markings on the shells matched the markings on the test rounds. No surprise. The wrench in the works was that upon disassembly, it was discovered that the firing pin had been removed from the rifle. No way to match the shell casings—at least the one that had been used—to the rifle. The man had covered his tracks as much as possible: a professional. The fire had removed any hair, prints, and fibers.
Fibers. The fire had consumed everything, save a section of collar from a camouflage jumpsuit. No hair or DNA material recovered. There was also a one-inch section of face net, charred, no hair, nothing useable.
Latex. Also found in the fire. Same kind used in medical gloves. The lab even identified the brand: Diamond. Used in every hospital and ambulance in the country. Dead end.
Then there was the shoe. Twenty pages on the shoe: a Nike brand, size 11½, men’s. The man had a long stride. The book put him between 5’10” and 6’2", and about 200 lbs. The lab claimed the tread had no wear on it. The shooter had splurged on a brand new pair for the job.
Sydney sighed and looked at the clock: 10 p.m. again. She had a half-hour drive to her condo. Maybe she’d even get five hours sleep before she had to rise and be back in for a meeting. Or, she thought, looking across her office, there is always the couch.
• • •
Seven stories above her, Jack was not having a good day either.
Deacon was not pleased with the way this case was going. Jack sat in the man’s office while his boss paced in front of the windows. The current copy of the Orlando Sentinel was on the man’s desk blotter. Jack could see his own image, upside-down, on the front page. Same one that his wife had shown him on a tabloid TV show last night. The reporter had gotten some good shots of him working the scene. The car-jacking cover story hadn’t lasted a day. Danny Drake. Evidently the only guy to hang around long enough to see him. He was the only one to have pictures. He was the only one to know about the envelope. The man had covered all that in his first story, and had done two follow-ups on the life and times of T. Addicot. The case had turned cold. The wife was on the tube doing a good job of portraying the grieving widow. The golf buddies were demanding to know what was going on with the investigation. Larry and Dave had stayed behind and followed up for two days with no success. The information hounds on the second floor were sifting through the leads recovered from T’s office. There was a mountain of them. T. had screwed quite a few people over the years. Trying to pick one guy that was the most pissed was impossible, but they would run them all down best they could. Deacon had the Orlando office working double shifts until it was done.
“Have you got anything good to tell me, Jack?”
“We’re working everything we have, sir,” Jack replied. “I just don’t see anything promising. The guy who hit him was definitely a pro. He had researched the target for some time; Had to know he played golf every Saturday. It was the one thing he did on a standard timeline. A stranger in his little gated community would have been noticed. The lawyer’s office and the majority of his commute were too public. His schedule was chaotic. Then there’s the method the shooter used to do it. Ask the HRT guys. This guy is an excellent shot. He put it right in the brain stem, just as they are taught to do. Death is instantaneous. Plus, the way he disposed of the rifle and made his escape. He knows something about forensics, and he knows how to escape and evade. I’m ready to put money on the fact that this guy is current or ex-military, or maybe law enforcement. It would take a lot of time and self-study to get this knowledge as a civilian.”
“You’re checking with DOD and CIA?”
“Yes. DOD will give up all their past and current snipers. Maybe not the Delta guys; we’ll have to wait and see. CIA? Who knows if they ever give up anything.” Jack spread his arms to say he didn’t have the clout for that request.
“I’ll talk to their Director of Operations; he owes me a favor. He’ll want something in return. Maybe not today, but somewhere down the road. I hate being in debt to those guys. You think the letter is real?” Deacon raised his right eyebrow at Jack.
Jack hated when he did this. His wife would do this when she thought she was being fed bullshit by her husband. She was often right. It always gave him a guilty feeling.
Jack let out a sigh. He had been thinking about the letter for three days. The hit said professional. Most professionals do what they do for money. If it was a business situation, why leave the letter and the newspaper clippings? If the shooter wanted press, why would he address it to the FBI, and why to Jack in particular? The price of fame, he figured. It was like the shooter was giving them a chance to do something before he raised the ante. The shooter had offered them a preview before he went public.
He referred himself as “we” in the letter; was he working for someone, or with someone? The letter promised more. Was the shooter waiting to see how they reacted? If so, what would he do next?
“Yes sir, I do,” Jack replied. “But this letter, it wasn’t a threat It’s an announcement.”
• • •
Paul was at that moment printing off the same front page article that was on the Deputy Director’s desk. He was following the Orlando reporter’s work. He was the only one to have some key information, and he also wrote well: something to consider.
“This may be our guy,” Paul said to his fish.
Paul swiveled around to his online computer. He randomly tapped the keys while he weighed the risk of emailing Sam, or waiting for a phone call. The urge to act was strong now that they had gotten started. The next letter was going to the press. They had decided on the Washington Post, and the New York Times, with another going to CNN. Sam had wanted the first to go to the FBI exclusively, for reasons Paul had never received a straight answer on. He had finally just dropped it. But maybe this guy from the Orlando Sentinel was a better choice? He was young and therefore hungry. He had a web address printed next to his byline. Convenient. He wo
uld run it by Sam and see what he thought. Tomorrow was the fight in Vegas, so no doubt Sam was busy. He would wait until after the Vegas job to broach the subject. He picked up the remote on the desk and turned up the volume on the TV. CNN was on, as usual, and he could see the Vegas strip behind the talking head, just the sports guy talking about the fight. He’d leave it on to keep him company for a while; the fish was not exactly a big talker.
Time for some research. He clicked himself online and went to the website he had gotten from the sports card trade magazine. Sports cards, the things he had collected as a kid, were now a billion-dollar industry. Made him sick when he thought of the ones he had thrown away during one of his many moves. The guest list for the card show was still posted and unchanged. The dates were the same. He saw a 1-800 number for information, but decided to pass on that. Maybe if he obtained another cell phone.
He logged out of the site and punched up Sam’s treatment schedule. He wasn’t due for any chemotherapy for another week. He should be all right if he stayed on schedule out west.
Last Monday had been terrible. Sam had made it home all right, but an hour later had a spell of vomiting. It lasted a few hours until he passed out. He had some chills the next day, but mostly it was the fatigue that hit him. Paul didn’t even try to feed him that day. He put some of Sam’s favorite crackers next to the bed, but few of them disappeared. Sam finally showed some strength Tuesday night, and by Wednesday was ready to go to the airport. Paul successfully forced two meals down Sam’s throat before the first left. This was actually a quicker recovery than last time. Sam had told Paul about the Procrit Dr. Maher had added to his regimen. They both agreed that it must be what was helping. Whatever it was, Sam said he felt good—good enough to go to work.
He was contemplating a phone call to Sam when the cell in his jacket pocket started ringing. He reached for it hanging on the back of his chair, and managed to answer on the third ring. Only one person had the number.
