by John Foxjohn
No one on the team hailed from Texas, except David. Only Melissa had been here before. She’d spent four months assigned to the Houston field office before David recruited her to join the team.
After leaving Houston, the scenery changed to pine trees and evergreens, intermingled amid hardwoods with different colored leaves. For the most part, the medians that divided the highway still sprouted green grass.
After exiting 45 to Highway 19 at Huntsville, Morgan leaned forward. “Melissa, is it true you worked with Mason before the bureau persuaded him to join?”
Melissa looked into the rearview mirror and nodded.
“What’s he like?” Morgan asked.
Morgan looked at her like a starving dog. She didn’t like the way his eyes kept straying to her crotch, and he always found a way to get behind her. She’d caught him several times staring at her ass. When she did, he’d give her a little come-hither smile. It didn’t bother him one bit. She’d had to put up with his kind all her life.
She forced a smile. “He’s a good person to have on your side, and a bad one to have as an enemy.”
Morgan smoothed his perfect hair. “He doesn’t appear like someone that anyone would stand aside for. Besides, everyone in this car has more experience in the bureau than he does—even you. How’d he become the head of this team?”
Melissa glanced at him in the mirror. Her smile dissolved. “He has a baby face and boyish grin. He laughs and jokes a lot. He fools people. I’m telling you. Don’t underestimate him. He’s considered a fantastic investigator and for a good reason. He is. That’s why the bureau sent Beeker in person to recruit him. He’s smart and intuitive. He also knows more about forensics than anyone in this country.”
“Okay. He’s a good investigator,” Andy said. “You made him sound dangerous.”
She slammed on the brakes when a car cut in front, swerving to the side. Waiting for cars to pass, she veered to the right lane before responding. “I did mean he is dangerous. He’s a decorated Viet Nam veteran, and has killed four people on duty.” Melissa’s eyes met Morgan’s in the mirror. “Let me give you a little piece of advice. Don’t challenge David or his authority.”
CHAPTER 6
For the first time since the trip started, John joined in their conversation. “He—he’s killed f—our people?”
Melissa adjusted the seat, put the car on cruise control and leaned back. “David’s great to work for. If you’re loyal, do what he tells you, and learn, there won’t be any problems. But trust me, you do not want to push him. There’s something else you need to know. David doesn’t do this because he needs a job. He doesn’t. He works here because he loves the work.”
Melvin frowned, and adjusted his glasses. “What do you mean?”
Melissa smiled. “If the bureau told us we’d have to work for free, I imagine we’d quit. David wouldn’t.”
“Is he Daddy Warbucks or something?” Andy asked.
Melissa chuckled. “Nope. But he is a multi-millionaire.”
* * * *
As lights flashed in his rearview mirror, Tanton Whistlam slammed his hand on the steering wheel. He hated cops. They harassed him, and he’d complained to the chief several times, but it didn’t do any good. Now, the damn secretary wouldn’t let him speak to the chief.
He thought about not stopping, but the bastards would arrest and beat the shit out of him. What was their excuse for stopping him this time? He pulled to the curb when the siren wailed behind him, keeping his hands on the wheel. He didn’t want to be some rookie’s mistake.
As the officer approached, he rolled his window down.
“Sir, I stopped you because you ran the stop sign back there. Can I see your driver’s license?”
Tanton’s eyes narrowed. This kind of shit was what he tried to tell the chief. There wasn’t a stop sign back there. They hassled him all the time. “Sure you can. Why don’t you tell me where the stop sign is, rookie?”
“Sir, I need to see your driver’s license.”
Reaching into his pocket, he jerked out his wallet and thrust it at the cop.
“Sir, take your license out of your wallet, please.”
Crap. Guess the stupid cop wasn’t a rookie after all. He didn’t fall for that one. Taking his license out, he threw it out the window.
He wasn’t surprised when the cop stepped back from the door. “Step out of your vehicle, sir!”
“Crap. What for?”
“Last chance. Step out of the vehicle.”
He slammed open the door. “Now, are you satisfied?”
“Not hardly. Pick up that license and hand it to me.”
“Pick it up yourself.”
For the first time, a smile creased the cop’s mouth. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way. It makes no difference to me.”
Lying bastard. He was begging to arrest him. Tanton knew what would happen at the jail. He bent, picked up the license and handed it to the cop. Without taking his eyes off him, the Lufkin cop took the license and stepped to the rear of the car, calling in a check on his walkie-talkie.
“Hey. You never showed me the stop sign I’m supposed to have run.”
As the cop talked on the radio, he pointed in the direction Whistlam came. Three blocks up and visible was a four way stop sign. Crap, how’d he miss that?
As he looked around, the cop approached. “Mr. Whistlam, is this the correct address on your license?”
“No.”
“How long has it been since you lived at this address?”
“About a year.”
“Did you know your license has expired?”
“Nope.”
Did you know your vehicle registration has expired?”
Tanton put his hands on his hips. “What other bullshit charges are you going to trump up?”
“Oh, just one more. Your inspection sticker is also expired.”
“So fucking what?”
The cop placed Tanton’s license in his pocket. “So you’re under arrest. Please resist.”
Four hours later, Tanton’s mother paid the two hundred and eighty-six dollar cash bond. She carried him to the wrecker yard where the bastard had his car towed, and paid the seventy-five dollar towing fee.
After sitting in the driver’s seat, he cranked the engine. Cold air hit him in the face, and he realized what had happened, but too late. Gagging and crying, he jerked the door open, diving face first out of the car. Gravel ripped both his hands. He sat up trying to breathe, but puked on himself. With his eyes swollen, he screamed and cussed, banging his hands on the ground.
When he regained his sight, he heaved himself off the gravel and rolled all four windows down, leaned in and turned the air conditioner off. Sick to his stomach, he drove to the nearest phone booth and called the police department. He demanded to register a complaint. They transferred him to a lieutenant.
“Listen motherfucker. Fucking officer named Millstead arrested me for no reason, and the son of a bitch sprayed mace in my air conditioner and pointed the damn jets at my face. I could have died.”
He seethed with anger as the lieutenant laughed. “This isn’t fucking funny.”
“Well, sir. How do you know Officer Millstead did it? Did you see it?”
“Hell, no. I was in jail.”
“I can assure you, sir, we will investigate this to the fullest. Why don’t you return to the station and give us a full statement?”
He slammed the phone down while the bastard laughed. He wouldn’t fall for that shit. Last time he did, they arrested him again for some bullshit warrant.
He jammed his hand in his pocket, found another quarter, and dialed another number.
“Where have you been?” the voice on the other end asked.
“In jail again.”
A long silence greeted Whistlam and he fidgeted before asking, “Are you still there?”
“I’m here, but I’m going to tell you something. We have problems coming our way. Have you ever heard o
f David Mason?”
Whistlam frowned. “No. Who is he?”
“He’s the FBI agent who just blew into town and has taken charge of Justin’s murder investigation.”
“So? He can’t find out shit.”
“That is why I do the thinking here. You stay out of trouble. Do you hear me?”
“I hear you but he can’t find out anything more than these other shitbirds.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about. Mason worked as a Houston homicide detective before he joined the FBI. He is the one who trained Justin. He is not only pissed off and wants revenge, he also happens to be one of the best in this whole damn country. If he digs deep enough, he will find us. He will dig. You stay your butt out of trouble and away from him, or I will be forced to make some adjustments.”
Whistlam’s hands trembled when he hung up the phone.
* * * *
At three o’clock, David drove south on Highway 59 in Lufkin, exited and did a U-turn to get to the other side of the street. He rented six rooms for the agents at the LaQuinta Inn, but at the last minute switched his room from a regular to a large suite. He also rented a conference room.
David arrived at the sheriff’s office at five till four, and discovered a deputy waiting at the front. Without a move to shake hands, or any friendliness, he informed David he was Lawrence Bevins, investigator for the sheriff’s department. As if reading from a script, he said, “The sheriff has all the evidence and a copy of the tape in boxes on the conference table. He wanted me to inform you that he didn’t have room for you inside the sheriff’s office. You’ll have to find your own place.” After reciting his speech, Bevins spun and strode away.
David nodded to himself. He’d expected this—the reason he rented a suite and conference room. With two of the four boxes loaded, he turned when someone called his name. Melissa and the others hurried toward him.
David shook hands with them. “I’m glad you arrived. We have a mess, and the sheriff kicked us out.”
“What’re we going to do?” Melissa asked.
“I have us six rooms rented. Mine’s a suite. We should be able to work out of it, but I also rented a conference room if we need to interview anyone. Let’s get the rest of the stuff and get out of here. I’m anxious to get started. Fill you in on what happened later.”
After loading the boxes, they followed David to the motel. Their rooms were on the second floor toward the back. David had made sure they had rooms close together.
He told them to get settled in and meet him at his room in thirty minutes. When they unloaded the luggage, he asked, “Which one of you brought their whole closet?”
Melissa held her hands out, palms forward. “Don’t look at me. I brought one suitcase.”
Morgan indicated Melvin with his thumb.
David twisted his mouth in a disbelieving grimace, glancing up and down at the clothes he wore, while Melvin’s face glowed. “Ah—I brought all my computer equipment.”
David smiled and nodded. “Thirty minutes.”
In his room, he called Beth and reached her on the second ring.
“Hey buster,” she said. “I’ve tried and tried to get a hold of you. Where are you?”
David smiled. “I love you, too. I’m in Lufkin.”
“Lufkin, Texas?”
“Yep. I tried to call you before I left, but couldn’t get you. My team is here. Why don’t you drive up?”
“How far is it?”
“Two, two and a half hours north of Houston on 59.”
Beth hesitated. “Isn’t that where Justin works?”
“Yes.”
After a long silent period, she said, “David—what’s going on?”
He half-smiled. Couldn’t put anything past her. He took a deep breath. “Justin was killed on duty. They requested FBI assistance and I’ve taken over the investigation.”
With a sharp intake of breath, Beth said, “I’m leaving here in thirty minutes. Be there as soon as I can drive. Where are you staying?”
He gave her the room number, and where the motel was, and told her to drive carefully.
Ten minutes later, David, while hooking up a VCR to the TV, stopped to answer the door. Melissa had changed into jeans and a t-shirt.
Five minutes later, everyone arrived. David spent thirty minutes briefing them on what he knew and what he’d done. When he told them the sheriff department’s actions, Morgan’s mouth fell open. “You’re kidding me. They beat a confession out of him. I thought that died in the sixties.”
David shook his head. “In most places it did. I haven’t looked at anything, yet. Thought we’d watch the tape first.”
Everyone pulled chairs around the TV while David turned it on and inserted the tape.
Flashing lights pulsed through the night, and the camera picked up a light-colored, four door Chevrolet about a hundred feet in front. When the camera edged closer to the car, the Chevy pulled to the side of the road. About ten feet from the back of the car, the camera revealed the license plate.
With no sound capability, they couldn’t hear or see what Justin Milam did before he exited his patrol unit. Justin passed the front of his car and eased toward the driver’s side of the Chevrolet.
“Stop the tape for a minute,” Melissa said.
When David paused it, she asked, “Could you rewind it?”
After rewinding the tape, David hit play again.
Melissa jerked up in her seat. “Stop it.”
Andy asked, “What’d you see?”
Melissa pointed at the screen. “Watch his body language. He’s relaxed, but stops and stiffens. When he goes forward he’s alert.”
David rewound it again. All of the agents sat on the edge of their seats, intent on the tape. “I see what you mean,” Morgan said. “Look at the back of his head, the way it moves like he senses something’s wrong.”
Frowning, David said, “I think Melissa’s right. Justin does sense something. But what?”
“Did the sheriff’s department check out the license plate?” Melvin asked.
“Don’t know,” David said, starting the tape again.
“They had to. It’s real dirty, but the numbers are easy to make out,” Melissa said.
David jerked up in his seat. “Wait—a—minute.” He rewound the tape to the license plate. When he paused it, he asked the agents, “What do you see here?”
Morgan scratched his ear. “A dirty Texas license plate with the numbers XEL-287.”
David moved his chair closer, concentrating on the plate.
Melissa asked, “What’s the matter?”
David straightened and rubbed his mouth. “Look at that plate. It’s not dirty. Those are bugs all over it.”
“You’re right. But why is that important?” John asked.
“That’s what Justin sensed. Plate’s wrong.”
What do you mean?” Melissa asked.
“That’s a front license plate on the back of the car.”
CHAPTER 7
Melissa leaned forward, concentrating. “How do you know that?”
With his arms across his chest, David leaned back in his seat, intent on the paused scene. He shook his right index finger at the TV screen, and held his fingers in a vee. “Two reasons. Back plates don’t get bugs all over them. Back plate gets dirt and the front plate is the one that hits bugs. Look at any vehicle out driving on the streets.”
“Damn. You’re right.” Andy said.
“You said two reasons,” Melissa said.
David nodded. One problem he always had with FBI agents—they never patrolled streets. They had all kinds of time and resources available, but didn’t have street smarts, know the little tricks that patrolmen had to know, and couldn’t talk to people in a language they would understand. They missed things like bugs on license plates. “Y’all not being from Texas may not know this, but Texas puts two little stickers on the back plate. One has the month and the other the year the plate expires. That plate does
n’t have the stickers.”
Melvin nodded. “I noticed that on the rental car but didn’t pay it any attention.”
“So what do we have?” Andy asked.
“Not sure.” David turned to Melvin. “Can you get pictures of those plates and blow them up?”
Melvin smiled. “You bet I can. And everyone made fun of me for bringing all my equipment.”
They watched the tape, stopping it and rewinding. When the driver got out, David paused it for a long time, then let it run.
He again paused it when the two passengers exited the vehicle. With his eyes half-closed, he wanted to scream at Justin not to turn his back on the driver. They could see it all unfold, but the passengers diverted Justin’s attention.
David cringed when the driver reached behind his back to pull the gun from under his coat. David clenched his hands until his knuckles turned white—muscles in his arms twitched. Move. No, they’re trying to distract you.
David’s stomach knotted in a ball. He grasped the chair arm to keep his hands from shaking.
Watching in horrified silence, the agents jumped when the driver shot Justin in the back. David’s lungs received air in ragged gasps. Melvin rocked back and forth, a small moan escaping. When the passenger put Justin’s gun tight against his forehead and pulled the trigger, David almost jumped out of his seat. He leaned back in his chair and lay his head all the way back, eyes closed. His heart thundered, and tears trickled down his cheeks.
No sounds broke the shroud of silence. Everyone but David rocked forward, heads down. Tears dripped from Melissa’s cheeks.
In a trembling voice, Morgan said, “That was a cold-blooded execution.”
Clock-watching minutes passed with no sound in the room. Cars in the motel parking lot crunched gravel outside, and a horn blared. Headlights flickered on the motel window, but the frozen scene on the TV screen hypnotized the agents.
At last, David leaped from his seat, pointing his finger at the screen. His teeth clenched. “I want all three son-of-a-bitches who did this. But that one,” he pointed to the little one who fired the bullet into Justin’s head, “Is mine.”
