The Virgil Jones Mystery Thriller Boxed Set

by Thomas Scott

  “What about it?” the postmaster said, his eye roaming around its socket like one of those magic eight balls.

  “Apparently she was supposed to sign for it. Can you at least tell me if she picked it up or not?” They stood on the customer side of the counter, near a display of gift cards and specialty boxes. The postmaster had his back to the counter and Virgil noticed a young lady servicing the walk-in customers. The look on her face was undeniable.

  “I’m sorry, Detective. Any packages that require a signature are followed through the system with a tracking number, not a name.”

  The postmaster disappeared into the back without another word, as if he could no longer be bothered by a law enforcement officer who was trying to skirt the rules. Virgil had a mental picture of him sitting on a throne made out of mailing tubes somewhere in the back of the building.

  When he glanced at the counter girl, she stuck her neck out and opened her eyes as wide as she could. Virgil grabbed a gift box of some sort and got in line. When it was his turn at the counter he handed her the box and said, “You wanted to speak with me?”

  The girl turned around to make sure no one was listening. “I go on break in ten minutes. Meet me on the east side of the building.”

  Virgil said he would.

  Ten minutes later she popped out a side door on the east side and Virgil pulled his truck right up next to her. He buzzed the passenger side window down, but she climbed in and said, “Let’s scoot. I don’t want to be seen with you.”

  Virgil pulled out of the lot and parked around the corner along the side of the street. He threw the truck in park, killed the engine, turned in his seat, and raised an eyebrow at her.

  “My name is Cassidy Bane. I’m a senior at I.U., like Patty Doyle was…is. I didn’t know her, never met her or anything, but I’d like to help any way I can.”

  “Look, I don’t want you to get in trouble or anything like that, and you really don’t want to mess with federal law.” Then, almost selfishly, “But if you have any information that could help me, I’ll keep it to myself.”

  Bane checked her watch. “I’ve only got fifteen minutes, so there’s not much I can tell you, but I do know this. I’ll be graduating soon. This job is nothing more than a way to earn a little spending money. I’m not looking to make a career out of the post office. So what are they going to do? Fire me? Who cares? Anyway, Larry? The postmaster? He's got just enough brains to sell the American flag at an Arab bazaar.”

  “So, not the brightest bulb in the lamp?”

  “No. But bright enough to lie to you, and for you to believe him.”

  Virgil frowned. “Lying? About what?”

  “Well, it wasn’t a straight up lie. You can track those packages any number of ways. By name, address of origin, destination address, or tracking number.”

  Virgil gave her a half grin. He already knew that, but she was trying to help, and he appreciated it. He didn’t press it with the postmaster because he knew it was a lost cause. He told Bane as much.

  “Yeah, I guess that doesn’t surprise me,” Bane said. She took out her cell phone. “What’s your number?”

  “Why?”

  She let her eyelids droop. “Because I’m going to send you a picture. C’mon, chop-chop. I’m on a schedule here.”

  Virgil gave her the number and two seconds later his phone dinged. “What’s this?”

  “It’s a picture of the package. It’s been sitting in the unclaimed pile so long it’s starting to gather dust. Do you think it can help you?”

  Virgil studied the picture and zoomed in on the return address. It was from someplace in Egypt that he’d never heard of. “I’m sorry to say, I don’t see how, unless Patty Doyle was involved in some sort of international archeological smuggling operation.”

  “Well shoot,” Bane said. “I thought it might be something.”

  “I appreciate it anyway,” Virgil said. “Most people don’t want to get involved. They look the other way, but you didn’t. That matters.” Then, “Want a ride back around the corner?”

  “No, I’ll walk. Can’t be seen with the fuzz. It’d ruin my reputation as a bad girl.”

  “Can’t have that,” Virgil said.

  Then Bane said something that surprised him. “Larry takes off in about an hour. You want to see the tapes, I can make that happen.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. It’d be a piece of cake. The cameras are hooked into a single computer. It sits in a closet in the back all by itself. Nobody even looks at it. Never had to.”

  Virgil didn’t want Bane to get in trouble with the law, especially federal law. “Look, I can’t begin to tell you how much I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I can’t let you jeopardize yourself over this.”

  “I don’t intend to. I’ll text you when Larry the loser is gone. The same door I came out of will be unlocked. It opens up into the sorting room. All the carriers are out so the room will be empty. The security computer is in the janitorial closet to the left of the entrance. You can’t miss it. The door says ‘janitorial supplies.’ Nobody ever goes in there. If you don’t believe me, check out the employee bathrooms. I walk across the street if I have to pee. Anyway, what you do is up to you.” Then, as if the last part of the conversation hadn’t happened, Bane added, “Good luck. I hope you find her. I really do.”

  “Me too,” Virgil said. “I think I’ll go get a cup of coffee or something.”

  “Sounds like a plan, Stan.” Bane got out of the truck and walked away.

  26

  Bane’s estimate of Larry’s departure was off by thirty minutes, but when he finally left, Virgil got a text and headed back to the post office. He parked his truck next to the door and found it unlocked as Bane had promised. The security computer sat by itself on a plain gray institutional desk. The entire room smelled like Pine-Sol and urinal cakes. The computer was on, and Virgil noticed that the file he needed was already on the screen. Bane really was a bad girl, he thought.

  The screen was split into four segments that gave simultaneous views of the front parking area, the lobby, the sorting room, and the counter area. Virgil hit the play button on the keyboard and watched the upper left-hand box as Patty Doyle turned her car into the parking lot. She entered the building and Virgil turned his attention to the lower right-hand box on the screen and watched as Doyle approached the counter. She was dressed in running shorts and a tank top with light-weight running shoes that looked like they’d been decorated by Jackson Pollock. Her hair was tucked back under a headband.

  The security footage was video only. There was no audio, not that it was needed. Virgil could clearly see the interaction between Doyle and the counter person. Doyle said something, the counter person typed in a few keystrokes on the computer, then shook her head. Doyle crossed her arms for a moment, then turned around and left.

  Nothing there, Virgil thought. He replayed the video and watched it again, first the upper left box, then the lower right. There was nothing to see, except, Virgil thought, one of the last few hours of Patty Doyle’s life. He sat for a moment staring at the screen, thinking about what to do next when he noticed something.

  He backed the video up and played it again. Patty Doyle had arrived at the post office during a slow time. She’d been the only retail customer in the building. But shortly after she’d pulled in, a pickup truck turned into the lot. When Doyle drove away, the pickup waited a few seconds and drove off as well. Whoever had been in the pickup hadn’t entered the building.

  Someone had been following Doyle.

  He watched the video again, this time focusing on the truck. There was no chance to get a plate, the position of the exterior camera didn’t allow for that. But the truck drove right past the camera and it was a perfect shot of the passenger side of the vehicle. Virgil paused the playback and looked at the truck. A male figure was sitting in the passenger seat, his features blurred from both the motion of the vehicle and the poor quality of the camera.
r />   Virgil took out his phone and called Becky. “I need your help.”

  “Why are you whispering?”

  “Because I’m breaking about ten different federal laws.”

  “Excellent,” Becky said. “What do you need?”

  “I’m looking at security footage on a computer at the post office. I need the footage but I don’t know how to get it.”

  “Piece of cake. Maybe.”

  “C’mon, Becks. Time to shine here.”

  “Is it connected to their network?”

  “I have no idea. How do I tell?”

  “They wouldn’t use WIFI. It’d be hard-wired into the wall. Is there a blue or yellow cord running from the computer to the wall? It’d look like a phone line, only fatter.”

  “Hold on.” Virgil looked under the desk. “Yes. It’s plugged into a wall jack.”

  “Which post office are you at?”

  “The main one…in Bloomington.”

  “Okay, good. Now look at the jack on the wall. Is it labeled? There should be a string of numbers on the jack.”

  Virgil told her to hold on again. He crawled under the desk and took a closer look. He was getting ready to read the numbers to Becky when his phone chirped at him. He pulled the phone away from his ear and looked at the screen. A text from Bane.

  The text was in all caps. LTL IS BACK. GET OUT.

  He fired off the numbers to Becky, including the file date he needed. He rapped the back of his head on the bottom of the desk when he stood up and had to put some effort into not swearing out loud.

  “What was that?” Becky said. “Sounded like a big thump.”

  “It was. Listen, I’m in a hell of a rush here. What else do I have to do?”

  “Nothing,” Becky said, her voice calm. “Except get out. I’m already looking at the footage. “This the Doyle chick?”

  “I’ll call you back.” Virgil ended the call and stood close to the closet door. He heard the exterior door open, then Larry as he called out.

  “Hey, Bane, where are you? Whose truck is that out there? That’s not a proper parking place.”

  Virgil cracked the door and watched Larry disappear through a hall that led to the front of the building. He stepped out of the closet, then ran outside, hopped into his truck and drove away.

  Unfortunately for Virgil, the security cameras caught the whole thing.

  Once he was safely away from the post office, Virgil pulled over and parked. He called Becky again.

  “You know,” Becky said, “I think the Major Crimes Unit is supposed to fight and prevent crimes, not commit them.”

  “Says the girl who just hacked the security footage.”

  “Hey, I do what I’m told. So now what?”

  “You watch the footage?”

  “Yeah, not much to see.”

  Virgil was about to correct her when she added, “Unless you count the weirdos in the pickup who were tagging her. Who cruises the post office? Am I right?”

  And Virgil thought: Oh Murton, I hope you know what you’re doing. “Is there anyway to enhance that photo somehow? Maybe get a better look at who’s in the passenger seat?”

  “I’m working on that as we speak. But the truth is, we’ll never get it clear enough to make a positive ID. There’s only so much you can do.”

  Virgil didn’t want to hear that. “Do the best you can, Becks. And send me a photo of that truck, will you?”

  “Check your email, Jonesy. It’s probably already waiting for you. I’ve got great video by the way of you sneaking out of the post office. I can keep it and use it as leverage for a raise, or I can delete it from their system. Up to you.”

  “Very funny.” Virgil thanked her and ended the call. When he checked his email, he saw the photo. Fuck a bunch of federal law, he thought.

  He fired up his truck and headed back to the Yellowwood.

  He also made a mental note to give Becky a raise.

  He found Hamlin outside the entrance, walking through the same tall grass where they’d found the phone. When Virgil pulled up, Hamlin walked over.

  “I thought I’d keep looking. Who knows, right?”

  Virgil bit into his lower lip and didn’t speak. Hamlin filled the gap. “This part of the state? We’re all sort of one big community. This girl gone missing? She’s one of ours.” He tapped his chest when he said it. “If I’d have known what was going on, I’d have jumped off that tower to get out here quicker.”

  “And killed yourself in the process,” Virgil said. He brought up the picture and held his phone out the window. Hamlin took it. “That the truck?”

  “If it ain’t, it’s an exact replica.”

  “Tell me more about the two men. Could you describe them?”

  Hamlin looked away and didn’t speak for a few moments. “I’m embarrassed to say I can’t. I didn’t get that good of a look. They were a couple of older guys.” He wiggled the phone back and forth. “Although the profile of this one here looks like it could be one of them. I mean, it must be, right?”

  “Probably. But without anything else to go on, it doesn’t do us much good.”

  Hamlin gave Virgil his phone back. “You think I’m wasting my time walking through this tall grass?”

  It probably was a waste of time. Based on Hamlin’s description of events and the way they played out, unless they found a wallet with the driver’s license of one of the men, they had all the evidence they were going to get. “I think if more people cared the way you do we’d all be a little better off.” He dropped the truck in gear. “Take care.”

  Virgil headed back to Indy.

  27

  Ralph Wheeler had assigned Reif and his crew the most basic jobs he could think of. They were simple laborers, moving parts and equipment around the yard. They answered to no one except him, and despite his original assessment that they might be trouble, they did exactly as they were told. They kept their heads down and their mouths shut.

  Over the last two weeks, they’d completed three practice runs of sorts. Ralph Wheeler had managed to create a problem on the main line, diverting the freight trains past the maintenance shop. On two of those occasions they found reasons to delay the trains for a few precious minutes. When that happened, Reif and his crew moved into position and practiced their entry. They didn’t practice on the trains that’d been delayed. That would have been far too risky…and much too obvious. Instead, they did their trial runs with cars parked on spurs right next to the track. It wasn’t the perfect setup, but they all knew it was as good as it was going to get.

  “Like to do it one more time, at least,” Reif said after the last run.

  Ralph Wheeler was already shaking his head. “Can’t. I throw any more problems at the main line over such a short time period, they’re going to bring people out to take a look. And you know what they’ll find? Nothing. When that happens, they’ll start asking questions and looking at me, which means they’ll be looking at everyone here, including you and your boys. Don’t think you’d want that.”

  Reif and Wheeler had developed something of a detente over the last few weeks. They didn’t exactly trust each other…much less like each other, but they both knew the other man’s limits and abilities. That led to a certain level of respect, which put them both in a position where they were listening to the other instead of always pushing back.

  “No, I wouldn’t,” Reif admitted.

  “Your first one was a little rough, I’ll grant you that. But the last one was damned near perfect.”

  Reif nodded. It had been damned near perfect…but that was simply another way of saying it wasn’t quite good enough. He said as much to Wheeler.

  “I hear you. But remember, in a few days when the genuine article rolls through here, a brake line is going to get cut. My maintenance guys can patch a cut line in thirty minutes. That’s more than twice the amount of time you’re going to need…more time than you’ve had on the practice runs. Don’t over think it.”

  Reif kn
ew the old man was right. They’d done all they could do. It’d either go off without a hitch, or the entire plan would go to shit. There simply wasn’t much of a middle ground. He put the odds of success at about eighty-five percent. Not too bad, but not great, either. “Okay,” Reif said. “It is what it is, I guess. I’m going to walk the yard.”

  Wheeler grunted at him. “Again?”

  “What’s the downside?” Reif and his crew had been free to roam the yard for weeks. It gave them the chance to get the lay of the land. Now, with only days to go before the shipment came through, they knew the maintenance yard like the backs of their own hands. They’d be able to maneuver throughout the yard blindfolded if need be. Not only that, they could park equipment in places that would suit them when the time came to take the material.

  And it was almost time.

  Gibson was helping Murton build the bomb that would hold the nuclear material. Murton kept the explosive material out…not for safety, but for show. Reif had been watching him like a hawk ever since he’d arrived. Now, this morning, Reif insisted that they take a small portion of the C-4 far out into the countryside and detonate it. Murton argued it was a waste of time and resources, but Reif wasn’t having it. “I want to see it go off. I need to know this shit is the genuine article.”

  Fortunately for Murton, Gibson had anticipated Reif’s desire to ensure the material was real, because ninety-eight percent of the C-4 was nothing more than green clay, wrapped up and stamped with all the appropriate markings. A small section of one of the bricks had a tiny hash mark on it, nearly invisible to the naked eye unless you were looking for it.

  Murton knew what he was about to do was a risk, but he’d been around guys like Reif most of his career. They didn’t trust anyone. So when he grabbed one of the bricks, he purposely chose the one that was completely fake, took out a knife and moved to cut a piece off the end.