Tony Wolf/Tim Buckthorn - 02 - Broken Shield Page 11

  “Guess he won’t have to worry about anyone making fun of him anymore,” Wolf said.

  Watson shot him a look, then went on. “His buddy’s name is Mark Sledz,with a ‘Z’. AKA Beano.”

  “Beano?” Buckthorn said.

  Watson nodded. “Seems that his former comrades in the Outlaws motorcycle organization hung that one on him because of one or more episodes of uncontrollable flatulence.”

  “I did notice a certain odor about him,” Dushane said.

  “Bikers?” Buckthorn said.

  “Former,” Watson said. “Seems that Sledz and Metcalf were asked to leave the Outlaws organization after being caught in flagrante. With one another.”

  Dushane made a face. “Euuw.”

  “Tolerance, Agent Dushane,” Wolf said.

  “I am tolerant. But eeeeuuuw.”

  “So what were two former bikers doing at the Preston house?”

  “Here’s where it gets interesting. After leaving the Outlaws, Sledz and Metcalf started doing a little freelance work for a guy named Sean Donovan.”

  “Doesn’t ring any bells,” Wolf said.

  “Donovan’s a piece of work. Irish national. Former member of the Provisional IRA. When they declared the cease fire in ‘97, he did what a lot of those guys did who’d never done anything but hold a gun. He went into robbery, extortion, anything to turn a buck. Got into some kind of dispute with the leadership in 2000 and fled to the States. Rumor is a woman was involved.”

  “So what’s he doing hanging out with outlaw bikers?” Dushane said.

  “Like I said, Donovan’s never been anything but a gunman, but he’s good at it. He landed in Miami, not New York like most of those guys. He must really have pissed off someone back home, to not want any association with anyone he’d known. Eventually, he drifted over to Mississippi, got hooked up with a local boss known as Lampton Monroe, AKA the Lizard King.”

  “The who?” Wolf said.

  Braswell spoke up for the first time. “He was big in the Dixie Mafia, back in the day. Weed, pills, gambling, but especially prostitution. He saw how much ass was being sold at truck stops by hookers working independent. Forty bucks for a quick bang in the sleeper cab or a BJ in the front seat. The working girls are known as ‘lot lizards.’“

  “Charming,” Dushane said.

  “You get a look at some of the girls,” Braswell said, “you’d know where the name comes from. But Monroe saw profit in all those horny truckers moving up and down the Interstate. He moved in, and before long, all the girls were paying out to him. Or dead.”

  Buckthorn thought of Mrs. Preston’s desperate statement, “If I tell you anything, they’ll do worse” than killing her daughter. He’d suspected what she meant. Now he knew.

  Watson spoke up. “Monroe has a semi-legit organization, a ‘private security company.’ It’s called Dixie Security. Rent-a-cops. Their specialty is working lot security for these big truck stops.”

  “They’re the pimps,” Dushane said.

  “Exactly. Once Monroe controlled the parking lots, we think he started recruiting truckers to move product for him. Weed, heroin, methamphetamine, you name it.”

  “And the money just rolled in,” Wolf said. “So why is this Lampton Monroe guy not in jail?”

  “Believe me, we’ve tried. We’ve had our eye on this bastard since the late 70’s. When the whole Dixie Mafia thing fell apart, he seems to have peeled some of the businesses off with him, particularly the prostitution. But no one ever seems to live long enough to testify against him. Some of the people we’ve tried to recruit disappear, then turn up a couple years later in pieces in a swamp in Georgia or Louisiana.”

  “Late 70’s?” Buckthorn said. “How old is this guy?”

  “Old,” Braswell said. “And he’s got about a half-dozen health problems, any one of which is going to do him in any day now. Or so we’ve heard. But the old bastard’s just too mean to die. He’s holed up in a big-ass mansion, an old plantation house, if you can believe it, outside of Biloxi.”

  “So you think this Donovan’s the one running the show?” Wolf said.

  “Well, the heir apparent is Lamp Monroe’s grandson Lofton,” Watson said. “Lofton’s been seen more and more, flashing money around in places like Atlanta, Nashville, New Orleans. But he’s apparently a guy who wants to make his own mark, not just take over the family business. He decided a few years ago to develop some of the neglected areas, like gambling and loan sharking. He moved up to Chattanooga to put some distance between him and the old man.”

  “Which brings us back to the unfortunate Mister Preston,” Braswell said.

  “Let me guess,” Wolf said. “Mr. Preston’s into Lofton Monroe for a hefty chunk of change. I bet the wife can confirm it.”

  “She’s still not talking,” Dushane said. “And now the doctors have her under sedation.”

  Braswell grimaced. “We’re trying to get his financials. The bank’s giving us some static.”

  “Be a lot easier if he had an Arab name,” Watson said.

  “The picture we saw in the house,” Buckthorn said. “That’s the girl from the photograph we found. Isn’t that enough?”

  “Enough so that they’re sending a CARD team,” Wolf said, referring to the FBI teams with particular expertise in child abduction cases. “One’s in the air right now.”

  “Glad someone’s finally taking this seriously,” Buckthorn said. “I hope it’s not too late.”

  Braswell’s face reddened. “Now, listen, Mister Buckthorn…”

  “Lieutenant,” Buckthorn interrupted him.

  “What?”

  “It’s Lieutenant Buckthorn. Just so you know.”

  “He’s right,” Dushane said.

  Braswell turned on her. “Are you seriously taking his side in this?”

  “We’re on the same side,” Wolf broke in. “Let’s try to keep that in mind.”

  “Yeah,” Watson said, his voice hard. “We are. But we do need to address the problem of Lieutenant Buckthorn here.”

  “What problem?” Buckthorn said.

  “We’ve got an officer-related shooting involving an FBI field agent, which comes under the scrutiny of the Office of Professional Responsibility…”

  Wolf groaned. “You have got to be kidding.”

  Watson went on as if he hadn’t heard. “As well as involving a person whose status is, to put it mildly, ambiguous. That would be you, Lieutenant.”

  “I’m a sworn law enforcement officer,” Buckthorn said.

  “Not here, you’re not,” Watson said. “Normally, the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation investigates officer-related shootings to determine if they were justified. But you’re not an officer in Tennessee. They want nothing to do with you, and neither does our OPR.”

  “So where’s the problem?” Buckthorn said.

  There was a stunned silence.

  “Yeah,” Dushane said. “From where I sit, Lieutenant Buckthorn’s the luckiest guy in the room right now. He doesn’t have anyone looking over his shoulder.”

  “Looked at another way,” Watson said, “he’s basically a civilian, and we should let the locals handle him.”

  “Oh, HELL no,” Dushane said.

  “Not your call, Agent Dushane,” Watson said.

  “This man saved my life,” Wolf said. “More than once, in fact. We are not throwing him to the locals.”

  He and Watson stared at one another, neither willing to back down. Watson was the first one who spoke.

  “Okay, that’s it,” he said. “I was trying to decide how to handle this, and you three just made up my mind for me.” He sat down. “The CARD team’s on its way to take over the kidnapping angle. OPR’s also looking at the shooting. I’m the Special Agent in Charge in this field office. And I say you three are out of this.”

  Dushane leaped to her feet. “What!?”

  “I tried to work with you people,” he said, “even though the word was that Agent Wolf is nothing but trouble
. That’s probably why he’s still a field agent after so many years in. But what’s the first thing you lunatics do? You get in a damn gunfight. Without even waiting for backup. Believe me, that’s also going to be of interest to OPR. We’re going to handle this from now on, Agents. And Lieutenant. And we’re going to follow procedure. Starting with putting the two of you on administrative leave while OPR looks over the shooting.”

  “While you wait for the CARD team,” Wolf said, “that girl could die.”

  “She has a name,” Buckthorn said. “It’s Callie. Callie Preston.”

  “We know, Lieutenant,” Watson said. “Thank you. You can go home now. I’m sure your brother-in-law is anxious to get back.”

  “Agent Watson…” Wolf said.

  “We’re done here,” Watson said. “Go home, people. It’s our case now.”

  __________

  “Damn it,” Dushane said. She kicked the tire of the borrowed Taurus. “Damn it to HELL!” She kicked it again.

  Wolf was leaning on the car, his cell phone to his ear. “We need to talk about your anger management problem, L.D.”

  “I’m managing my fucking anger just fucking fine, thank you very fucking much,” she snarled, smacking her hand on the hood of the car.

  “Who are you calling?” Buckthorn said.

  “Steadman,” Wolf replied. “Damn it. Voice mail.” He raised his voice slightly. “Pat, this is Tony Wolf. I need you to call me back. ASAP.”

  “Pat Steadman?” Buckthorn said.

  “Yeah,” Wolf said. “He’s always backed me up. Saved my ass after that little dust-up in your hometown.”

  “That why you’re still a field agent?” Buckthorn said.

  “Yeah. Well, it’s not like the guy’s a miracle worker. I can’t see myself being a good bureaucrat, anyway.”

  Buckthorn felt his phone buzz in its holster on his utility belt. He pulled it out and looked at the screen. “Well, our day just got better.”

  “Great,” Dushane said. “How?”

  “It’s a text from Bru.” He held the phone up. They gathered to look.

  SCREW THIS. GOING HOME.

  “Hey, Buckthorn, have I mentioned that your brother-in-law’s kind of an asshole?” Dushane said.

  Buckthorn smiled slightly. “No, but I had a feeling you felt that way.” He shrugged. “Family. What are you going to do?”

  “Okay, I take your point,” Dushane said. “But what are you going to do?”

  Buckthorn rubbed his jaw. “Well, I guess that’s a good question.”

  “We’ll get you home, Tim,” Wolf said. “I owe you that.”

  “But, in the meantime…” Dushane said, a sly look on her face. She let the words hang.

  “What are you thinking of, L.D.?” Wolf said.

  “I mean, it’s not like they said we couldn’t still use the car. While we’re, you know, trying to figure a way back home. And while Watson and Fireball up there are sitting around playing pinochle waiting for the CARD team.”

  “You’re not really being fair to them, L.D.,” Wolf said. “It is Watson’s territory.”

  “Boss—and I’m calling you that because I know it’s the boss talking, not the legendary bad-ass Tony Wolf who I idolize and who I begged to get teamed up with—boss, fuck ‘fair.’ ‘Fair’ can kiss my petite Cajun ass. We’ve got a little girl who’s gonna die if we don’t get something done right now.”

  “She’s right,” Buckthorn said. “You know how this works. Every second is precious.”

  Wolf shook his head, but he was clearly weakening. “OPR’s going to have kittens.”

  “Come on,” Dushane said. “You’re turning into an old man right in front of my eyes here. It’s heartbreaking.” She looked at Buckthorn.

  He nodded. “Tragic, even.”

  “It’s not just my career that’s on the line here, L.D.,” Wolf said. “You’ve got a lot more to lose than me.”

  “But if it was just you, you’d go, right?” Buckthorn said. “You’d keep investigating. You’d do whatever it took to save that child. Right?”

  Wolf dodged the question. “You guys are ganging up on me.”

  “Refer to my previous comment about fairness,” Dushane said. “Thanks for worrying about me. But I’m a big girl. I take my own chances.”

  “Besides, this Deputy Director Steadman’ll back you up, won’t he?” Buckthorn said. “This might be one of those ‘ask forgiveness, not permission’ moments.”

  Wolf sighed and threw up his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. So what do we do?”

  “We find a Starbuck’s,” Dushane said.

  Wolf was incredulous. “You want coffee?”

  “That, too. But what I mainly want is a wi-fi connection.”

  __________

  It was the thirst that awakened her. The scant trickles of water that had been sustaining her were gone, and the summer sun that she only barely believed in any more had turned the tiny space around her into an oven. Her tongue felt so swollen that it threatened to bulge from her mouth, and her throat was a dry, dusty path of flame down into her cramping belly. She strained for the sound of the machines she’d heard earlier, the ones she hoped were digging her out. She heard only silence.

  Callie knew then she was going to die. No one was coming. They’d given up looking. They’d given up looking, and she was going to die here, in this dark and cramped place, buried alive. Her body shook as she began to sob, but there were no tears. It wasn’t fair. She’d tried to keep hope alive for what seemed like a geological age, and it was just not fair that it should come to nothing like this. The brief flame of anger at the sheer injustice of it all that welled up inside her burned out as quickly as it had flared, guttering and dying, along with her hope. It left her empty and hollowed out, feeling as if she was filled with ashes. She wasn’t even afraid any more. She closed her eyes and waited to die.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  “Okay,” Dushane said as she opened her laptop on the table. They hadn’t found a Starbuck’s, but the local coffee shop they’d found advertised “Free Wi-Fi”. The place was small, with large overstuffed chairs scattered about and a couple of tables. The rich aroma of coffee filled the air. It was almost empty, and they’d had no problem finding a table. Wolf had gone to the service counter, where a bored-looking wannabe hipster, complete with goatee and thick-framed glasses, lounged against the wooden counter.

  “What are you looking for?” Buckthorn asked.

  “Register of Deeds,” Dushane said. “See if our Mr. Monroe or his granddaddy have any property listed in their names nearby.”

  “Would it be under their own names?”

  “Maybe. Probably not. But we start with the easy stuff, and sometimes we get lucky. Or they get dumb. Or both.”

  “I hear you.” Buckthorn watched her, fascinated by the intensity on her face as she tapped away at the keys.

  “Stop staring at me,” she muttered. “It makes me nervous.”

  “Sorry,” he said, his face reddening. She looked up.

  “It’s okay…Jesus, you’re blushing, aren’t you?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  She chuckled and went back to work. “Yeah, you kinda are.” The smile left her face. “Huh.” She sat back, scowling.

  “What?”

  “Seems the local registrar of deeds requires you set up an account with them before you can search property records. And accounts can only be set up on weekdays, during regular business hours. What the hell is the point of that?”

  “Keep people from nosing around?”

  “They’re public records,” she said. “In any case, can’t look that way. Let’s try the tax office…and…hah!”

  Wolf had come to the table, carrying three large black coffees. “Something?”

  “Monroe, Lofton S., has three parcels of land listed for taxes in this fine county. And here are the addresses.” She looked up. “One appears to be a residence, two are commercial.”

  “You thi
nk he’s keeping the girl at one of those?” Buckthorn said.

  “I say we pay him a visit,” Wolf said, “and ask.”

  Dushane took one of the coffees. “I think that’s a hell of an idea.”

  __________

  “If we go back,” Lofton said, “we’re going to get arrested.”

  They were sitting in a McDonald’s on a busy street near Bartlett’s downtown area. Both of them had cups of coffee in front of them. Lofton’s was untouched, Donovan’s half full.

  “We don’t go back,” Donovan replied, “someone digs that girl’s body out of your house, and everything goes to shit.” He took a sip of his coffee. “For all of us.”

  “What do we do if the cops come back?”

  Donovan shrugged, trying and failing to hide his irritation. “We deal with it.”

  “How? Shoot it out with the fuckers? That’s the problem with you, Donovan. You think a gun solves everything. This ain’t fuckin’ Belfast.”

  “I’m from Derry, you cunt,” Donovan said, his voice rising.

  “Jesus, keep it down,” Lofton said.

  “You keep pushing me, Lofton, and you’ll see what a gun can solve. That’s a promise.” The two men stared at one another. It was Lofton who looked away first.

  “This isn’t getting us anywhere,” he said. “I need to call Granddaddy and ask him what to do.”

  “And what is it exactly that you think he’ll tell you, fuckwit?” Donovan said. “He’ll tell you to handle it. Like we’re doing.” He tossed down the last swallow of coffee. “Now if you’re not going to drink that, we’ll be on our way.” He stood up, leaving his coffee cup on the table. Lofton didn’t get up.

  “You coming or not?” Donovan said. “Makes no difference to me.” He walked off towards the door, not looking back. He’d almost reached the truck before he realized that Lofton had the keys. He slowed, then stopped, cursing inwardly. If he had to go back and demand the keys, Lofton might refuse. He’d either have to start a fight right there in public or back down. The first would probably get them arrested and set them back even further, the second was unthinkable. He turned. Lofton was hurrying out the door, a contrite look on his face.