Standoff, page 21
“I’ll get it,” her mother said.
As soon as they were alone, she whispered, “Do not tell her anything. I was at Sharon’s offering my condolences. That’s all.”
“I thought you didn’t believe in social engineering,” he said with a wink.
Ice rattled against the glass as her mom came back into the room and handed Brooke the water, shortcutting any retort she had for him. Then her mom perched stiffly on the edge of the chair, her hands clasped so tightly, her knuckles turned white. She leaned forward, waiting. Brooke swallowed hard, hating that she had caused her mom pain. It seemed that was the one thing she was good at.
“Thanks,” she said, softening her voice. Her mom had cared enough to come. “But I hate that I pulled you away from Meghan when she needs you.”
“You need me more right now.” Her mom fussed with the afghan on the arm of the chair. “After the wreck last night, I was worried about you.”
Again shame swept through her. It shouldn’t take an emergency for Brooke and her mother to relate to one another. Toby trotted into the living room and jumped up on the sofa. Brooke set him on the floor. “No, Toby. Not on the furniture.”
“Where did you get the dog?” her mom asked.
“It’s Sharon Marlar’s dog.”
“You went back to the Marlar house?”
“We were checking on my rental car and getting my phone—that’s why I didn’t call you. Toby was under the shed, and I didn’t want to leave him to fend for himself.”
The look her mom gave her was one Brooke had seen every time she brought a stray dog home. “I’m only keeping him until Sharon gets out of the hospital.”
“What if she doesn’t—”
“Don’t even think that!” She took out her phone and dialed the number Pete had given her for Bill. When he answered, she asked how Sharon was.
“The doctors are cautiously optimistic,” he said. “She was briefly conscious a few minutes ago.”
“Good. I wanted to let you know I have Toby.”
“Oh, wow. I hadn’t even thought about him. Do you mind—”
“That’s why I was calling. I’ll take care of him until your mom gets home.”
“Thank you.”
She glanced toward her mother, who was quietly talking to Luke. Turning away from them, she lowered her voice. “Did your dad ever mention what he kept on his computer?”
When he didn’t answer immediately, she thought the call might have dropped. “Are you there?”
“Yes,” Bill said. “I can’t believe I forgot.”
“What?”
“A couple of weeks ago Dad told me that if anything odd or strange happened to him, to get his computer to your dad and he’d know what to do.”
“Have you told Chief Nelson or anyone else?”
“No . . . until you asked me just now, I’d forgotten he even said anything. And even if I had thought about it, your dad is . . .”
Dead. Even brain fog couldn’t keep her from connecting the dots.
48
Opening the gas line on the propane heater in the office had been a stroke of genius. Adding it to the gasoline and the half stick of dynamite had destroyed just about everything in Kyle Marlar’s house.
He set the computer on the table and turned it on. The dog had almost blown his operation. If the Marlar woman had come to see why the dog was barking, she would have caught him escaping out the back door. Too bad about her being injured, but she should have been at the funeral home. And what was Brooke Danvers doing at the Marlar house? His jaw set. She said she was offering her condolences. And that might be partially true. He didn’t believe she had any hard evidence connecting him to the deaths.
But he’d worked hard to achieve what he had in life, and he wasn’t going to let anyone mess that up, not even Brooke Danvers. And what about Luke Fereday? Something about him didn’t gel. He was supposed to be an accountant—that’s what he’d heard—but it turned out Fereday was a bartender? Definitely something fishy about that. And he seemed awfully nosy, along with sticking close to Brooke.
The computer alerted that it was booting up, and he pressed the buttons to open it in recovery mode. There he changed the password and rebooted, using the new password.
His mistake had been in underestimating Marlar. He’d had no idea the older man was even computer savvy. Now he had to find out what he was up against. He ran a scan of the files on the computer. Right away he found three locked folders and went to work cracking those passwords.
Once he had the first file opened, he swore. Empty. Marlar would not have password protected an empty file. Which meant he’d deleted the contents. Fortunately for him, deleted files were never truly lost. He installed a recovery program on the computer and quickly found the JPEG files. He stared at the first photo in the file—the photo Marlar had tried to snatch from his hand Friday night.
He leaned back in his chair. There were twenty of the time-stamped photos of him at Emerald Mound Sunday night. Marlar had alluded to other photos—were these the ones? Or were there physical ones, like the one he ripped from his hand?
There’d been nothing in Marlar’s file cabinet, and the memory cards he’d found in the office were useless. Nothing but pictures of the night sky or family members. The empty file that had been password protected . . . had Marlar downloaded the pictures to a flash drive and then deleted them, thinking he was destroying the photos?
Or had he emailed them to someone? With a shaky hand, he logged into the email and scanned the sent emails. Breathing became a little easier. It didn’t look as though he’d emailed the files. Mostly just correspondence about the upcoming vote on marijuana.
What if this wasn’t the only account he had?
He ran another scan, looking for other email accounts, and once again relaxed when the scan didn’t return a hit. Marlar was a simple man, and until Boudreaux murdered his son, he had probably never thought about withholding anything from authorities. He truly regretted his death . . . John’s too, but he’d been desperate.
He shook off the melancholy. Time to look at the other two files. The first one took longer to crack, and it turned out to be a list of passwords. He shook his head. People just didn’t understand that nothing on a computer was safe. The last locked file opened on the first password he tried. Emails from the state legislature. Must be something top secret. If he had more time, he’d mine them for information.
Marlar’s last words indicated he had made copies of the photos, so where were they? He had to assume there was a flash drive somewhere waiting to bite him.
But what had he done with it?
Pretty sure the police didn’t have it or they’d be knocking on his door. No, either he stored it in a safe place, like maybe a lockbox, or . . . what if he dropped the drive in the mail? But to whom?
Think like Marlar. Who were his friends? John Danvers. He was dead, but his daughter wasn’t. What if he mailed the photos to Brooke and they hadn’t arrived yet when he searched the house?
What were his options? His gut said Brooke Danvers was the key to whatever information Kyle Marlar had, and that meant he had to return to the Danverses’ house.
49
At five thirty, Luke knocked on Daisy’s door at the rehab. He held a bag from the Malt Shop that smelled strongly of beef and onions.
“Come in,” she said, her voice strong.
“You sound like you feel good,” he said, entering the room.
Her eyes lit up. “You brought my hamburger! Thank goodness. They’re trying to starve me here,” she said. “Pull up a chair and stay awhile.”
“I can’t,” he said. “I have—” He’d almost said work to do. “I need to check on Brooke.”
She pulled the burger from the bag. “You brought the onion rings too. What kind of work are you doing?”
He hoped he was as sharp as his grandmother when he reached eighty. “I’ll tell you about it someday,” he said, winking at her.
“How is Brooke?”
“She’s going to be okay. I left her resting with her mom. Vivian is making lasagna for dinner, and I’m invited.”
“Good. When do I get sprung from here?” Daisy asked. “I want to go home.”
He thought of her study where he’d set up his command center and absentmindedly rubbed his right palm. “What does the doctor say?”
“Two more weeks. And what’s wrong with your hand? You keep rubbing it.”
Immediately he stopped. He wasn’t in the mood to discuss getting shot. “Nothing,” he said and looked around the room. “This isn’t a bad place.”
“You try it,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “I’ve been thinking about what you said the other night, and I’m not ready for assisted living.”
He nodded. “You know it wasn’t my idea, right?”
“The Admiral’s?”
He nodded, smiling at her use of the name they called his father behind his back. Too bad he hadn’t made the army his career—General fit him much better.
“I can handle him, if you’ll back me,” she said.
“You got that.”
“Good. Now get on to . . . seeing after Brooke,” she said. “And leave me to my burger.”
Luke kissed her cheek. “Love you, Gram.”
“I know. Now get.”
He whistled as he walked to his car. Daisy always made him feel better. A few minutes later he stood in front of his evidence board in the study.
On his way home, Steve had called and suggested that Luke get in touch with Hugh Cortland and fill him in on what had happened. He would as soon as he collected his thoughts. Luke turned back to the board and went over what he knew, starting with the drug deal almost a week ago with Romero. Although he’d been late to the meeting, Luke didn’t think Romero was the person making the drug transfer John mentioned. It wasn’t a job he would do in the organization.
The theory was drugs were brought into New Orleans, transferred at Natchez and maybe once again in Jackson or up north at the Alabama line, and then on to Nashville. While it took more runners, it would just about be impossible to trace. Who was the connection at Natchez?
For the hundredth time he read John’s voice mail that he’d transcribed.
“Got a tip there’s a big drug transfer going down at Emerald Mound at midnight, and thought you’d want to be there for the takedown. Think I know who the runner is.”
John knew who the runner was. Luke wished he’d told him his name.
Luke punched in Sonny’s number. “You’ve been hinting for a month now that someone is taking money to look the other way when drugs are moved up the Trace. Who is it?”
“Hello to you too.”
“Come on, Sonny.”
“I’ve only heard vague talk and no names.”
“You sure you don’t know?”
“I make it my business not to.”
“How much would it take to make it your business?”
“No thanks. Just why are you interested all of a sudden, anyway?”
“This isn’t a two-bit deal about to go down. My people are looking to invest a lot of money in what Boudreaux can provide us, and we need to know the law around here won’t interfere. So who is it?”
“I’m not lying to you—I don’t know,” he said. “But I might know somebody who does.”
“Good. Another thing. My organization is worried about Kyle Marlar’s murder bringing the FBI’s attention to Natchez. Is Boudreaux involved?” he asked.
“I doubt it. He was really upset the medical marijuana bill might pass.” The sound of Sonny taking a draw from a cigarette, or maybe a joint, came through the phone followed by him exhaling. “My two cents’ worth? I think he found a way to put pressure on Marlar to change his vote from yes to no.”
“But Marlar was just one vote,” Luke said.
“Yeah, but he’d been in the state legislature a long time and people owed him. Boudreaux expected him to call in favors to get the bill defeated, so he wouldn’t want Marlar dead.” Sonny took another drag. “If it passes, it’ll cost the cartel a bundle. And it’ll cost me. Some of my best marijuana customers are on chemo.”
“Can’t they get it from one of the states where it’s legal?”
“Yeah, but it’s a lot more trouble and way more expensive than buying it from me.”
“What else have you heard? How about the bomb at Marlar’s house?”
“Not much. But if you put two and two together, it’s pretty easy to figure out.”
“What do you mean?”
“Marlar was a photographer. Maybe he took a picture of the wrong person.”
“If there are photos, do you know where they are?”
“Nah. But if I thought Marlar had pictures of me selling drugs, I’d be looking for them, and the first place I’d look is his house, and it’s gone now.”
“Do you know who killed him?”
“No, and if I did, I’d keep it to myself—it’s how I’ve stayed alive all these years—keeping my nose out of things that don’t concern me. It’s starting to bother me why you’re so interested.”
A call beeped in, and he checked to see who was calling. Romero? “I gotta go,” he said as his phone beeped again. Luke switched over to Romero’s call. “Yeah?”
“Boudreaux said to come to his hotel room. Be there in fifteen minutes.”
The deal was going down. “On my way.”
Luke grabbed the money he’d stashed in his bedroom and divided it between two deep pockets in his cargo pants. He called Delaney as he drove away from the house to advise him the deal was on.
Ten minutes later Luke parked in the hotel lot and slipped into his role of wheeler-dealer extraordinaire before he strolled inside. Anyone watching would think he didn’t have a care in the world, much less a three-million-dollar deal to work out. On the ride up to the second floor, he clicked the pen on and thought about rehearsing his spiel, then discarded the idea. Luke didn’t want to sound canned. Instead he took a breath and blew it out and then shook his shoulders to loosen up.
When Wilson opened the door, Luke raised his hands. “No guns,” he said. Knowing he’d be frisked again, they were safe under the seat of his car.
The dour Wilson patted him down anyway as a bedroom door opened and Boudreaux came into the room followed by Louis carrying a briefcase. The small man set the case on the table where they’d eaten boudin.
“Have a seat,” Boudreaux said.
Luke chose a chair that faced the door.
The drug czar sat across from him. “Do you have the money?”
Luke pulled a packet from one pocket then the other and laid them on the table. Boudreaux nodded, and Louis set the briefcase beside the money. He removed a rectangular package wrapped in plastic and handed it to his boss.
“Our finest. Uncut white heroin,” Boudreaux said, placing the package beside the money. “You’re welcome to open it, or weigh it, or even try a sample.”
Luke waved him off. “We’ll be doing business together for quite a while—I don’t think you’d cheat me.”
He drew the heroin closer to his side of the table while Boudreaux flipped through the cash. “Random serial numbers. You follow directions well.”
Luke acknowledged the compliment with a nod. “And my people were well pleased with the samples I took them. As well as your ability to provide what I needed so quickly.” Boudreaux leaned forward, and Luke paused. He’d taken the bait, now to set the hook. “I’ve been authorized to make you a proposition.”
Boudreaux frowned, his eyes wary. “Then this . . . ”—he dipped his head toward the heroin—“was a test?”
“You could call it that. The organization I represent is looking for a new source of heroin. Originally, they didn’t believe you could produce what we need. It took some convincing on my part, and of course, you came through for me,” Luke said, improvising as he talked. “I heard a large shipment was arriving in New Orleans next week . . .”
“Where did you hear that?”
“I have good sources.” Luke smiled to soften the words. “My organization wants that shipment, and they’re willing to pay top dollar.”
“It’s already earmarked for New York,” Boudreaux said.
“So I’ve heard, but we’ll double their offer.”
“What’s the name of this organization?”
“You wouldn’t recognize it. It’s a syndicate out of California with legitimate business enterprises. They have offices in Memphis and Jackson. It’s very low-key with several layers separating the top people from the dealers. Are you interested?”
“Depends. Do they want to set up shop in Natchez or New Orleans?”
“Neither. That’s your territory, and they respect you. Most of our business is from Memphis north to St. Louis. We’ve only branched out to Jackson in the last year, and that’s as far south as we’re going.”
Louis leaned over and whispered something in Boudreaux’s ear, and he nodded before turning back to Luke. “Your organization—they can handle twenty kilos of heroin?”
Luke nodded.
“For three million?”
Luke nodded again. “But for that kind of money, my boss will want to deal directly with the Colombian supplier. Músculos.”
“How—”
“I told you, I have good sources. Is it a deal?”
“I can’t speak for him, but for three mil, you can have the shipment that’s coming in next week.”
“It’s no deal without the Colombian.”
Luke didn’t flinch from Boudreaux’s appraising stare. “Why is that so important?”
“Like you, my people like to take the measure of whoever they do business with. We have ambitious plans and want his personal assurance he can provide for our needs.”
Boudreaux’s brow smoothed. “I doubt that’ll be a problem. And when I explain it to him, I have a feeling he will be anxious to meet your top man.” He flashed a tight smile. “Take his measure as well.”
“We expect no less. It’s a deal, then?” Mark Delaney should do very well in the role of top man. Luke pulled up the calendar on his phone. “Do we want to set a date?”
