–
The black Ford F-250 pickup rumbled into the parking lot a minute after Mary had arrived. The driver was a big man with broad shoulders, skin the color of milk coffee, and a weathered USMC garrison cap on his head. He put his foot on the brake and scanned the lot, his eyes quickly locating the blond woman in business attire, staying with her as she picked up her gait and entered the café.
“Hello, Miss Mary.”
Shanks put the truck into gear and cruised the lot until he found a spot with a clear line of sight to the entrance. He raised a hand in the shape of a gun and took aim at the door. Give him his old Remington sniper’s rifle and one round. From this distance it would be like shooting fish in a barrel.
He put down his imaginary rifle and placed a call. “She’s here.”
“Of course she is,” said Peter Briggs. “Do this and you can count on a promotion.”
Shanks opened the center console and removed a brass cigarette case. He had some time to kill and didn’t know a better way. A flick of his thumb opened the case. He selected a slim, tightly rolled spliff and lit it. Shanks didn’t touch alcohol or most drugs, but he did allow himself a taste of some fine kush now and then. He took a drag and flicked the cherry out the window. He held the smoke in his lungs, feeling his eyes water, his chest expand, his head grow warm and fuzzy. This particular strain was called Triple A, for “awake, alert, and aware.” It got you mellow, took the edge off things, but gave you a little kick in the ass so you could remain sharp, on point.
He exhaled.
“Oh yeah,” he said, seeing a rainbow arc across his vision. He blinked and the colors vanished. “That’s the ticket.”
Shanks considered taking another hit, then thought better of it. One was more than enough. He didn’t know what Joseph Grant had wanted with Mr. Prince. He imagined it had had something to do with the Merriweather deal last winter. It had been a stressful time for everyone at the company. Mr. Prince had ridden the troops hard to make sure ONE completed the acquisition. And Briggs had ridden his boys in security harder. There was lots of B &E work, strong-arming, that type of thing. It was around then that the Mole had started making his creepy Vines.
Since then Shanks had moved steadily up the ladder. Briggs made it clear that it was his job to protect Mr. Prince and his company. He talked about ONE as if it were a country, not a corporation. Shanks liked that just fine. He was a man who gave his allegiance wholly, and ONE represented everything he admired. It was powerful, influential, admired, and, best of all, color-blind. ONE was a meritocracy. It was all about ability.
If his job called for him to shoot a federal agent, fine. He looked at it as killing the enemy, a task no different from taking out an insurgent in Iraq. You were either with ONE or against it. Besides, Shanks had suffered at the hands of the FBI. To him, the job was a chance for some payback-to balance the scales of justice, so to speak. And if his job called for him to take care of another kind of problem, he was fine with that, too.
He checked the time and noted that the Grant woman had been inside the café for an hour. This was not a positive development. He had an educated idea of what she was doing in there, and he was certain Mr. Briggs would not be happy when he learned of it.
Shanks opened his glove box to check for his real gun, a Beretta 9mm, ten-shot clip plus one in the barrel, modified Python ammo. He didn’t need a rifle tonight. This job would be up close and personal.
He closed the glove box and settled down to wait.
He was already rehearsing what he was going to say to Mary Grant before he killed her.
59
“My name is Mary Grant. FBI. I’d like to speak with the manager.”
The hostess glanced at Mary’s badge. “Yes, ma’am. Please wait right here while I find him.”
“Thank you.”
The hostess disappeared into the back of the café. Mary kept her hands at her sides, her posture its best, as she waited. If this was the kind of response a badge got, she planned on carrying it more often.
A minute later a tall, thickset African-American man of about fifty wearing a denim shirt approached. “Cal Miller.”
Mary introduced herself and presented Joe’s badge. “Is there somewhere quiet we can speak?”
“Can I ask what this is about?”
“Two days ago an agent was shot and killed at the Flying V Ranch up the road. The agent ate here just before. I’d like your help in finding out who he may have been with.”
“My office is in the back.”
Miller led the way to the rear of the restaurant, through a door marked Private and into a cluttered office the size of a broom closet. Posters of past acts covered the walclass="underline" Vince Gill, Bruce Hornsby, and Willie Nelson. Miller wedged himself behind his desk while Mary moved a stuffed armadillo off an armchair. As she sat, she unbuttoned her jacket just enough to allow him a glimpse of Joe’s Glock. It was only then that she noticed he was wearing a sidearm beneath his shirt, too, something very big and very shiny.
She handed him the receipt she’d found in Joe’s wallet. “Is the server here? I’d like to ask her a few questions.”
“That’s Mindy. She pulls a double Mondays and Thursdays. Let me get her.”
Miller left the office. Mary took a breath and tried to relax. She’d passed the bullshit test. All she had to do now was keep calm and authoritative and act like Joe.
Miller returned, trailed by Mindy, the waitress. She was a short, curvy redhead approaching middle age, with too much makeup and boobs spilling out of a tight black tank top.
“How do you do?” Mindy said, offering a hand. “Cal told me why you’re here. I’m real sorry ’bout what happened to your friend. Do you have a picture of him? It might help.”
“Yes,” said Mary. “Of course.”
Mistake one. She didn’t have a picture ready at all.
She fumbled for her phone and embarked on a search for a picture of Joe to show the waitress. In every one Joe was either with the girls or with Mary. There wasn’t a single snap of him alone. Finally, she selected a picture of Joe with the girls taken at Christmas last year. At least he was wearing a suit, and with a wrenching start, she realized it was the one he’d been wearing two days ago.
“Here he is.”
“Those his daughters? Poor girls. They’re real pretty.”
“Yes, they are,” said Mary, too quickly.
“Burger, fries, and a Coke. I remember him.” She looked up and smirked. “The other guy-he was a piece of work.”
“Go on.”
“He’d just had an operation, something with his heart. He couldn’t eat anything with too much fat or cholesterol. He was worried about how we cook our food. No vegetable oil. No trans fats. You know, all that New York City nonsense. Hello…we ain’t the Four fuckin’ Seasons.”
“How do you know he was from New York?”
“He had an accent, that’s all. He sure as heck wasn’t from around here.”
“Do you recall what he looked like?”
“Fat, red face. Kinda piggy, I guess. Hair combed over. Not someone you’d find on the cover of GQ. But the other one, the one in the picture, he was a dish.”
“He’s married,” said Mary.
“I noticed,” said Mindy, as if the fact didn’t mean a thing to her or her lusty ambitions. “Is there anything else? I’ve got five tables that are probably having a conniption fit about now.”
“That should cover it.”
“I’m sorry about your friend. I can see you’re real torn up.” Mindy stepped closer and put a hand on Mary’s arm. “Guess you didn’t care he was married either.”