Closure (Jack Randall) (9 page)

“What can I do you for?”

The man had a name tag that read Phil. He looked like a Phil. He had a gentle look about him. If this man had any nieces and nephews he was undoubtedly the favorite uncle. Probably gave great Christmas presents.

“Well, I’ve got this nephew who’s into airplanes, and my sister got him a new one for his birthday. Problem she says is he needs another radio for the thing. She told me that this Futaba one right there would be great. Does that sound right to you?”

Phil’s eyes perked up. A radio kit would make this slow day suddenly a whole lot brighter. Radios were by far the most expensive item he carried. The one the man was indicating was top-of-the-line.

“Sir, I would say your sister really knows her RC. That is a very good radio.” Phil pulled out his ring of keys and pawed through them to get the one he wanted. “Did she say how many servos the boy needed?”

“Just four. She knows I tend to go overboard on the gifts, but she said any more would just be a waste,” Sam replied.

“That’s true. You can get this radio with four or six servos. But if four is all you need, I can certainly fix you up. Lemme open it up and check to see that it’s complete.” Phil opened the box before Sam could protest. He didn’t want any prints on his purchase. But Uncle Phil was an honest man and took care of his customers, so Sam let him inventory the box while he watched.

“Nothing for yourself today?”

“No, not really my hobby, looks like fun though.”

“It is addicting, I started in high school and opened this shop after a stint in the air force. Been at it ever since. So’s my boy, those are his trophies on the shelf there.”

Sam counted fourteen trophies as Phil rang up his purchase, all airplanes.

“Cash or credit today?”

“Is cash okay? My wife will say I spent too much.”

Phil smiled back. He knew that deal.

“As long as the boy appreciates it, it’s money well spent, right?”

“You bet.” Sam watched Phil put the receipt in the bag and slide it across the counter to him. “Tell the boy to keep the nose up. You have a nice day.”

“Thanks, Phil, I will.”

•      •      •

“One more night, my man, and you can retire very rich!” The heavyweight champion of the world was in the green room with his manager about to give an interview for the upcoming fight. His manager was expounding on the wisdom of the arrangement they, or rather he, had made with the promoter. Junior tuned him out.

Junior Mayfield was never considered much of an intellectual. He had made his way through life with his fists from a young age and had done very well. He’d been the champion for five years and had defended his title four times with little difficulty. But in this last year, he’d found himself doing more commercials than training. His manager was no longer spending as much time with him. His failed marriage and subsequent divorce earlier this year had also taken its toll, on both his wallet and his body. As a result, he was not up to his usual shape for the last fight. Nor was he ready for the young Englishman’s speed and strength. It was only his experience and longer reach that had saved him, and he knew it. He had seen the tapes. According to his manager and the promoter, the man was unaware that he was being used and had fought with all he had. Junior had to accept the fact that this was his last fight. Tonight he would step into one of those sledgehammer left hooks and go down as agreed, collect his nice check afterward, and then disappear. A rich man with a good life, as his manager kept telling him, if he didn’t get hurt.

A knock on the door was followed by a shouted, “Five minutes Mr. Mayfield!”

Five minutes, he mused. This was all over five months ago. Only a few knew it for sure. There were lots of rumors out there at every fight, but this one was definitely strange. The bookies believed the rumors this time. They should have had the kid in on the deal at the last fight. Maybe they tried and he wouldn’t go for it? Who knows? He would see what the kid did in five years. Would he be sitting in this chair like he was now, contemplating the end of his career and counting his money? Would his manager take care of him, or sell him out? His was still babbling from a couch on the other side of the room. Money-money-money; it’s all he talked about anymore. Well, after tomorrow, he wouldn’t have to ever see him again. After tomorrow he was going to visit his grandmother. Maybe buy her a newer house, one with a bigger kitchen so he could sit and watch her cook for him. She loved to cook for him.

“One minute, Mr. Mayfield!” Some kid with a clipboard at the door. He got up with a sigh, straightened his tie in the mirror, and walked out to the stage. He would do the usual trash talk for the host and predict another victory. He would try to be civil, his grandmother might be watching.

•      •      •

While Junior Mayfield gave his last interview as heavyweight champion, Sam enjoyed a quiet game of blackjack. His table had himself and what looked to be a retired gentleman from the north. He could tell by the freshly sunburned nose and farmer’s tan. As the man bobbed his head to get his cards in the proper lens of his trifocals, Sam looked over the man’s shoulder at the noisy craps table. Profit and his crew had been holding court for the last hour and just getting louder. He thought he recognized one of the other players from a commercial, or maybe it was a movie? Probably a rap star from Profit’s old days who now thought he was an actor.

“Sir?”

Sam looked down and saw he had an ace to go with his jack-of-hearts. He flipped it over, and watched as the dealer promptly dealt himself a nine for nineteen. Sam was up around six hundred for the hour.

It looked to Sam like Profit was settled in for a while. But his ladies were missing; maybe in the room? Sam collected his chips and left the table to cash in. Another yell went up from the craps table as he walked by.

Once in the room, Sam locked the door and turned off the lights he had left on. He paused as his eyes adjusted, and then walked to the bed. There was enough light from the neon for him to see. Reaching under the bed, he removed the two tripods and quickly set them up. First the laser, he moved it into position behind the plant and thumbed it on. The beam was invisible to normal human sight, so he had to look through the targeting scope to aim it. The lens allowed him to actually see the light. He panned it across the floor he knew Profit always stayed at, and listened at each window. This laser wasn’t just some fancy light; it was a highly effective listening device. By shining the light on a pane of glass, it allowed him to use it as a sounding board. Any sound made in the room vibrated the glass. The laser detected these vibrations, and was able to convert them back into sound that was transmitted through the earphones that Sam was now wearing. He had spent the afternoon tuning the laser to the size and thickness of the MGM Grand windows. He had Profit’s room down to a possibility of three, and was even able to recognize a few voices. Sam thought it was one of the coolest toys he had ever played with. He heard one of the crew bitching to another about having to stay in the room with the hardware. A TV was on in the background, but Sam could make out most of the conversation. Obviously junior members of the crew; most likely one of them was the driver. Sam tightened the set screws to hold the laser on target, and reached for the camera. After training the camera on the same window, he plugged in the monitor and let it warm up. A green tinted scene slowly came into view. He could make out a TV, and what looked like a person sitting on a couch. The infrared capabilities were at their maximum range, but Sam just wanted it to determine numbers of people in the room. This would be fine. The second man could now be seen walking across the room from the bathroom.

“Where you park the girls?”

“Dropped them off at Caesars, probably spent a couple of grand by now. Luther’s with them. He’s too big and ugly to screw, so Profit don’t worry about him tagging along. Better him playing baby-sitter to them two. At least the car don’t bitch, ya know? Hate being stuck in this room though.”

“Shit man, I’m here all night, at least you get to go out later.”

“What you mean later?”

“The boys said they going to Cheetahs! Why you think he had you dump them girls at the damn mall?”

“No shit? I’m up for that. Don’t worry, my man. I’ll get a lap dance for ya.”

“Fuck you, change the damn channel. Lakers are playing tonight.”

Sam put down the earphones long enough to check the phone book for Cheetahs. A big strip bar not too far away. Must be popular by the way the page was dog-eared. He opened the small room safe and pulled out the transmitters and directional radio. He applied the self-adhesive strips to the first three transmitters, and the magnetic mounts to the remaining two. He then pulled out the laptop and punched up three different routes to and from Cheetahs with his mapping software. The boys should be well liquored up and have their guard down by the time they got there. He would be ready when the driver left. He slipped the earphones back on and settled down on the bed to wait. He muted his own TV so he was listening to the game from across the street.

The state of Georgia holds 47,208 inmates in its prisons.
Approximately 31,629 are repeat offenders.

—TEN—

S
ydney Lewis was in her dungeon cell. At least that was what she called it. It was the one she had been assigned when she first came to work for the FBI. It was in a sub-basement of the building. No windows, little heat. The ceiling was decorated with a variety of pipes leading in all directions. It was government gray with thirty-year-old furniture. But it did have some things she liked. It was close to the labs. It was far from the brass. Nobody else wanted it, and best of all, it had a sticker on the door that designated it a bomb shelter. She was one of the only people to have two offices in the building, although she hardly used the one upstairs that came with her promotion.

Sydney was tired. After three long days and nights, she was going over the stack of information that she and her team had compiled. It added up to a few inches of paper that had landed on her desk an hour ago. The worst part of it all was that despite all the money and man-hours that had gone into the report, they had not turned up anything that she would call solid enough to use in court. Nevertheless, she had to review it all to make sure before she signed her name to it.

First the car. The car contained thirty-two different sets of prints. Twenty-eight of which had so far been identified as various friends, clients, girlfriends and the wife. Her team would work at identifying the remaining four until the case was closed, but she doubted it would matter. She also had the now famous 9-iron that had deflected the round after it had done its job. The impact had been on the reverse side of the club, and had been rather obvious. The round was still out there in the suburban woods of Orlando. Mel’s people would keep looking till they found it. Since the target had moved through the intersection after the shot was delivered, plus the subsequent deflection through the windshield, which may have altered the trajectory even further, the possible places the round could have landed were numerous. Better Mel than her.

“Good luck, guys,” she voiced out loud. She squirmed in her seat to get her gun out of her ribs.

Next on the list was the thick report on the rifle. A Remington 700 in .308, rare and very expensive. Also the same rifle used by the US Army snipers. A coincidence? Jack didn’t think so. He claimed shooters usually stuck with what they knew. He should know, he was a shooter himself. And this shooter had impressed Jack. She knew Jack’s skill with a rifle, and if Jack was impressed, she was, too. She was still working on her skills with a pistol. Something Jack had helped with once. She had improved. At least Jack had said so. She needed more work. Anyway, the chamber markings on the shells matched the markings on the test rounds. No surprise. The wrench in the works was that upon disassembly, it was discovered that the firing pin had been removed from the rifle. No way to match the rounds, at least the one that had been used, to the rifle. The man had covered his tracks as much as possible; a professional. The fire had removed any hair, prints, or fibers.

Fibers. The fire had consumed everything, save a section of collar from a camouflage jumpsuit. No hair or DNA material recovered. There was also a one-inch section of face net, charred, no hair, nothing useable.

Latex. Also found in the fire. Same kind used in medical gloves. The lab even identified the brand. Diamond. Used in every hospital and ambulance in the country. Dead end.

Then there was the shoe. Twenty pages on the shoe, a Nike brand; size 11½, men’s. The man had a long stride. The book put him between 5'10" and 6'2", about 200 lbs. The lab claimed the tread had no wear on it. The shooter had splurged on a brand new pair for the job.

Sydney sighed and looked at the clock. 10 p.m. again. She had a half-hour drive to her condo. Maybe she’d even get five hours sleep before she had to rise and be back in for a meeting. Or, she looked across her office, there was always the couch.