Authors: Mark de Castrique
“Do you think you missed foul play?”
“No. She wasn't in good health. I think her death and the discovery of the burial site presented Panther with an opportunity to enhance a plan he already had in place.”
“And this is where the arrowhead and dirt come into the spotlight?”
I nodded. “Exactly. Panther wasn't going to salt the cemetery. He was going to salt the construction site of the new Cherokee casino. Romero told me artifacts at an archaeological find on Indian land are protected by federal law. Construction would have been shut down until the exact nature of the discovery had been determined. No telling how extensively Panther would have spread his items, and you know he would have been there to see them uncovered and make sure the world heard about it.”
“You think the discovery at the cemetery gave him the idea?”
“No. I think his plan was already underway, and someone found out about it. That would explain why Frankie Tyrell came to Cherokee before we discovered the relics at the cemetery. Panther read Melissa's article and jumped at the chance to begin his protest early. That press momentum would have carried over to the salted casino site, creating an even bigger story.”
“Have you got a soil match?” Susan asked.
“No. We haven't requested one yet. I don't know the exact location, but we'll get samples tomorrow.”
“You think someone caught him in the act?”
“Yes. Or knew ahead of time he was going to be there. Swifty might not be the only one who saw the artifacts in the pickup. And Swifty might know who that other person could be.”
“Do you think the kid's in danger?”
“Only if someone thinks he's got incriminating information.” My mind flashed to Dot Swift holding the picture of her son. “Whether Swifty actually does or not isn't the point.”
“And your suspect list?”
“Just ballooned to anyone who stands to lose a lot of money. With a new casino, that's everything from construction to the contract for gaming machines, or a fellow Cherokee whose per capita could potentially double for life.”
“How many's that?” Susan asked.
“Around fourteen thousand tribal members.”
“How many could hire a hit man?”
I toasted her with an imaginary glass. “That, my dear, might be the determining factor. And our friend Kevin Malone may have the key to our case after all.”
“You look absolutely stunning.” Kevin Malone held open the door to his hotel room and seemed enraptured by Susan's appearance.
“Thank you,” Susan replied as she slipped by him.
He turned to follow her, leaving me to catch the door for myself. “No, I mean it. Absolutely stunning. If you're in the poker room, then no one will be looking at their cards. Especially Frankie. He has an eye for the ladies.”
“Then I suggest we keep Susan out of the poker room.”
Kevin pivoted and grinned. “Oh, hi, Barry. You look acceptable.”
I wore a tan sport coat, white open-neck shirt, and charcoal slacks. I knew I was a little overdressed, but I was the escort for the Queen of the Poker Room.
Kevin indicated we should sit down in the conversation area between the bed and window. Like our room, there was a small love seat and matching chair. A folder lay in the seat of the chair. Kevin picked it up and sat down. Susan and I took the love seat. We watched Kevin open the folder and flip through the thin stack of papers. He extracted a photograph and passed it to me.
The eight-by-ten showed a middle-aged man in a finely tailored charcoal suit. The picture caught him stepping into a limousine with his head turned toward the camera as if the photographer had called his name. Behind the car I could make out the corner of a bar and the letter O with an apostrophe after it. The remainder of the word was blocked by a delivery van traveling in the opposite direction. The sign could have read anything from O'Brien's to O'Shaughnessy's.
I studied the man closer. He didn't have the feral features I'd expect of a hired assassin. His face was oval, swarthy, and framed by tight black curls. His nose had a slight twist like it had been broken and not properly set. In a strange way, it gave a rugged look to an otherwise plain face. Although he was bent to enter the rear seat, I estimated his height to be six feet or six-one. He appeared fit. I remembered Kevin calling him Whitey Bulger's society face, and I could see him comfortably wearing an Armani suit or brass knuckles. Maybe both at the same time.
“Is this Tyrell?” I asked, and gave the photo to Susan.
“Yes,” Kevin said. “The picture was shot about a year ago when we were tailing him during the discovery phase of the trial. When the DA's witness list went to the defense, we checked in on Bulger's known muscle.”
“Like the story you told me about Tyrell and the Walther P22.”
“Correct.” Kevin pulled a second photo from his folder. “I took this earlier today. I didn't have proper paper to print it on and it's a little blurry because I shot it through the lobby window when Tyrell went out for a smoke.”
Tyrell was framed from the waist up in a three-quarter profile. He cupped a cigarette, protecting it from a breeze. He wore an aqua-blue shirt unbuttoned at the neck. The rolled-back sleeves exposed hairy forearms more muscular than one would have thought from the first photo. Tyrell seemed to be staring intently at something out of frame.
“What's he looking at?” I asked.
“Nothing,” Kevin said. “He was just thinking. Smoked two cigarettes back-to-back and then went up to his room.”
“You tail him?” I asked.
“Not to his room. I don't want him to see me. That's why you, Susan, and Archie have to be my eyes tonight.”
I returned the pictures to Kevin. “What makes you think something's going to happen?”
“Because when the tournament starts tomorrow, access to the poker room is restricted. Tyrell won't be moving in and out as freely, and spectators keep their distance. Have your phones handy, but out of sight, and text me if you see anything unusual.”
“What are you going to be doing?” I asked.
“Drinking in a dark corner of one of the bars.” He laughed. “Don't worry. It will be a wee one. Or two, if your man Archie's as good a player as you say he is.”
I pointed to the folder. “You going to show him those photos?”
“The last one, so he knows who he's dealing with. The other one looks a little too much like a cliché mobster and his driver. Besides, my uncle owns O'Malley's, the bar in the background, and I don't want to spread around a picture of his fine establishment with a six-foot-high dog turd standing in front of it.”
“If Tyrell did execute Panther, who do you think hired him?” I asked.
Kevin shrugged. “That's where your investigation comes in. I'm giving what I think are the means.”
“But there must be some link back to Boston.”
“Isn't organized crime deep in the casino business?” Susan asked.
Kevin set the folder on the floor by his chair, got up, and went to the minibar. “If you're going to make me think, then I need a drink. What will you have? I'm afraid the only Irish in stock is Tullamore Dew, but it's a fine Irish product and triple distilled.”
Susan and I declined. Kevin opened a minibottle and emptied the liquor into a hotel glass.
He raised it to us. “May God hold us in his hand. And not squeeze his fist too tight.” He wrapped his own hand carefully around the glass and returned to his chair. “The casino business is business, my dear. Now it's highly regulated and traded on the stock exchange. That's not to say certain favors and reciprocal expectations don't exist. But you'll find that in any business.”
He took a sip of whiskey and smacked his lips. “I don't think the money for the hit came from Boston. Something else is going on here. So far, I haven't seen anyone meet with Tyrell, but if it happens tonight, don't be surprised if it's a local face because I think your Indian was a local problem.”
Kevin's assessment didn't contradict anything my investigation had uncovered. I decided it was time to be more forthcoming and I gave him a summary of where the case stood. I knew I held his interest because he neither interrupted nor took a drink during my report. When I concluded, he reached down for the glass and drained it in one swallow. He looked out the window as if searching for something in the surrounding hills.
When he finally spoke, he kept his eyes focused on the view. “How well do you know this Darren Cransford?”
“Not real well,” I said. “We were in grade school together and then his father sent him north to boarding school.”
Kevin shifted in his chair and stared at me. “Boarding school? How many mountain people send their kids to boarding school?”
“A few. Luther was a successful businessman. A real estate developer when times were flush. Mack Collins' children went to prep school, and I guess Luther thought if it was good enough for his friend's kids, it was good enough for his own. I've not seen Darren or his sister Sandra much other than when they're home for holidays.”
“But the families must have kept up if Darren thought he could influence Mack Collins for the Catawbas.”
“Luther and Mack are tight,” I agreed. “That's why Mack's so worried Luther's our prime suspect. Where are you going with this?”
“The B word. It's my first thought because the landscape of Irish history is littered with it.”
The only B word that came to my mind was bitch, and I could think of no reason Kevin would be reticent to say it. “Sorry, I'm not following you.”
“Betrayal. What's the best way for a movement to fail, from Judas and Christ to the Cherokee Trail of Tears I've been reading about? It's to put your trust in the wrong people. What if Darren Cransford wasn't really working for the Catawba tribe but was loyal to this state senator who's against their casino? If Panther had a plan, Darren Cransford would be in a position to sabotage it.”
“But Darren's the one who told me Panther was planning a game-changer. Why would he even raise the possibility?”
“Don't underestimate man's capacity for deceit,” Kevin said. “The best way for Darren to shift attention away from himself is to feed you plausible explanations leading you to believe he's trying to help.”
“But killing Panther on his own mother's grave?”
Kevin shrugged. “Certainly puts him at the rear of the suspect line, which is where he'd want to be.”
“You're saying because he's the least likely culprit, he's the prime culprit. Using that logic, Susan and I are more likely candidates.”
“He's here in Cherokee, isn't he? He knew about the broken feathers, the fight at the cemetery, and his alibi with the businessmen is only as good as the length of the meeting and the travel time back here. How long would that be?”
“Darren said he had his meeting at seven in Kings Mountain. If it lasted two or even three hours, he could be back at the cemetery by eleven thirty or midnight at the latest.”
Kevin nodded. “Well within the time frame of Panther's death.”
I looked at Susan. She nodded her agreement with what Kevin said.
“All right,” I said. “Darren's still on the list. Tommy Lee's pulling his phone records and reconstructing any location info we can. But that still doesn't give us a connection to Tyrell.”
“I know,” Kevin said. “And maybe our luck will change tonight. Keep an eye out for Cransford. Does he know Archie Donovan?”
“Yes. But he also knows Archie likes to play poker, so if Susan and I see him first, we'll try to fade into the woodwork. Archie by himself shouldn't raise suspicion.”
A knock came from the door.
“That's him now,” I said.
“Let him in.” Kevin opened his folder and pulled out the single photo of Tyrell at the casino. He slipped everything else under the bed.
Archie flashed a big smile as he entered the room. “Everything's set. I'm ready to do this.”
Kevin offered his hand. “Good to see you again, Mr. Donovan.”
“Likewise. And call me Archie. I'm glad to help. I don't want to screw it up.” He looked to Susan. “Wow, you look great.” Then he tugged at the sleeves of his blue blazer. “Do I look all right? I wasn't sure how I should dress.”
Archie wore an open-neck white dress shirt under the standard blazer. His khaki pants were sharply pressed and his tassel loafers were buffed to a soft shine. He wasn't wearing socks. Time travel back fifteen years and he could have been heading for a frat party.
“You look fine,” Susan said.
“Come in and sit down,” Kevin said. “The main thing is for you to be comfortable.” He indicated that Archie should take the vacant chair while he sat on the edge of the bed.
Susan and I returned to the love seat.
“I thought I should have layers,” Archie explained. “In case you need me to wear a wire.” He patted his chest. “This sport coat has a deep inside pocket.”
“Good thinking, but that won't be necessary. Just play your best poker. Tyrell's very competitive. If he sees you're the man to beat, I'm betting he'll hang in there.”
“How much seed money will I have?”
“Two thousand. Can you make it last?”
“I guess I'd better. Is this guy packing heat?”
Packing heat and wearing a wire. Archie had been watching too much TV.
Kevin laughed. “As long as you don't cheat or accuse him of cheating, you'll be safe.” Then he frowned. “You're not carrying, are you?”
“No. Not even an extra ace up my sleeve.”
Kevin handed Archie the photograph. “Here he is. I've made arrangements for you to be in the game at seven thirty. Don't seem overly interested in him. Just let things develop naturally.”
Archie studied the picture. “A smoker. He does live dangerously. I wonder if he'll have to take a break.”
“If he does, Barry and Susan will be positioned to watch him. You just keep him in the game. Note if he makes eye contact with anyone in particular in the poker room. I'll debrief you when it's over.”
“How will I know when to cash out?” Archie asked.
Kevin looked at me. “Barry will come in and give you a nod. Then you can call it quits.”
“What if I'm winning?”
“Then quit immediately. I can explain more money being returned to the department better than less.”
Archie took a final look at the photograph. “Sounds simple enough.”
“Good. Why don't you grab a bite to eat? It could be a long night. We'll meet back here when it's over.”
Kevin and Archie stood and shook hands a second time. I walked Archie to the door.
I was feeling pretty good about the way he was playing it. That was until he whispered, “Don't worry, Barry. I've got this.” When Archie tells you not to worry, it's time to worry.
Susan and I spent the next thirty minutes wandering the casino. I tried my luck at video blackjack and actually won a few hands. The problem was that the electronic cards were dealt so fast that the very process of calling for a hit or stand became addictive and I was racing through the hands. Susan sat at a machine beside me and I noticed she took the time to study each play with a more discerning eye. She was also up forty dollars.
“You want to quit while you're ahead?” I asked.
“You want me to quit while I can still cover your losses?”
“Maybe that's not such a bad idea. Let's each get a glass of wine and watch some of the action at the live tables. Then we can migrate to a position outside the poker room.”
I went to the nearest bar and bought two glasses of pinot grigio. “What would you like to see?” I asked Susan.
“Since we've been playing video blackjack, I'd like to watch how it works with a dealer.” She tipped her glass to me. “Maybe I'll build up the nerve to try a few hands.”
Signs above the tables indicated the various games. We walked past a crowd encircling a roulette wheel. The clatter of the ball built an air of excited anticipation as eager faces followed the bouncing marble until it rested in a slot. Double zero. A united chorus of groans rose from the table.
“Easy come, easy go,” I said.