Silent Approach Page 11

  Winston waltzed into the Pop A Top as if he were gracing people with his presence. It was not an upscale bar by any means, but it had a regular clientele best described as a cast of characters. On most any night you could find whatever you were looking for in terms of trouble. If it wasn’t already there, a quick phone call would bring it. Every town had at least one bar like the Pop A Top.

  When Runt saw Winston, he waved him over. A Rascal Flatts tune was playing on the jukebox, and three girls in short denim cutoffs danced with one another for the viewing pleasure of some out-of-town construction workers. It was a typical Friday night. Runt and his girlfriend, Gina, were in a deep conversation about Game of Thrones. She loved John Snow and wanted him to live, and Runt was, predictably, a fan of the platinum-blonde Khaleesi.

  Winston waved at the bartender, who automatically brought him over a Jack and Coke. He grabbed a handful of peanuts and watched the denim-clad girls dance.

  Runt leaned in close to ask, “You hear from your boy with the tribe?”

  “Nah, I told you that’s not working out.”

  Runt nodded.

  Winston took a big sip of his drink and squinted as it burned going down. “What we gotta do is make some scratch quick. I plan to call that preppy-shit accountant from Columbus.”

  “That’s only an hour and a half from here. That ain’t a bad road trip,” Runt said. “He had a badass ride. Even if he ain’t got no Indian rocks, we could steal his car.”

  Winston pulled the business card with the man’s name and number on it from his wallet and looked at it, then decided he would call in the morning. Tonight he would drink—a lot—and enjoy the money he’d made today. The short denim shorts were looking good to him. The night was young. Maybe he would even venture over to the J & J shoe show and watch some strippers. Why not? he thought. He had some cash, and he was open to suggestions.

  “Hey, boss, you’re on a roll,” Runt said, hugging his girlfriend, who wasn’t hugging him back. “Let’s do something big tonight.”

  “I am. I’m going to the casino,” Winston said, making it clear that Runt and his girlfriend weren’t invited.

  Chapter 21

  The morning started before daylight for Agent Haden and her colleagues. They met at a truck stop and familiarized themselves with the layout of the private airport, the crop duster’s schedule, and where the observer had been seen. Two agents had scouted the location in the dark last night and had a plan for surveillance. So far a data search of silver Toyota sedans with Mississippi plates hadn’t yielded anything of significant interest. Their best bet at this point was to catch the guy in the act.

  The airstrip was north and west of Yazoo City at the edge of the delta. The area was as flat as the Gulf of Mexico on a calm morning, and its mosquitos were reported to be vicious. There was, however, a hell of a barbeque joint a few miles away, so lunch would be worth waiting for. Agent Haden, being the only female, rolled her eyes at the men’s constant thoughts of the next good meal.

  As they sat in the booth at the truck stop, she looked at the faded photos of Jerry Clower hanging on the wall. This was the old southern comedian’s hometown. She recognized the photos and remembered her daddy listening to his stories on cassette tapes. She made a mental note to purchase one and send it to him. He didn’t have iTunes, which would have been so much easier.

  After the business at hand was finalized, she dosed her scrambled eggs with Crystal Hot Sauce and ate them while she listened to the other agents gab. They’d ordered bacon and pancakes and enough cholesterol to harden their arteries. Not a man among them had made anything close to a healthy choice off the menu. She knew at least a few would show better sense when they were at home with their wives.

  Her mind drifted to John Allen. He looked to be in decent shape, and he hadn’t pigged out in front of her last night like most men would have. She wondered whether he watched what he ate and exercised. That was important to her. She checked her watch. It was still only 5:45. She figured he was still deep asleep at the Hampton Inn.

  She’d enjoyed listening to him tell his story last night. She had seen pain in his eyes, and he’d shown a cautiousness that wasn’t exhibited by most men. He hadn’t had a desire to rush anything, and she liked that. She didn’t know for sure whether he liked her, but she thought he was interested. The presence of the ring demonstrated to her that he wasn’t a playboy but was capable of loving one person. That thought was reassuring. And she could never remember another man blessing her food other than her father. She’d liked it.

  “What are you smiling at, Emma?” the senior agent asked, startling her.

  “Oh, nothing,” she replied. “I was just remembering my daddy listening to Jerry Clower tapes.”

  They all chuckled. “That man’s stories about Marcel Ledbetter were the best!” an agent said as he stuffed a sausage in his mouth.

  Emma hadn’t realized she’d been smiling. She shook her head. A man hadn’t made her feel this way in a long time. Maybe forever. There was something special about John Allen Harper.

  “Do they sell bug repellent here?” she asked, to make sure the subject stayed changed.

  “I got us some last night at Walmart,” the lead agent said. “And Cokes and bottled water for you, Emma. Hurry up. We need to roll and get into position. It’s going to be a long, hot day.”

  The alarm clock glowed 5:50 a.m. when John Allen decided he couldn’t lie in bed any longer. His mind kept replaying last night’s dinner. Sitting up, he wondered what Emma was doing right now. Then it occurred to him to wonder whether she might have texted him. He really didn’t think she would have, but he grabbed his phone and checked anyway. The only text was from his mother, reminding him to send her his Christmas list.

  Rummaging through his travel bag, he pulled out shorts, a wrinkled Adidas shirt, and his running shoes. He’d start his morning with a two-mile run, then visit his sister and parents before rolling back down the highway to the office in Philadelphia.

  On his way out of the hotel, he noticed a lady who was setting up the continental breakfast. It wouldn’t be great, but it was free. He put his earbuds in as the electric doors opened, then tapped Pandora and cued up his playlist.

  Typical early-summer mornings in Mississippi start off in the midseventies, but given the high humidity, it doesn’t take long to break a sweat. John Allen turned left on Greymont Street and breathed in the fresh morning air. The city had barely started waking up, and even the traffic on the nearby interstate was light. The only sound was the siren of an ambulance headed north.

  As he jogged, John Allen’s mind turned once again to Emma. He’d loved the way she’d been interested in what he had to say. It had been a long time since he’d enjoyed himself as much as he had last night. He wondered whether she liked to fish. He was curious as to what she thought of him. Could she be interested in him?

  With approximately two miles done, John Allen made his way back to the hotel. His shirt was drenched in sweat, and he was hungry. There were two guys looking at his Porsche as he walked into the lobby. He shook his head and headed back to his room to get his day started. If his day went well, he might go fishing late that evening.

  The chief of the Choctaw tribe requested a briefing from Hoss at her office. She started her days early and worked late. It was not uncommon for her to be in before 6:00 a.m., and she expected everyone around her to be working as well. She didn’t like an eight-to-five work ethic from her executive team. There was simply too much to do each day to pack it all into eight short hours.

  Hoss arrived at seven, coffee in one hand and a box of doughnuts in the other. He entered her office and took a seat. He wished he had been earlier, but he’d overslept. He hoped the doughnuts would help make up for it.

  “Have you heard from John Allen?” she asked, still looking at her computer.

  “Yes, ma’am. He met with the FBI yesterday, and they’re getting ready to set up a sting on Winston Walker. I think it may actually be a
few days before they start, though. He indicated they had a problem.”

  “What kind of problem?” she asked as she removed her bifocals.

  “I don’t know, exactly.”

  “Keep me posted. I usually get a text update from him once every couple of days. He’s good about keeping me informed. But I need you to help fill in the gaps.” She rubbed the bridge of her nose where her glasses had perched. “Any luck finding any artifacts at Rosco’s?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “When’s the funeral?”

  “Couple more days. You know how black funerals seem to take a little longer. I think they wait on all the relatives to arrive.”

  The chief sipped her coffee, then sat quietly for a moment before saying, “I would like to know where Winston Walker was the night Rosco Jones died.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Anything else? Any issues at the casino?”

  “No, ma’am. It’s all running smoothly.”

  “Keep me posted. That’s all for now.”

  Hoss stood and started out of the office, relieved to be leaving. He could tell she was in a bad mood, and he wasn’t helping. He was almost out the door when she stopped him.

  “Hoss?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Don’t forget your doughnuts.”

  John Allen arrived at his parents’ house before 8:00 a.m. He didn’t have a normal eight-to-five work schedule since he ended up working lots of nights and Saturdays to look for artifacts. Today was Saturday, and he pretended to have to work so he wouldn’t have to spend all morning listening to his parents and sister.

  The four of them drank coffee and caught up on one another’s lives—well, everyone except John Allen, who still kept his secrets to himself. His sister complained about having a hard time finding a job, and his dad was enjoying his retirement. His mother was busy with planning a remodel of the kitchen cabinets and counters. Her biggest decision was whether to install granite or marble, and she couldn’t make up her mind. John Allen voted for granite. He enjoyed his parents, but today, for some reason, he didn’t want to hear about their issues. And he didn’t want French toast like when he was a boy. He needed to drive and to listen to the radio like he had when he’d been in high school. John Allen needed to blow the cobwebs out of his mind, then get to work.

  After he left his parents’ house, he pointed the Porsche northeast toward Philadelphia. He planned to be there in time to eat lunch at Peggy’s and enjoy some home-style cooking. Since working for the Choctaw Nation, he’d fallen in love with the restaurant, and not a week went by that he didn’t eat there.

  He’d been heading north along State Route 25 for fifteen minutes and listening to talk radio when his phone rang. He didn’t recognize the number but still punched the green button.

  “Hello?”

  “Is this John Allen Harper, the artifact collector?” a well-spoken man’s voice asked.

  “Yes. How can I help you?”

  “I have something that you may want. I’d love to bring it to you and talk.”

  “Sounds interesting,” John Allen said. “Who is this?”

  “Let’s just say I am going to be your new best friend.”

  John Allen scowled at the phone. “I really need a few more details before I can set up a meeting.”

  “Would you be interested in a museum-quality seed-storage pot from the Tombigbee River Basin?” the voice asked.

  John Allen’s mind raced. It would be a great purchase. But who was this? “How did you get my number?”

  “From you,” the voice said, and laughed. “I have one of your business cards.”

  John Allen had given out cards all over the state to anybody who would take one. They generated inquiries weekly. “This pot, is it authentic?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “Where do you want to meet? I can come to you.”

  “Why don’t we do this at your place?” the man suggested cheerfully. “That may put your mind at ease.”

  John Allen tried to think. It wasn’t like he could bring anyone to the Choctaw Nation office. That would not only blow his cover but also would be certain to jack everything up. People would be scared they were doing something illegal or see big dollar signs. He didn’t really have a place other than his barn house, and he didn’t intend to bring anyone there, either.

  “Not a good idea. My place is kind of a mess right now. Where are you located?”

  The man was quiet a moment, then sighed. “Well, let’s keep you comfortable. I’m in Meridian. How about this afternoon, say four o’clock? Is that doable?”

  John Allen looked at his watch. He could easily make four. He could even eat at Peggy’s and make the meeting. Perfect. “Yeah, I can do that. Where do you want to meet?”

  “Meet me at the Pop A Top bar. Do you know where it is?”

  “No, but I can find it,” John Allen said. “How will I know you?”

  “You’ll know. I’ll stand out.”

  “So you’re not going to tell me your name?”

  “Do you really need to know?”

  John Allen tried to think of a solid comeback, one that wouldn’t just earn him another smart-ass comment from the guy. But nothing came to him. He could tell this man liked to play games.

  “It would just be nice to know.”

  “All you need to know is I have a pot that you’ll want to purchase, and you’ll need to bring $10,000 in cash.”

  “Jeez! That’s a lot of money.”

  “I thought you were—well, your card says you’re a collector of high-value artifacts. Perhaps I misunderstood,” the man said in a sarcastic tone. “Are you not interested?”

  This wasn’t a college kid selling Grandpa’s old rocks. A tiny red flag went up in John Allen’s mind, but it was clouded over by the thought of returning a perfect seed pot to the Choctaw Nation, where it belonged.

  “Yes, I am interested, but I will need to examine it first. I’ll be there at four.”

  “Whatever you need to do.”

  “And if I’m gonna give you anywhere close to that amount of money, I’ll need a name.”

  The man laughed into John Allen’s ear, giving him a creepy feeling about this call. The guy was way different from anyone he’d talked to before. He certainly didn’t recall giving him his card.

  “When the time comes,” the guy said. “But you won’t be sending me a 1099 form.”

  The line went dead, and John Allen looked at his phone, his heart pounding. This was what he’d been working toward. Finally, he had a big fish on the line.

  Federal agent Emma Haden sat in a government-issued black sedan with another agent and watched for a silver Toyota four-door. Their car was partially hidden in a giant cornfield, and the agents appreciated the fact that they could remain in the air-conditioning. It was much too hot to hide in the five-foot-tall corn that was just starting to tassel.

  The agent paired with Emma Haden didn’t talk much while on stakeout. He had three young kids at home and a wife who wasn’t happy being married. Consequently, he didn’t get much peace and quiet after work hours. He took advantage of any downtime while on surveillance to sleep. Emma didn’t really mind except when he snored. She drew the line at snoring.

  She punched him, and he grunted as he turned slightly to alter his breathing.

  “You’re probably a candidate for a sleep-apnea machine,” she said as she studied the field in front of her for movement. A half mile in the distance, she could see the yellow crop-duster airplane where it sat on the tarmac. Their car was parked on a high spot in a cornfield that gave her a view of the small airport and its two points of access. If another car approached, she would see it in advance.

  “I got one.”

  “Yeah?” she asked, checking the temperature gauge on the engine. She didn’t want the car to overheat. “Does it work?”

  “It’s amazing, but it absolutely ruined my sex life.”

  Agent Haden laughed out loud at the tho
ught of her partner wearing the mask with its long connected hose. “I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to take it off first.”

  “Very funny,” the agent replied without stirring. “Seriously, she changed the way she looked at me after I got the damn thing.”

  Emma doubted that had been the turning point, but she could agree that it probably contributed.

  “Maybe you should lose a few pounds?”

  The agent groaned. “Not you, too. I get this shit all night at home.”

  Agent Haden didn’t try to hide her smile, and she didn’t care, either. “Is it that bad?”

  “It’s freaking miserable.”

  Agent Haden laughed again. She enjoyed most stakeouts. The close proximity created a camaraderie that allowed the real person to come out. She got along with most of the guys and other female agents, though there were a few who made a stakeout more drudgery than usual.

  “My wife goes on Facebook,” her partner went on, “and sees all her friends going on vacations, with new houses and just generally better lives, and she gets depressed. If we plan anything, nine times outta ten I have to cancel and go do something like this shit. I miss more important events than I make, it seems. Last week I missed swimming-lesson graduation.”

  Emma looked at her phone and once again saw that it had no data service and only one bar of cell service that was hit-and-miss. She was interested in her partner’s problems but couldn’t solve them. In fact, you could insert the names of any of the twenty agents she worked with into the conversation. It fit all their lives. They were overworked and stressed to the max. It wasn’t like they finished a project and went home. The job followed them everywhere they went.

  “What are you gonna do?”

  “If she ends up leaving me, I just hope she remarries soon so I don’t have to pay alimony any longer than I have to,” the agent said, almost snickering.