Silent Approach Read online

  “That’s your best option? It doesn’t sound like a plan that’s been well thought out.”

  “It feels like my only option. At this point I’m not thinking things through, I’m just reacting,” he said, remaining in his relaxed position.

  The handheld radio crackled. “Unit one to unit three, over.”

  Emma grabbed her radio. “Unit three, go.”

  “Any movement, over.”

  She laughed at the intensity of the agent on the other radio, who just couldn’t help adding the annoying “over” to every transmission.

  “Negative. No movement here.” Agent Haden studied the terrain in front of her. Nothing had moved since they arrived. Two black ribbons of asphalt split the agricultural fields and ran by the grass airstrip. And so far no vehicles had approached the area.

  “Ten-four. Over.”

  Chapter 22

  Winston had forgotten that he had the old Indian seed pot. It had completely slipped his mind. A while back, he’d helped a friend hide his stolen artifacts for a few months, and the guy had given him some cash for his trouble. In Winston’s mind it hadn’t been enough, so he’d stolen one small pot for all his trouble. The guy would probably never miss it, or it would be a long time before he ever did. Now he dug the artifact out of his safe. It was wrapped up in his ex-wife’s Victoria’s Secret robe. He would take a chance and try to turn this chunk of clay into some cash.

  The Moundville artifact heist had happened a long time ago, and the criminals had been forced to move the artifacts several times when circumstances required or law enforcement got too close. Originally, they’d been stored in an unsuspecting grandmother’s storm cellar. It had been a perfect hiding place until she’d died unexpectedly and the family suddenly had buyers walking around uninvited.

  The thieves had expected to unload the artifacts within the first year, but the small world of museum curators had made the stolen artifacts known to other museums and legal collectors. These items were very high profile in the artifact world.

  As Winston unwrapped the pink robe, he saw that the pot was still intact. How could he have forgotten this gem? It would help solve some temporary cash problems, and if he could keep it along with John Allen Harper’s money, that would be even better.

  As he sat looking at the vessel, his phone dinged with the arrival of a text. Already feeling good, he grabbed his phone and saw that Runt’s girlfriend needed him, which meant she needed his drugs. Runt was at the chicken plant right now, and she wanted to see Winston.

  He had time. Today was going to be a good day. He wrapped the pot back up and set it in the corner of his office for later.

  John Allen drove straight to his office in the tribal admin building in Philadelphia. It was just a simple cubicle in a larger room. There were no photographs, plaques, or awards on the wall. On his small desk sat a half dozen books about Native American culture and artifacts. Outside his cubicle, the day seemed to be progressing normally. The office was busy with its usual functions. No one even noticed him. His in-box contained an interoffice e-mail announcing the funeral arrangements for Rosco Jones. He hadn’t thought about Rosco lately. He wondered whether Hoss had learned anything new. Suicide was such a hard thing to accept.

  John Allen tried to call Hoss, but he didn’t answer. A quick check with his office staff revealed that he was at the casino working on a security-camera issue. John Allen’s next call was to Emma. He hoped he wasn’t interrupting something important, but the call went straight to voice mail. She had warned him that she didn’t expect to have good cell service.

  John Allen decided he would eat lunch, probably by himself, then prepare to meet the seller in Meridian. There really wasn’t anything to plan for; however, he did wonder whether this seller and Winston Walker could be associated. Maybe even the same person. He hadn’t forgotten that Meridian was the last-known whereabouts of the agent who’d disappeared. He would take precautions, but first he wanted some fried green tomatoes.

  Hoss was busy with a security nightmare at the casino. The previous night a trio of crazy Cajuns had been up from Louisiana for a gambling weekend. His team was sure one of them had been counting cards as they played blackjack. Another had gotten so drunk he couldn’t sit on a stool and had ended up making a huge scene before security could get him out of the casino. The third, convinced that security had arrested his friend, had driven his pickup through the front doors in an effort to rescue him.

  It was a miracle no one had been killed. There were destroyed furnishings and broken glass everywhere. The place was a mess. It wasn’t until $40,000 in chips was discovered missing that Hoss and his team had realized it all may have been a diversion to cover up a bigger operation.

  Now he was pissed and had everybody locked in separate rooms with the tribal police ready to take over. He couldn’t get it out of his mind that of the three guys, two had been in no shape to evade capture. What kind of scheme was that? They had to have known they would get caught. One had been too drunk to stand up, and the driver of the truck had been pinned inside the vehicle, making his apprehension simple. The third, the card counter, was the one they were still trying to account for, and so far they hadn’t seen video of him doing anything that resembled stealing chips.

  Something else was amiss. There were forty seconds of video they couldn’t see clearly. The impact of the vehicle had shorted out part of the electrical system, and in the darkness, the thief, or thieves, had grabbed the chips. Hoss had locked down the cages, and no one was to be given any large payouts without a floor supervisor’s approval. But he couldn’t just shut it all down; the honest patrons would get upset and might not return. They would call the chief, and she would call him. Nothing was ever easy.

  The table with the missing chips had been manned by a dealer whom Hoss knew personally. He didn’t think she would be part of a scam. He dreaded calling the chief. These sorts of events were always frustrating, and he had to fight hard to resist the urge to beat the truth out of someone. That was his style.

  Hoss leaned against the dented Ford truck and tried to make sense of the situation. He realized it could have just been someone walking by at the time, an opportunist. The casino was full of those types of characters most nights. He needed an Advil.

  John Allen was unable to talk to Agent Haden or to Hoss before he left to go to Meridian, but he sent them detailed texts explaining where he was going, the purpose of the meeting, and the fact that he didn’t know exactly whom he was meeting.

  The road from Philadelphia to Meridian went by quickly in the Porsche until he was stopped by a Mississippi state trooper in Lauderdale County. The officer walked around the car and whistled. He wasted no time in writing a ticket to John Allen for traveling seventy-five in a fifty-five-mile-per-hour zone.

  The Pop A Top bar address revealed itself through a Google search, and when John Allen pulled up, he instantly questioned the advisability of going into the place. The bar offered ample parking since there were only four other cars in the gravel lot. John Allen had a Filson briefcase containing $12,000, which the tribe had given to him to purchase artifacts. He quickly decided to leave it hidden in the car. Even though he was a law-enforcement officer when on tribal lands, that didn’t carry any weight in the rest of the world. He couldn’t legally carry his pistol into the bar but never considered leaving it behind. His sport coat would help conceal it. He hoped the bar had air-conditioning.

  Before he got out of the car, he looked in the rearview mirror. He didn’t know what he was getting into, but at least he was having fun doing it.

  He checked his phone. He had no response from Emma to his text message, but Hoss had responded, telling him to be careful and to let Hoss know when he left the meeting. Okay, good. Somebody knows where I am, John Allen thought as he walked to the front door of the bar.

  The place was exactly as he expected. It was a classic southern-roadhouse bar. You could drown your sorrows, drink away your pain, celebrate a victory, or get
into trouble, all within the confines of its four cinder-block walls. The decor was mostly made up of signs donated by local beer distributors. There was a pool table and a couple of older deer-head mounts. There were a few patrons. One guy was watching the TV as if he were waiting to see himself on the screen, and another who looked like a Mississippi hippie was playing an antique pinball machine like his life depended on it.

  John Allen was ten minutes early, and nobody in the joint paid him any attention, so he assumed the mystery seller hadn’t arrived yet. He sat down at the bar and ordered a beer. The bartender set a cold bottle in front of him and slid over a bowl of peanuts. John Allen eyed the nuts suspiciously. He loved peanuts, but there was no way he was sticking his hand into that bowl. ESPN was on the television, and he was glad to have something to watch.

  Within a minute or two, his phone rang. It was Emma, and she sounded pissed.

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m at this bar in Meridian, meeting a guy. I left you a text,” John Allen said, knowing the bartender was listening.

  “Dammit, John Allen, that’s the bar where Winston Walker hangs out! You could be meeting with Walker!”

  John Allen had considered this. He hadn’t known the bar was Walker’s hangout. But he had considered that Walker could be his seller, and he had a plan.

  He had to be careful what he said. Everyone could hear him. The bar was not that big. “It will be fine. I have a plan.”

  “You’re in the bar now?” she asked. Trying to think on the fly.

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “John Allen, listen to me. You need to just get up and get out of there, and reschedule when we have backup and wireless mics.”

  “It’s okay. Give me thirty minutes and I’ll call you back.”

  “Is he there? Just say yes or no.”

  “No, not yet.”

  “Dammit, John Allen.” She was pretty worked up. He could hear her breathing and thought he heard gravel crunching. He imagined her pacing in some parking lot. “Okay, okay. It’d take me an hour to get agents there to watch your back. That’s worthless. If I call the Meridian police, there’s no telling how they would handle the situation. They might even make it worse, might ruin whatever chance we have.” She crunched and breathed for a few seconds. “There’s also the chance that you could get some useful information.”

  “That’s my hope, yeah.”

  She made a frustrated sound, then said, “John Allen, it’s 3:55. You call me at 4:25, and do not leave that bar with him. Under any circumstances. Don’t go anywhere alone with him. Do you hear me?”

  “Yes, yes, I do. I’ll call you,” he said and hung up. Because the bartender was looking at him, for effect he added, “Women. Whatcha gonna do?”

  The bartender smiled as if he knew, then both of them turned to watch Winston Walker and Runt stroll into the bar as if they owned it. Winston looked a little heavier than the photos John Allen had been shown, but clearly he wasn’t into fitness.

  John Allen faced the bar again. He tried to act calm and cool, but inside, his nerves were humming. The College World Series was being discussed on the TV over the bar, and it gave him something to look at.

  A quick glance confirmed the skinny one was the guy he’d met at the Jackson gun show. No doubt about it. John Allen took a deep breath and exhaled. It was game time.

  The other agents had never seen Agent Haden this worked up. They’d endured a long day of surveillance with no success, and her shift was taking a break and planning for tomorrow. Some of the agents were stuffing themselves with truck-stop food, while others were drinking coffee. They all noticed her pacing in front, talking frantically on the phone to somebody.

  When she came back in, she was unusually quiet, and Agent Garner asked her if the call had been personal or business.

  “Business. Remember John Allen Harper, the Indiana Jones guy from the Choctaw Nation?”

  “Yeah, I do,” Agent Garner said. Then he sipped his coffee.

  “He has a meeting going on right now with Winston Walker. He’s trying to buy an artifact from him.”

  “This wasn’t planned?”

  “No, not at all. As you know, we were going to sting him soon, but we were assigned to this case. John Allen got a call out of the blue this morning, asking him to meet about this expensive artifact the guy has.”

  Everybody gave this some thought. Most knew at least the general outline of her work on the Winston Walker case. The coincidence that Winston would call was troubling to everyone. They dealt in coincidences all the time and didn’t like them. Far too often, they turned out not to be coincidences at all.

  “I’m gonna call the Meridian police and have a unit just hang out close to there,” Agent Haden said, thinking out loud.

  “Could spook the whole thing if Walker’s nervous.”

  “Yeah, I know. I’ve thought of that, too.”

  “Can this guy take care of himself?” a young agent asked.

  “To be honest, I just don’t know.”

  “So are you worried that he’s gonna booger up the case, or that something is going to happen to him?” Agent Garner asked, already knowing the answer.

  She sighed. “He’s smart, but I don’t think he is criminal-savvy.”

  “That’s not really an answer.”

  “Yeah, I am worried about him,” she said. “So what?”

  “It’s okay. Just calm down. We haven’t ever seen you care about anything except this job,” he explained as he took out his cell phone. He pulled out his bifocals and searched for a name. “I know a man who’s a detective with the Meridian police. I’ll let you talk to him. He can do a drive-by and watch, and nobody will suspect anything. I hope he’s working today and is close.”

  Agent Haden smiled and let out the breath she’d been holding since she got the text from John Allen. “Thank you.”

  Chapter 23

  John Allen sat on his bar stool and acted as if he didn’t have a care in the world. He watched Winston Walker take in the room as if he were looking for threats or opportunities. He didn’t appear to be armed, though he could easily have a pistol on his ankle. He was wearing blue jeans and a Mountain Khakis short-sleeve shirt. Winston was about six feet tall and weighed at least 215 pounds, John Allen guessed. He looked like he hadn’t done any hard work in his life. He had a goatee or a Vandyke—whatever facial hair is called when it’s just mustache and chin hair. He could tell the man thought his shit didn’t stink.

  Taking a deep breath to calm himself, John Allen surreptitiously turned on the audio notes function of his iPhone, making it look like he was doing something like closing out Facebook, then slid the phone into his pocket.

  The bartender handed Winston a bottle of beer even though he hadn’t asked for one. He obviously had history here. The skinny one was ordering something from the bar while he checked his cell phone.

  “Whose German race car is that outside?” Winston said as he took in the room, holding the beer bottle like a weapon. He knew exactly whose it was; he just wanted to jack with John Allen.

  “That’s mine,” John Allen said and nodded his head.

  “You overcompensating for something?”

  John Allen chuckled. “Not at all. I just like the gas mileage.”

  “I bet you can get a lot of women with that ride,” Runt said.

  John Allen looked around the bar. There were no women to be seen. “Probably not here.”

  Runt was maybe five feet six and probably weighed 140 pounds soaking wet. His nickname fit him perfectly. He, too, tried to have some facial hair, but his genes were failing him miserably.

  Winston waltzed closer, shifted his beer from weapon position to drinking position, and stuck out his hand to John Allen. “We talked on the phone,” he said and squeezed, looking John Allen right in the eye.

  “Yeah,” John Allen said, and squeezed back.

  “Fancy car. You must be selling a lot of something, or did your daddy give it to
you?”

  John Allen forced himself to laugh. “I quit talking about people’s cars when I got outta high school.”

  Everyone in the bar laughed except for Winston, who cracked a slight smile.

  “I came to buy a pot,” John Allen said with a serious tone. “I trust you brought it.”

  Winston’s smile broadened. “First things first. I’m just trying to decide who you are. Tell me about yourself. You look like a cop.”

  “You ever see a cop drive a Porsche?”

  “No, but that doesn’t prove anything. You wired?” He’d yet to break eye contact with John Allen.

  “You’ve been watching too much television,” John Allen said, and started wondering how he would explain his firearm if they found it.

  “What do you do? Why are you interested in artifacts?” Winston asked as he sat down on the bar stool.

  “I’m a certified public accountant by trade, and I have a client who loves artifacts. The best artifacts. And I help acquire them.” John Allen thought his story sounded good. It helped that it was truthful.

  “Who is he?”

  “Who said it’s a he? And I can’t say.”

  Winston had been around stolen artifacts for a great deal of his life. He’d heard of a woman from Florence, Alabama, who had a massive collection. Could it be that this John Allen Harper worked for her? Seems like she owned a car dealership, he thought.

  Runt sat down on the other side of John Allen. “Remember me?”

  “Jackson gun show.”

  “That’s right.”

  “What took you so long to call?”

  “We were waiting until we had the right product, and we had to check you out.”

  “Just so you know,” John Allen said as he opened his coat, “I am carrying. I don’t go anywhere without it.”

  Winston wasn’t smiling now. “That makes us even. But now I insist on Runt checking you for a wire.”

  John Allen held his arms up, and Runt patted his upper torso and checked each pocket of his sport coat. Then he patted him down from his ankles up. The others in the bar glanced their way for a second, then when Winston glared at them went right back to what they were doing. Finally, Runt looked in John Allen’s wallet for a badge or anything that might indicate he was with law enforcement.