Silent Approach Page 6

  There was no shortage of work to do in the Jackson office, or for that matter in any FBI office. It was difficult to manage the workload and to give every case its due. There honestly weren’t enough hours in the day. She hated that she disappointed people who expected justice like in the movies. It just didn’t happen like that. There were court battles and endless protocols to follow, not to mention sick days, vacation days, school plays, and a myriad of other normal things that interrupted a week’s normal work flow for her and her partner.

  Emma had a reputation for being a tough agent, much of it earned by having once saved her partner’s life in a shoot-out in Salt Lake City. They were chasing a bank-robbery suspect in a mountainous area, and her partner had lost control of their car, which had flipped down a ravine. Her partner had been knocked unconscious and hung upside down in his seat belt. She had somehow cut him loose and dragged a man a hundred pounds heavier than she was to a safe distance before the government sedan exploded into flames. She’d earned respect that day, and the story of the event had followed her around. The other agents had taken notice, and her partner’s wife was eternally grateful. The bank robber was later apprehended at a roadblock.

  Emma always stayed late, then hit the gym for forty-five minutes of spin or yoga before coming home to her cat. She hadn’t dated anyone since the divorce because she just wasn’t ready. She had offers almost every week. Several of the gym rats had hounded her when she’d first arrived, but they’d finally gotten the message that she wasn’t interested.

  Tonight she’d skipped the gym and stayed even later than usual at the office. She was the only one in the building as she searched the Internet for more information on Winston Walker. She’d been touched by the story the victim’s wife had told, and she believed it. But there just wasn’t enough evidence to pursue a charge of murder or even manslaughter. Walker had been slick in planning the circumstances surrounding the “accident.”

  She didn’t know much about the Choctaw Nation’s artifact issues, but she did like the idea of trying to catch Walker or his crew on at least one charge, then leveraging somebody into talking. That seemed like their best bet. This train of thought led her to John Allen Harper. It was her habit to research everyone she met in a professional capacity. Knowledge was power, and the Internet revealed lots of secrets. She typed in his name and “Columbus, Mississippi,” and found the story. As she read the article, she felt sadness for the man she’d just met. He’d lost a wife and an unborn child. After another few clicks, she was on Sadie Harper’s Facebook page. It was still up, and there were hundreds of grieving posts.

  She remembered his wedding band. Had he remarried? The accident had been almost two years ago. She then wondered whether that was enough time to grieve before a person could be expected to move on.

  She circled back to the Indian artifacts. Since the victim’s wife had told them about the ones her husband had placed in the storage unit under Walker’s direction, Emma figured that information provided enough corroborative evidence to run a sting on him and see whether they could get him to buy something illegal. But would that be enough to leverage him to talk? Probably not, she thought, but they might get lucky. Perhaps a search warrant would reveal something else that might assist them. At the end of the day, if the man was locked up, it was a win for the good guys. But deep down she wanted to bust him for murder. She wouldn’t feel satisfied unless she did. Winston Walker was a scam artist who operated just enough inside the law that he couldn’t easily be caught. She’d seen it many times before. People were always looking for the easiest way to a payday. But Winston Walker was most likely a murderer, and that elevated him to cold-blooded status. He needed to pay for his crimes.

  She would call John Allen and see what ideas he might have uncovered. He had seemed much more agreeable to working with them than the Choctaw tribe’s head of security had.

  After showing the photo of Winston Walker to two different security officers, Hoss determined that the man was a regular at the casino tables. He rarely won big, but he had once—$6,000 on Christmas Eve. He played most everything but seemed to enjoy blackjack the most. The video showed that Walker obviously tried to talk dealers into pushing the envelope and helping him. None apparently had. All had turned disdainful looks up at the cameras and shaken their heads, alerting the monitor watchers that they had a “pain in the ass” at their table.

  There was one alarming item of note that Hoss had noticed as he reviewed footage of Winston sitting at a blackjack table. Several times he was seen playing next to a janitor who worked at the Choctaw Nation’s administration building, the one where the previous day’s cash is counted, as well as where they stored the sacred artifacts.

  One random encounter at a table could be overlooked, but three separate encounters during which they’d clearly talked to each other had Hoss uncomfortable. Now he had to think about how to handle the situation. Should he interview the custodian? Place him under surveillance? The first thing he planned to do in the morning was ask Personnel to pull the custodian’s folder so that he could learn about the man. Hoss was paranoid about asking any questions of the other custodians. For all he knew, there could be a conspiracy to rob the cashier’s office or empty the basement of artifacts.

  The security head exhaled and dialed John Allen’s cell number. He would call the chief at a more civilized hour when he had more information. She didn’t appreciate midnight calls without all the facts, but John Allen would.

  John Allen answered on the first ring, as if he’d been waiting for the call. “Hello?”

  “You got a minute?”

  “Yeah, man,” he said, clearly recognizing Hoss’s voice. “Talk to me.”

  “That man Winston Walker is a regular at the casino, all right.”

  “That doesn’t prove anything, does it?”

  “No, but he has met someone three different times at a table. Someone that works in this building.”

  That got John Allen’s attention. “Who?”

  “One of the night custodians, Rosco Jones.”

  “I don’t know him,” John Allen said.

  “I don’t, either. I just see him around. He’s been here a few years.”

  “And Rosco has keys to sensitive areas in the building?”

  “Rosco has electronic keys to everything except the cash room. I’m in the process of changing his access to the basement area. That’s the room that scares me. I can also monitor where he’s been. I can shut him out of anything important, but I hope he hasn’t already done something stupid.”

  “Like stealing artifacts from the tribe’s collection!”

  “Exactly. I haven’t told the chief yet. I’m sure she’s asleep.”

  “Anything like this ever happen before?”

  “Nope.”

  “So should we tip our hand and talk to him, or just monitor him?” John Allen asked.

  The head of security sighed, still trying to make up his mind. He finally said, “I vote we monitor him. There might be more folks involved. If we talk to him, they’ll just shut down and we’ll never know.”

  “Good point.”

  “I’ll find out how often he’s been in the basement storage area.”

  “Yeah, that will shed some light.” John Allen exhaled. “So do you know anything at all about Rosco?”

  “I know he had to pass a background check to be employed here.”

  “How thorough?” John Allen asked.

  “More thorough than yours.”

  “That’s a relief.”

  The head of security groaned. “We’ll talk in the morning when I have more details, and you can bring the FBI up to speed.”

  “Gotcha.”

  “And . . .” Hoss paused to make sure he had John Allen’s attention.

  “Yeah?”

  “Don’t do anything without telling me about it first.”

  Chapter 13

  John Allen was up at daylight, thinking about the Winston Walker case. What i
f Walker had an inside person stealing artifacts from the basement storage area? It would be a simple crime, as he’d be surprised if anyone inventoried the items with any regularity. Some of the artifacts were museum quality and very valuable. He had a knot in his stomach. It would be so easy for Winston Walker to accumulate a great cache of artifacts or sell them to an investor.

  Deciding to go for a jog, John Allen searched through his pile of folded T-shirts, which numbered at least forty. There were five he regularly wore, but he wouldn’t get rid of the other thirty-five. After picking one of his favorites, he walked outside and commenced exercising without stretching. Back when he’d jogged regularly, it had always helped him think through problems. The cool morning air felt good in his lungs. It had been a while since he’d exercised, and he vowed to get back into a regular routine. His stamina, or lack thereof, freshened that resolve.

  He held his cell phone while he ran in case the tribal chief or Hoss called him. His plan included a brief workout; then he would speed down to the administration building and try to conduct some sort of inventory. He didn’t have a list, but surely someone did.

  Running back toward home, he was struck once again by how the barn looked like an old, worn-out farm structure, revealing not a clue as to what was inside. He wiped sweat off his face and wondered whether Sadie would have liked his setup. Probably not, he decided. She’d loved traditional houses with shutters, window planters, and porch swings. She also would have given him grief about driving a Porsche, though she would certainly have asked to drive it to her tennis matches.

  His life had changed drastically, but he’d stopped feeling sorry for himself. Lots of people’s lives changed, and it didn’t take a tragic accident to spin someone’s world upside down. Sickness, divorce, depression—all occurred every day. Why should he expect his life to be any different?

  Sadie’s parents were hurting, also. They called, checking on him regularly, the pain audible in their voices. They lived in Memphis and were good people. Sadie had been an only child and the love of their lives.

  He thought about where his life would be now and realized they would probably be talking about a second child. Sadie had wanted two or three. John Allen had just wanted whatever she had. She probably would have been thinking about a bigger house by now, too.

  As he approached his barn, where the Porsche was parked in a converted tractor stall, he couldn’t help but smile. No doubt Sadie, with her sarcastic wit, would have said he was now a cross between Indiana Jones and James Bond, or at least thought he was.

  There was tension in the air at the office when John Allen arrived. Hoss had pulled reports on Rosco Jones’s movements within the building for the last six weeks, and Hoss’s concern was clearly reflected on his face. He quickly motioned John Allen in and began to bring him up to speed.

  “Thirty-eight years old. He was hired on three years ago and has been a dependable employee. He works the night shift, and aside from using lots of sick days that seem to coincide with Thursday NFL football games, I don’t see anything out of the ordinary. Prior to working here, he ran a chainsaw for a logging company for five years until he hurt his back. He was born and raised in Lauderdale County near Meridian. High school graduate, no college.”

  John Allen sipped his coffee and stared at the computer screen displaying Rosco Jones’s image. John Allen had seen him a few times, but he was embarrassed to say he hadn’t paid the man any attention.

  “His wife works at Peggy’s Restaurant in town. She’s a cook,” Hoss said. “I’ve never been there. You?”

  “I eat there all the time when I’m in town. It’s just a house. You pay with the honor system and go through a buffet line; then all the rooms have tables. You may end up sitting with folks you don’t know, but the food is out of this world.”

  “There is nothing I can see that would suggest he is involved with the wrong crowd or ever has been. He has a kid. She’s a senior in high school. I called a source of mine at the high school to ask about her. You know, maybe she’s driving a Porsche.” Hoss said this with an attitude, like maybe he didn’t approve of what John Allen drove. “I’m told that she is a smart kid with ambition and has applied to several expensive colleges. She’d get some scholarship help for sure, but the cost to our friend Rosco would still be staggering. My source didn’t know how he was gonna be able to do it. This could be a motive.”

  “Yeah, helping his kid.”

  “You siding with him?”

  “No, not at all. Just saying a father’s love is pretty strong.”

  “Still don’t give him any right to steal from us.”

  “I agree. I need to check the basement. Do you have an inventory list of what’s down there?”

  Hoss exhaled, reached across his desk, and picked up a notebook. “Yeah, about that,” he said, handing it to John Allen. “I talked to the chief this morning. She is upset that someone could have access to our treasures and wanted you to personally inventory the room. She also gave clear instructions that she wants us to catch them all, and especially Mr. Walker. She said to tell you she would call you later.”

  John Allen thumbed through the inventory list. This would take some time.

  “I think we’re all on the same page,” he said. “I assume you locked Jones out of some areas?”

  “I did.”

  “What will you say to him when he asks?”

  “He was off last night. When he gets back tonight, he’ll be told that we have a glitch in the system that will soon be repaired, and he can have access when the issue is resolved. It’s pretty common for the electronic keys to fail. They are very similar to the keys you swipe at a hotel.”

  John Allen placed the folder under his arm and nodded in an approving way. Grabbing his coffee, he drank the last of it and tossed the cup in the trash beside Hoss’s desk.

  “Can I get in?”

  “Come with me,” Hoss said as he stood up, then headed to the door.

  The basement was a quiet, sterile room that would make a thoughtful person think or make a worrier worry. Some people even referred to it as spooky. John Allen had been in it several times before to stack what he had recently purchased. The concrete walls were cold and bare. Standard-issue brown boxes stacked on the gray metal racks provided the only color. Each box contained numbered artifacts along with a statement as to where and how they’d been found, or as much of the story as was known. To the Choctaw Nation every artifact was sacred and had a story to tell.

  Hoss unlocked the door and allowed John Allen to enter.

  “I hope it’s all there,” Hoss said drily from the doorway.

  “You’re not gonna stay?” John Allen asked as he looked around the room.

  “I have a bunch to do. This is your department.”

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  Hoss stepped out, and the door slammed shut. John Allen walked over to the last box he’d placed in storage. He had purchased it from a college student in Oxford, Mississippi, and knew exactly what was supposed to be in it. The shoe box full of arrowheads had originally belonged to the student’s grandfather, but as far as the kid had been concerned, it was just a box of rocks. He’d wanted cash, and John Allen had been happy to pay once he learned the arrowheads had all come from a farm near Itta Bena, Mississippi, a location that guaranteed they were Choctaw artifacts. There were eighty-seven pieces in all, and some were quite good, in John Allen’s opinion. There were two excellent Dalton points.

  He unfolded the box lids and saw that the shoe box inside was intact. Lying on top was the list of artifacts and the location in which they supposedly had been found. John Allen had learned that from the point of view of archaeologists and historians, location was critical to establishing the authenticity of any artifact. The Choctaws supported efforts to uncover this information, but primarily they just wanted to get the artifacts back into their possession.

  The shoebox was full and appeared to be the same as he’d left it. He hadn’t really expected the
se arrowheads to be gone, though, as they were probably worth no more than forty dollars each.

  He moved on to other boxes he had secured in the room, and they all seemed to be intact. A flush of relief went through him as he continued to the next aisle. He had no idea what was in these boxes, since he hadn’t been a part of securing any of the artifacts within them.

  John Allen’s cell phone rang, and he studied the number before answering the call. It was from the Jackson, Mississippi, area. Wondering who it could be, he cleared his throat and answered the call. “Hello?”

  “This is Agent Emma Haden. Have I caught you at a bad time? Do you have a few minutes?”

  “No . . . I mean, yes, it’s a good time, and I can talk. I’m glad you called. We’ve got some information on your suspect,” John Allen said, shaking his head at his own awkwardness. He did enjoy saying the word suspect, however. It sure beat saying tax-deferred credit.

  “Good,” she said. “What did you find?”

  “Our head of security found some members of his team who recognized Walker’s picture. Evidently he’s a pretty steady player in the casino. He’s won about $6,000 that we know of, but Hoss is checking some other payout records. I bet he’s slick enough that if he wins, he cashes in just enough chips to stay under the IRS radar.”

  After a pause, she said, “I hope you have more info than that!”

  Her bluntness caught John Allen off guard, but he quickly recovered. “Oh, yeah, here’s the good part. He was seen on security cameras talking to one of the custodians of our admin building. They were seen at least several times together.”

  “Uh-huh,” Agent Haden said, sounding unimpressed.

  “That probably wouldn’t have raised any concerns,” he went on, “but based on your comments that Walker was suspected of trafficking in the sale of artifacts, maybe stolen artifacts, seeing them together scares us.”

  “I’m sorry, but why is that, John Allen?”