Bait the devil, p.8
Bait the Devil, page 8
“Then come up with your own lie. Either way, you have to get this somewhere safe.”
She went to open the leather covers. “What’s in here that makes you act like—”
Charley clapped his hand on hers and smacked the portfolio shut. “Don’t read it here. I’m serious, Vivian. Take it and leave. Go through it somewhere else.”
Scowling at him, she yanked the aged carton from him and shoved the leather binder inside. “I should box your ears.”
“I’m serious about this. There’s a reason Hal’s gone to ground.”
“Do you know where he went? Loren said you and Garret hung out with him a lot.”
Charley shrugged. “Have no clue. We go fishing and golfing now and then, but we’re guys, we don’t have deep conversations.”
She paused grabbing a few books from a shelf. “Do you know what’s in the portfolio?”
Charley shook his head. “I made a point not to know. Hal warned me not to read it.”
“The two of you have a lot of nerve dumping this off onto Terri if this is as bad as you’re making it out to be.”
“Terri just got a dummy case file to take to court.”
Vivian set the box down and moved closer to Charley. “Come again?”
He held up his hands defensively. “She was never in harm’s way. All she had to do was show up to court, let the judge make his ruling, and that was it.”
“What kind of dumbass nonsense was that? Whatever is hunting Hal could have gotten wind of Terri’s involvement. They’ve already made a try on Hal’s home and got dead.”
Charley paled. “I swear I didn’t realize how bad this was.”
Vivian grabbed up the box once more and glared at him. “Well, now you do. I’d be real careful yourself from here on out.” She slapped on the lid and left the filing room.
Before stepping into the hall, she double-checked her surroundings. Finding the way clear, she made a beeline for the backway exit that led to the employee parking lot behind the building.
There was no way she was going to review any of this alone.
She reached the main floor with no intervention. As she crossed the parking lot, she pulled out her cell.
“Dot,” she said when her cousin picked up. “I got handed what might amount to the golden egg in this whole messy Cade Porter affair.”
Chapter Twelve
By midmorning, Dot was on her tenth cup of coffee and no closer to learning why a strange symbol had been tattooed on the shooter. Larrabee had called them and reported that the second shooter from the Jones’s home had the same tattoo, as did three of the dead men from the horse farm. Common thread initiated.
She and T.J. had managed to scrounge up from deep searches interesting tidbits that gave some insight into what they were dealing with. The symbol tattooed on the men was a creative re-creation of the Hamsa, aka Hand of Fatima. The original Hamsa was well-known and well loved among those of the Berber Jewish and Muslim cultures. Its more common meaning for those who wore it was protection against the “evil eye.” This re-creation must have a different meaning for the dead men bearing it. Whatever its meaning for them had been, luck was not on their side.
Further research on T.J.’s part brought up a thirty-year-old photo of a well-known Israeli-American mobster in Las Vegas with the very edge of the tattoo peeking out from under the sleeve of his jacket. That find took him down a rabbit hole of long-ago Jewish mafia organizations running with and against most Italian or Irish mobsters. Their misdeeds mimicked those of their partners or counterparts in booze, sex, and drugs. For the majority of Las Vegas’s heyday, the Jewish-American mob ran the show. They had long since gone to ground and were now aligned with the Russians or an Israeli crime family that had moved in about twenty years prior.
One gold nugget of information came from T.J.’s rabbit trails. He’d learned the identity of the name on the horse farm—Meyer Follman, a casino owner in Las Vegas with deep pockets and deeper connections. T.J. continued to gather as much information on the man he could.
Dot’s male victim of the Abbey Gate bombings didn’t bring up any connections to what they’d learned so far. She believed him to be a mere bystander caught in the blast while trying to flee the country like thousands of others. Hundreds to thousands of men, women, and children of all walks of life had filtered into Afghanistan during America’s occupation. He could have been from any of the Middle Eastern and Northern African countries and there would be no way of knowing.
“So, we’ve slammed face-first into a brick wall,” Dot said as she pushed away from her desk in their small office.
T.J. had just ended a call declining a bond jumper job and was staring at the wall decorated with their business name and logo. Shadow Force Solutions was being very shadowy at the moment.
He sighed. “None of it will make sense at first. You’ve got to remember that.”
“Doesn’t stop me from being frustrated about it.”
He chuckled. “You’re just exhausted and hyped up on caffeine.”
Vivian’s number flashed up on Dot’s cell and she answered.
“We’re at the office. Bring food,” she ordered after a moment, then she ended the call. “Vivian claims she was handed the golden egg on Cade Porter.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it.” He rose from his seat and arched his back. “I need air,” he said and headed for the door.
Dot pushed to her feet. She needed to get out in the open too. They’d been cooped up in this small space way too long.
They stepped out into the sun’s bright onslaught. Dot tilted her face to the midmorning rays and soaked them in. Normally, they would not spend so much time in the office. On a typical day, they were either on the hunt, parked somewhere on surveillance, or chasing down leads or cosigners. All of that meant time in vehicles or on foot. Neither she nor T.J. were wired to be chained to a desk and a computer, pressed in by four walls.
The horseshoe-shaped strip mall where the Shadow Force Solutions office was situated held a nail salon, a combination Mexican eatery and grocery store, a certified accountant’s office, and a payday loan store. The Flores and Lopez families, the owners of the Mexican store, were a young family, a brother and sister who ran the place after their parents retired. When not in school, their kids rode bikes or played soccer in the parking lot.
Today, the five cousins sat on the sidewalk drinking Jarritos from the bottle. They spotted Dot and T.J. and waved.
Seeing the three boys and the two girls lined up in a row, oldest to youngest, struck Dot in the feels. After last night’s brief conversation with Bethany, she was getting homesick.
Leaving T.J. to his own devices, Dot strolled across the lot toward the kids.
“Dot,” all five cried out in unison, holding up their arms.
“Kaixo, mutilak.”
The Basque’s native homeland bordered northern Spain and southwestern France, bracketing the western end of the Pyrenees mountains. Their language, unique in its own right, had been borrowed in some cases by their Spanish and French neighbors. Though they didn’t understand her, the Flores and Lopez cousins giggled.
The eldest boy and girl scooted over, and the girl patted the empty spot she’d made. Dot settled down between the kids. She’d no sooner made herself comfortable than an opened bottle of bright orange Jarritos was thrust into her hand.
“Eskerrik asko,” she said before taking a gulp of the mandarin-flavored soda. “What are you up to today?”
“Trouble,” the youngest boy, a known smartass, remarked.
Dot chuckled. “Looks like you’re taking a break from it.”
“We’re gearing up,” the youngest girl added. She, too, was known to throw out the quips.
“More like sugaring up,” said the eldest girl.
Dot noticed the twinkle in her dark eyes. She was usually the more reserved one of the bunch and kept her lone sibling and three cousins in line.
“Hey.” The single middle child elbowed Dot. He was about Bethany’s age and the hellion of the group. “Did you know you had a visitor this morning?”
Dot frowned. “We did?” She looked around. “What time?”
“Over an hour ago,” the elder boy said. “He was hanging around the door, and when I yelled at him, he spooked.”
Dot looked at him. “Why did you yell at him?”
“He looked like one of those punks from out of town.” Eldest boy flushed red when Dot gave him her half-lidded scowl. “Okay, he looked out of place. Wore a black hoodie with the hood up. It’s summer, and it’s hot. Who wears a black hoodie?”
Someone who doesn’t want to be recognized.
“Was there anything on the hoodie?” Dot asked. “What kind of pants did he wear?”
The rest of the group let the older boy talk. “The back of the hoodie had some design. It was white, but I couldn’t see what it looked like. And his pants were those kind with all the pockets.”
“Cargo?” Dot supplied.
“Yeah, those. Kinda brown colored.” His eyes flared wide. “And he walked funny.”
“Funny how?” Dot asked.
“Like this,” said the middle boy, who hopped onto his feet and mimicked an odd gait.
After he stopped, Dot asked him to do it again and studied how the boy slung out his left leg. He might be exaggerating the walk, but Dot recognized it. She’d seen it too many times in her life after leaving the army.
She downed more of the soda. “Was there anything else about our strange visitor?”
“Yeah,” the eldest girl said. She pointed to her right hip and leg. “He had a bulge right here.” Her dark intelligent eyes locked with Dot’s. “He was carrying a gun.”
And all five of them had been out here. A tightness strained Dot’s chest as she looked at each child.
“Tell me you went inside with your parents after he ran off?”
The oldest boy’s face scrunched into disgust. “Why would we do that? He left.”
His female cousin whacked him. “Because, estúpido, he had a gun.” She looked at Dot. “We did. I made them all wait until a little while ago to come outside.”
Dot squeezed her shoulder. “Good.” She drained the Jarritos and handed the bottle to the middle boy. “If you see him again, do not approach, do not talk to him. Do you understand?”
All five nodded.
She leveled a heavy stare on the eldest boy. “Stay out of trouble.”
He blushed again and nodded.
“If he comes back when we’re not here, make notes. When we get back, and he’s not here, come tell us. Okay?”
More nods.
Dot stood. “Thanks for the soda and the information.” She gave them a wink and then crossed the parking lot to the music of their chatter. God, how she missed Bethany.
T.J. was sprawled in the back of the Suburban with the hatch up and his boots pointed toward the front of the vehicle and his head under the shade of the hatch’s tinted window. Dot hopped inside beside him and let her legs dangle over the edge.
“I think Cade Porter knows about us.”
T.J.’s eyes popped open, and he squinted at her. “How so?”
“The kids saw him loitering outside our office over an hour ago.”
He bolted up into a seated position. “How do you know it was him? It could’ve been an associate of the men who shot at us yesterday.”
She looked him dead in the eye. “I doubt they would have run off when a kid caught them. Those guys cross me as the type to start shooting and never ask questions.”
“Shit,” he muttered.
Vivian’s sporty blue Outback pulled into the lot and parked beside the truck. She emerged, carrying a huge plastic bag loaded with cardboard containers and a drink holder.
Dot hopped down from the Suburban and helped her cousin. Once Vivian had handed off the food and drinks, she got into the back seat and pulled out an ancient banker’s box.
“Inside,” she ordered.
*
They settled around Dot’s desk with containers of Italian goodness in hand.
Vivian brought out a black leather portfolio and set it down on the desk with a thunk. “Here you go. I haven’t looked in it yet.”
T.J. paused in stuffing his mouth with pasta covered in a spicy marinara sauce. “Why?”
Vivian settled in the last remaining chair in the cramped office and picked up the mug of coffee she’d poured for herself. “I was warned not to do so until I was far from the firm and where no one would see me read it.”
Dot and T.J. glanced at each other, then Dot snagged the portfolio before he could. She pushed back from the desk and set the leather binder in her lap. The thing was thick, and the binding looked worn. She turned back the top and let it fall against her leg.
The first thing glaring back at her was a stained and tattered file folder with CONFIDENTIAL stamped in huge red letters across the front.
T.J. scooted around the corner. “Shit. That looks like it came from the DOD.”
The Department of Defense, the proverbial boogeyman for all special operations teams. By far and large, T.J. had seen more of these confidential or classified folders than Dot. Although there were a few floating around in the Pentagon that she’d laid her eyes on for special missions she’d flown or had herself been heavily involved in.
“How did someone in your office get their hands on something like this?” T.J. asked Vivian.
She shrugged and shook her head. “All I know is what I was told. Hal had one of his fellow lawyers hide it away in a random filing cabinet and gave orders to never open it. I think Charley, the lawyer who passed this off to me, figured with Hal missing and me involved, I was the best person to bequeath it to.”
Dot opened the confidential file and found Cade Porter’s service record. Except, the name in the file wasn’t Cade Porter. And he was never an artillery man. “Well, that explains how we can’t find a damn thing about this guy.” She turned the file to T.J. “His real name is Caleb Podolsky.”
He grabbed the confidential file out of her hands and began reading through it.
Left the remainder of the portfolio, Dot skimmed through the information. It was a living history of a troubled youth, orphaned at a young age, got messed up in drugs, theft, and a few B and Es. One of those breaking and entering charges he had nearly killed the homeowner who’d surprised him on being home.
All of the reports and files were stamped by Las Vegas law enforcement and legal system.
“None of this matches up to the file you gave us earlier.”
Dot looked up at T.J.’s statement.
“What do you mean it doesn’t match up?” Vivian demanded, shifting forward in her chair.
He got up from his seat and went to the cabinet where he’d filed the packet she had given them days before.
“Exactly what I mean.” He pulled out the file and brought it to the desk, where he dropped it, wide open. “This is a dummy file with just enough of the truth to throw someone off.” He stabbed a finger at the confidential file. “That is the real one.”
While Vivian took both files in hand, Dot met T.J.’s troubled gaze. That haunted look was back. The one warning her he was revisiting places best left unvisited.
“Cade Porter is an alias. Caleb Podolsky has been out of the Marines longer than three years, and he’s older than what is in that other file,” he relayed to her.
She picked up the report she had been reading. “He’s also got a criminal record going back to his early teens.”
“He’s disabled?” Vivian’s incredulous comment halted their back-and-forth. “He lost his left leg in an RPG attack in …” She looked up. “It just says the Middle East. No specific place.”
T.J. took the confidential file back and was reading through it.
“It would explain the bloody uniform and boots you found,” Dot said, setting the portfolio on the desk. “Maybe it is his.”
“Doesn’t explain his journals,” T.J. said.
“What journals?” Vivian asked.
Dot settled deep into her chair, letting it rock back. The tired metal squeaked under her weight. “At the horse farm. He had a stack of journals.”
“I read some of the entries,” T.J. admitted and sank into his chair. “Most of them are daily updates on the horses at the farm. Others were personal. He blames himself for someone’s death. Kept saying it should have been him but never mentioned who this person was. It might be related to the RPG attack.”
“Why didn’t the state police take them into evidence?” Vivian asked.
“Have no idea. That’s a question better directed at Larrabee,” T.J. said.
Dot continued to flip through the criminal records. “I think I’m getting a picture here.” She looked at the dynamic duo across from her. “It ain’t a good one.”
“I don’t like the look on your face,” Vivian said.
Dot grinned. “Where’d we learn Follman was from?” she asked T.J.
“Wait, who’s Follman?” Vivian asked.
T.J. ignored her and answered Dot. “Las Vegas.”
She held up the criminal records. “These are all from Las Vegas.”
Her partner’s scowl faded, and he shook his head. “Damn it. We’re going on a trip.”
Chapter Thirteen
After sending Vivian on her way with a warning to watch her back, T.J. and Dot prepared to leave. Both of them had left extra clothing in the office and had bug-out bags ready in their vehicles.
“Las Vegas?” Larrabee asked incredulously over the phone.
“Yes, Las Vegas,” T.J. answered, watching Dot strip down to her underwear and bra.
The woman had no modesty with him. He figured it stemmed from their occasional sack hopping. He’d seen her naked, so what did she care if she changed clothes in front of him?
“Am I to assume that you’re giving me this courtesy call to tell me you’re headed down there to interrogate the man?” Larrabee’s question dragged T.J. back to the conversation at hand.
“Look at you, being the sharp smartass detective you are.”
