Fox Tracks (22 page)

The two men stepped inside the cavernous space.

At the end, two large den openings announced good living for foxes.

Gray lifted his head and inhaled much as the hound Asa had done at the beginning of the day’s hunt. “Tobacco,” he declared.

Sniffing, Walter shrugged. “Yeah, but why?”

Gray looked down to where it appeared boxes had been stacked. A few little squiggles of shredded tobacco dotted the floor. He knelt down, took off his gloves, and pinched the slivers between his thumb and forefinger. He stood up, dropping the meager find into Walter’s hand.

Walter smelled it, then held it under Gray’s nose.

“It’s pretty good tobacco.” Gray shrugged as he faced the physician.

About twenty years apart in age, the two fit men stood in the large space, pondering the possibilities when a vixen carefully peeped out of her den.

Neither man noticed, so she remained still to better study this oddly built species. Why they all didn’t fall flat on their faces she didn’t know.

Walter again smelled the tobacco. “I don’t get it.”

“Contraband,” said Gray. “Sister’s been doing research since that fellow was murdered in Manhattan. There are millions of dollars to be made—that
are being
made—on contraband tobacco. Smuggling cigarettes into states with high cigarette taxes appears to be a profitable black market.”

“Jesus Christ.” Walter whistled. “Why the hell are they using my shed?”

Gray replied, “For one thing, it’s far out here and you don’t use it. The road testifies to that. As to how long they’ve been using it, who knows? But I would figure the tobacco is prepared in one location, rolled, packed, brought here. When a seller needs more, I guess it’s shipped to them. They are likely finished here or we’d find more evidence: shredded leaf or empty packs, stuff like that.”

Walter scraped the concrete floor with the toe of his boot. “Keeps the moisture out.”

“Right. This is a good place to stash goods.”

Walter dropped the shards of tobacco into his pocket. “Well, it’s someone who knows the territory.”

“I’m thinking it’s someone who hunts,” said Gray.

“This isn’t a poacher,” said Walter. “Like what happened on your place—that could have been the work of poachers. I don’t have poachers.”

“Actually, Walter, I was thinking this is the work of someone who foxhunts.”

“A
re you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure,” Donny growled at Art, sitting behind the wheel of his truck.

“But you said you all moved off.”

“We did,” said Donny, shifting in the passenger seat. “We got on another fox, but Walter and Gray rode back to the house. I know they came back to the shed. I told you this.”

“I’m not stupid!” snapped Art. “But I want to make sure. That big shed is perfect. You didn’t see anyone there.”

“No, and I couldn’t very well ride back there by myself and make sure, could I? Come on, Art, think. I also couldn’t ask Walter and Gray what they were up to. We’d better find another place.”

Art, sitting inside his truck, Donny in the passenger seat, fiddled with the vehicle’s radio, tuning in a twangy song about bad luck. “I hope the boss doesn’t find out,” he said.

They talked in Art’s truck, motor running, at Roger’s Corner. People often bought fried chicken, potato salad, and brought it
back to their vehicle to eat. There was no place to sit at the convenience store. Donny’s half-ton 1992 Ford F-150 van was next to Art’s Topkick.

Donny reached over to turn down the country-and-western station. “Listen to me. Shut up. If he finds out anything, it will be because Walter and Gray talked. Then we can say we didn’t want to bother him about it, he’s got a lot on his mind. Listen to me, Art. Don’t turn up the goddamned radio station! Shut up. Act normal. We need to find another place to store the cigarettes until it’s time to ship them. Let me think.”

“Kasmir Barbhaiya has so much property he doesn’t know what to do with it, and it’s close. Or there’s Tattenhall Station.”

Donny stroked his chin. “Tattenhall Station is vulnerable.”

Art was getting surly. “Why?”

“Too many people drive by,” said Donny. “It’s a crossroads and the railroad tracks slow them down. If we’re seen there too many times, it might tip off someone. Also, sometimes Jefferson Hunt is allowed inside.”

“Walter and Gray don’t know what’s going on. They’ll forget this in time.”

“I hope so. We have a couple of choices. We can rent a large storage unit. People come and go in those places all the time. The problem is that tobacco in such large quantities even though boxed throws off a strong odor.”

“Where else could we put it?”

“We could buy up some rolls of insulation. It’s light, easy to lift. The main barn at Old Paradise is in good shape. Maybe Margaret goes in there, but I doubt it. Alfred doesn’t bother it either. That road’s so-so. It’s passable. Better than the road to Walter’s shed. Also, people expect you to be on the property.”

Art shrugged. “Yeah.”

“So we put the cigarettes there in the barn after we pick them
up down in Russell County. Put them up in the hayloft and place rolls of insulation around them, or heavy canvas. Crawford’s promised to pump money into your parents’ farm so it will look as though you’ve started work on the barns—especially if you leave a few rolls of insulation still wrapped up inside in the center aisle. That should work, at least until we find a better place.”

Art squinted, placing his hands on the steering wheel. “I can bring in some two-by-fours. Might work. We’d only be in and out about every two weeks. I don’t know. Let me think about it.”

“People think you’re making ’shine. Your family won’t look too closely. They’d rather not know. And it is your property.”

“Not as long as Mom, Dad, Alfred and Margaret are alive.”

“You know what I mean. Once Crawford writes those checks to your folks, we’ll have to look elsewhere because your father will get workers to put up fencing out there pronto.”

“Can’t do that until spring.” Art relaxed his grip on the wheel. “Sounds like a plan.” He took a deep breath. “I just don’t want any trouble with the boss. The money’s good. He can be touchy. I think about Carter, you know.”

“Mmm. Bullet lodged in the back of his rib cage. They think he was shot through the heart.”

“When did you hear that?” asked Art, agitated again.

“Today’s paper. Report from the medical examiner’s office.”

“You think the boss had him killed?” Art’s throat tightened.

“What I think is that Carter shot his mouth off to the wrong person. Might not have been the boss. How do we know he didn’t trash-talk some of the guys down in Russell County? That’s a hard bunch.”

“Mmm.” Art rolled his tongue over his front teeth. “They might be a hard bunch, but I don’t think they followed Carter all the way to Albemarle County to shoot him.”

“Maybe not.” Donny took his point.

“The boss is playing for much higher stakes than we are.”

Donny sighed. “You’re right. All I want is enough money to buy a good engagement ring and put some aside. I’d like to start my own business someday.”

“You? I never thought of you running a business.”

“People fool you.”

Art half smiled. “They do. Look, I don’t want to wind up like Carter Weems. We’ve done a good job. It’s just bad luck that Walter and Gray got into the shed.”

“Foxes got there first,” said Donny.

“Think Walter will call Ben Sidell?”

“I don’t know. None of his property was harmed.”

“Nothing we can do but wait it out.” Art frowned.

“And buy insulation and two-by-fours,” added Donny.

Gray hadn’t wanted to tell Sister about the shed at Walter’s breakfast. He waited until later. She listened with great interest.

“We’re one step closer,” said Sister. “Though to what I couldn’t say.”

“I’m not sure I want to know,” said Gray. “It isn’t our affair. And we don’t know for sure that tobacco contraband is stored there.”

“Why else would tobacco be in Walter’s shed? It’s a tight shed, too, even though it looks like hell.” A thump upstairs drew her attention. “I am going to catch that cat at her mischief. She’s put a hole in my alpaca sweater, torn up every piece of paper she can find. This cat needs a serious talking-to.”

As Sister climbed the stairs, Raleigh and Rooster lifted their heads from their paws, then put them back down again. So many times they’d been blamed for the devious cat’s depredations. This time, she would be caught red-handed.

Gray turned on the television, but before he could settle down,
Sister came back down the stairs with a black hair dryer, long nosed, in her hand. Golly had knocked it on the floor. Now it didn’t work, not even a tiny whir.

“Can anyone tell me why a cat wants a hair dryer?”

Gray started to laugh, then Sister did, too.

The dogs barked, hearing a car pull up outside.

“I’m home,” Tootie called out a minute later, as she came into the kitchen.

Smiling, Sister leaned down and kissed Gray. “Everything happens at once.”

“W
here were you yesterday?” Sister said over the phone to Ben Sidell. She’d called the sheriff to check in, and just maybe troll for information.

“Nonni threw a shoe,” he said. “Couldn’t get the blacksmith out late Friday. I hate to miss a Saturday hunt.”

“I guess you heard what happened?”

“Heard it was a good hunt. Walter called me and told me about his shed.”

“What do you think?” she asked, twisting the phone cord and looking out the kitchen window.

“What do you think?” He teased. “Used to store tobacco.” He continued in a more serious vein. “I’ve already checked with the tobacco shop in Seminole Square, the one in Barracks Road and the one up Route 29 toward Ruckersville. I asked them why they don’t sell contraband.”

“That’s an interesting question. One would think as an officer of the law, your question would be the reverse.”

“For that, Sister, I would go into the shop with a deputy and a search warrant, but I don’t think any of those folks are selling contraband.”

“Why not?”

“For the very reasons they told me,” said Ben. “Virginia has the lowest cigarette tax of all fifty states. There’s a little profit to be made, but not enough to court the risk. They were all pretty straightforward about it.”

“But the tobacconists know about some illegal activity of that sort?”

“How much they know is up for question. I called the biggest shop down in Richmond; that owner estimated the black market profit is in the millions.”

“Crime does pay,” Sister mused.

“It does, sometimes even when you get caught,” said the sheriff. “With that kind of money, a man can buy the best lawyers there are. Maybe he serves a short term in a minimum security prison. More than likely the fellow pays a fine, which seems huge to us but is a pittance compared to what he’s hidden away, usually out of the country.”

“I won’t repeat your answer to this, but these kinds of crimes—selling illegal tobacco or moonshine—do they really hurt the state?”

“No. They hurt the corporations that abide by the law, especially the smaller ones. Those entities are so huge, often international, they can afford to abide by the law. It’s the smaller companies or the start-ups that get squelched, as they often lack the funds to comply with the latest regulation. It’s hard for us in central Virginia, for instance, to think of moonshine as a small business, but it is. The larger profits from moonshining are due to no taxes, but who does that hurt? Well, our wonderful delegates in Richmond tell us this hurts the state because of reduced revenue. If they’d get
out of people’s way maybe they’d be motivated to create revenue by other means and I wouldn’t be risking my men, blowing the county’s money on wild goose chases.”

She appreciated that he was direct with her and she genuinely liked the man. “Where would you rather put your energy?”

“Sister, I want to bust every child molester in this county. What I’d really like to do is kill them, but I can’t do that. I’d like to reduce personal abuse, much of it directed toward women, children, and animals. And given the time, I would love to focus our department on fraud, especially at the corporate level.”

“Banks?”

“Banks, yes, plus, there are a few companies we’ve kept our eye on. We can’t catch them, but I’m convinced they are cooking the books. I just don’t have enough people on the force. And you’d be surprised at how much theft goes on inside a bank. When the person is caught they are usually released. It is not reported as a crime because it will shake client confidence. I want to nail ’em. Also, there’s plenty of white-collar crime right here in Albemarle. You don’t have to go to New York City to find it. And they’re a lot smarter, way smarter than the people who commit crimes of impulse.”

“Ben, if you do catch them, they’ll get off with a slap on the wrist, right?”

“Every now and then justice really is served, but it is frustrating for me and the team. I’ve got good people in this department. They put up with a lot and they aren’t exactly well paid.”

“Why do you do it?”

“Because I really believe in law enforcement. If we are equal before the law then we have a stable and fair society. People can deal with pain better than injustice. I believe that.”

“But you must pursue this contraband case, right?” asked Sister. “Well, I guess it’s not a case yet.”

“I think it is,” said Ben, surprising her.

“You do?”

Ben trusted his master. “I’m pretty sure Carter Weems was part of it. We checked out his past convictions, all of them in North Carolina. Transporting illegal liquor, transporting tobacco up north. He got off over and over with a decent lawyer, and I know he couldn’t afford the lawyer. How could he? He blew his money. But whoever he worked for helped him out, and I expect his contacts were wide. If Weems hadn’t been a drunk, he could have been a real player.”

“Networking.” Sister laughed.

“Works in every business,” Ben said.

“I’m so glad I talked to you,” said Sister. “You make me think.”

“Back at you. You know this county better than I do. You know all the skeletons in those closets.”