Shake the Trees (30 page)

“Because I’m thinking there’s a rotten branch in the Mason family tree.” Tillis answered.

“And?”

“Maybe we should shake it.  See what falls out.”

“Here we go again.”  Sally sounded uneasy.

A hint of forewarning crept into Tillis’ voice.  “How do you look in black?” 

“I don’t like the sound of this.”

CHAPTER 46

“She was manufactured in 1924.”  DeWitt Dukes slammed a huge three-ring binder shut, and stroked his neatly trimmed beard as a cloud of dust rose up into the slanted rays of the late afternoon sun.  The slight and unassuming gentleman shook his head as his attention was again drawn to the Model 1917.  “She’s a beauty.  The engraving is flawless.  Definitely a Klan commemorative.  Very possibly presented at the making of a Grand Dragon.”

DeWitt Dukes lived near the tiny North Florida town of Horseshoe Springs in a tin-roofed cracker shack on the banks of the Suwannee River.  A river made famous by the Stephen Foster song.  Although the composer never laid eyes on the Suwannee, his tune accurately reflected the mood of its tannin stained and moss draped waters.  Lazy water that calmed the mind and slowed speech and body.

Horseshoe Springs was still the Old South, which was the way Dukes liked it.  He lived in the past most of the time - though certainly not all of it.  That too was the way he liked it.  He was a resource Tillis had called on before.  His knowledge of Florida history - especially arcane Florida history - was second to none. 

The tiny town was located on the Florida peninsula halfway between the Gulf of Mexico and the Atlantic Ocean, only a few miles from the Georgia line.  Tillis had made the short hop there in his King-Air on Saturday afternoon.  The gun had been preying on his mind.

“Any idea about geographic origin?”   DeWitt asked in his soft honey-soaked drawl. 

“My first guess would be South Florida,” Tillis answered.

Dukes snorted, expressing unspoken contempt for that built-over part of the state.  And if truth be known, his contempt probably extended to the southern three quarters of the peninsula, as well as a good portion of the coastal panhandle.  “Let’s see if any Grand Dragons were made there during the mid to late twenties.” 

After carefully retrieving another huge black three ring binder from a shelf above his head, DeWitt blew a thick layer of dust off the top of the pressed cardboard cover.  A musty smell floated up as he quickly flipped several handfuls of pages from one side of the binder to the other.  “Does the name James Marcus Mason ring any bells?”

“Ring a ding ding.”  Tillis acknowledged his familiarity with the name.

“Grand Titan of Miami.  Made Grand Dragon of Florida, February 1925.  If presentation by the Imperial Wizard can be documented, this weapon could bring twenty thousand dollars at auction.  Less a small commission for my trouble.”  DeWitt produced an apologetic and crooked smile.

Tillis studied the big server, a bank of blinking computers, and several flat panel screens affixed to the cypress log walls of the shack.  DeWitt Dukes made a very good living acquiring and reselling the historical artifacts of the South on his internet auction site.  Antebellum thru the early twentieth century.  After discovering a way to combine his passion with commerce, he’d never worked another day in his life.

“It’s not mine to sell.  It’s evidence.”

“That’s a shame.”  A note of disappointment overwhelmed even DeWitt’s heavy accent.

“Does it ever bother you, dealing in items such as this?”  Tillis asked gently.

“It’s part of our history.  Part of what made us who we are today.  We - the human race - document our history in large part to learn from it.  If we sanitize it, if we choose the bits and pieces we like and pretend the rest doesn’t exist, then what good is it?  No, it doesn’t bother me.  I’m a man of history.  All of it.  The good and the bad.”

“But what about the buyers?  What does it say about the buyers?  That purchasing an item like this is how they chose to connect with the past?” Tillis asked.

DeWitt slowly shook his head.  “Buyers willing to spend twenty thousand dollars for a firearm like this generally aren’t Klan nuts.”

“Then who?”

“Descendants.  Before I auction a piece like this, I research the original owner.  I prepare a family tree.  And I send out letters to all living descendants advising them of the details of the auction.  People aren’t perfect.  And they know their great granddaddy wasn’t perfect either.  But they want to touch something he touched.  They want to hold something that was an important part of his life experience.  It’s human nature.”

Tillis studied DeWitt with a gleam in his eye.  “DeWitt, I think I’m going to need a big favor.  And a very large undisclosed reserve.” 

Ironically, James and Marc Mason would be closer in death than they ever had been in life.  Sally was designated agent in charge of surveillance for the double funeral and graveside service.

It was a truism in criminal investigation; the criminal element was drawn to funerals.  The mafia had repeatedly made the obvious mistake, to the detriment of several of its most illustrious members.  Sally didn’t know if it was a matter of showing your respect or showing your balls, or just plain stupidity, but she wasn’t going to argue with conventional wisdom.  She was already challenging the normal hierarchy of command, albeit at the direction of Commissioner Alcorn himself.

Although she was the rookie agent on the team, Sally took charge without apology or even false humility.  Issuing orders in a manner that demanded respect and compliance, she had taken Tillis’ advice to heart.  She could either be good, or she could be liked.  But at her young age, she probably couldn’t be both.  There were plenty of big eyes and set jaws, but she didn’t allow herself to be distracted.  ‘Screw ‘em and the horse they rode in on,’ she had said to the senior team member after he repeatedly noted the rank and file response to her lack of experience.

Although Elizabeth Ellen Hayes was the primary target, the extent of the conspiracy wasn’t known.  So nobody knew exactly who he or she was looking for if the primary target failed to make an appearance.  Fortunately, the rather morbid practice of funeral videography had become commonplace, and two professional videographers who regularly contracted with the FDLE would digitally capture everything for later review.

James had been active in the community, involved in several charitable activities and organizations, and the service was open to the public.  So there was no need for a warrant, and evidentiary issues were non-existent.  It was a matter of logistics, inconspicuous photographic and communications equipment, and varying and overlapping lines of sight.  Sally had advised Lorna Mason that FDLE agents would be at the funeral and graveside service; she’d also made it entirely clear that she was not asking permission, but rather was offering the information as a courtesy.   

Lorna expressed concern that the agents’ presence would be obvious, and also insulting to the memory of her deceased former husband, who she was sure had no involvement whatsoever in the unseemly affair at American Senior Security.  Sally noted that no similar concern was expressed about the memory of her son, and that she offered no defense on his behalf.  After Sally explained that the assignment was an undercover surveillance operation, and that its success depended on the agents’ presence going unnoticed, Lorna had sniffed with indifference.

Despite the embarrassment caused by the allegations of criminal conduct on the part of her ex-husband and son, Lorna stepped up and took charge.  She’d pulled herself together and made the necessary arrangements.  But, as usual, her motivation was not entirely selfless.  Lorna was doing everything she could to salvage what was left of her social standing.

The Garden Club, The Country Club, and The Junior League were sure to be well represented, and Lorna was determined to hold her head high, and ignore all of the unpleasantness that surrounded her.  Some would admire her strength, but most were sure to be disappointed by it.  Even resent it.  Lorna knew they would want to see her exposed and broken.  Defenseless to their approbation.  Her peers were social cannibals, and she had feasted on the misfortune of others herself.  But Lorna would not be broken.  She wouldn’t even bend.

Timing had been her ally, and stiffened her spine. James had signed the divorce papers on the previous Monday.  The final order of dissolution had been entered on Wednesday.  He was killed on Thursday.  Lorna and her assets would probably be spared the avalanche of inevitable lawsuits that would engulf the estates of her late ex-husband and dead son.  Chance would allow her to continue to pretend the unpleasantness simply didn’t exist.  And now it was Monday again, and yet another chapter of her life was about to turn.

Ellen had rented a flophouse room for twenty bucks cash in one of Miami’s seedier neighborhoods.  She sat on the foot of the bed and studied her reflection in the mirror.  It hung at a slight angle over the beat-up dresser, and she tilted her head to the side.  She was satisfied with her efforts.  And the choice had been obvious. 

James had been an advocate for the elderly.  It was his preferred charity, and he’d donated both time and money to several organizations serving the aged poor and shut-ins.  She’d read that many in that community were confident that he would eventually be vindicated of having any role in the looting of American Senior Security.  Besides, the Florida Bar had paid the bill - no elderly Floridian had actually suffered harm.  There would be a lot of old people at the funeral.  She would be one of them.

Ellen had thought long and hard about the events of the previous week.  Except for Elizabeth, everyone that was supposed to know about the scheme was dead.  Someone had discovered the plan.  That someone had stolen the money.  And she had a couple of ideas.

The funeral seemed like a good place to start.  While she’d promised Elizabeth that she’d pay her respects and pass along a final goodbye to James, and also make sure that Marc was, in fact, dead and well planted, those reasons for attending the funeral were secondary.  Ellen instinctively knew that the funeral would be an irresistible draw to whomever set the mortal events in motion.

Magistrate Judge James Marcus Mason, III, would have found the planned service respectful and dignified, but his son was merely along for the Episcopalian ride.  Marc Mason had left no final instructions, and if he had, pole dancing would have necessitated an entirely separate venue.  Even the Episcopalians would have been forced to refuse his likely last wishes.

James looked handsome and well tanned.  The exercise had paid off, and it turned out that all that time in the sun hadn’t really mattered after all.  His tailored suit and rep tie on a light blue shirt seemed appropriate.  Lorna had briefly considered his judicial robe, but even she concluded that such a display would border on pretension. 

Marc, of course, had a closed casket.  While necessitated by the circumstances of his death, the shuttered coffin seemed to have a deeper meaning as well.  The son had never been the center of attention.  The father had always shined brighter.  Even in death.

The big church built of large blocks of quarried limestone had seen a number of public figures sent off on their final journey.  As such things go, James drew a good crowd.  Its dark and richly hued pews of burnished oak were soon filled, and even the choir loft held a contingent of curious mourners.  Although the elderly almost universally staked out the easily accessible ground floor seats, one particularly bent over and obviously arthritic woman had mounted the stairs to the balcony and claimed a front row seat. 

From this perch, the grey-haired old woman could see nearly everyone below, and watch them come and go.  Charles Broderick, the senior member of the FDLE team, and the man who had not so subtly challenged Sally’s authority, had the same thought; he took the seat next to her.  A small communications device that looked like a hearing aid was stuffed into one ear, and a pinhead microphone was affixed to his lapel.  The old woman smiled at him like a proud grandmother, and he returned the smile with genuine affection.  He was thinking of his own grandmother, whose funeral he had attended so many years before.

Soon a mildly overweight man of late middle age caught the old woman’s attention as she studied the scene below.  The sandy-haired man paused longer than the rest before the mortal remains of Marc Mason, and laid his open hand upon the walnut bier.  The only mourner to do so.  A look of sadness and regret briefly washed across the man’s blunt and drawn features.

The sandy-haired man eventually moved on, stopping only briefly to glance at the well-preserved corpse of Magistrate Judge Mason.  Like a dog noticing its reflection, the old woman cocked her head and studied the scene with observant eyes.  A mix of emotions flashed across her face:  confusion, curiosity, and anger.

Even the graveside service drew a large crowd, though most of the elderly who’d paid their respects at the church had chosen to avoid the uneven terrain of the cemetery.  The gray-haired woman from the balcony made an appearance, however, and sidled up next to the sandy-haired man she’d studied earlier. 

“It’s so sad, isn’t it?”

The sandy-haired man briefly glanced at the old woman.  “Yeah.”

“He did so much good for so many.”

“If you say so.” 

“Are you a friend?”  The old woman inquired.

“Kin.”

“I met Judge Mason many times, but never met his wife.  Poor dear.  How is she doing?”

The man looked as if he’d bitten into a lemon.  “Can’t say.  I’m kin to him.  Not her.  And I’m kin to Marc Mason.”  A residue of bitterness hung in the air as the man turned and walked away without saying anything else.  The old woman studied his back, thinking it odd the way he said he was kin to the father. And to the son.  But not as if one flowed from the other.