Tempting the Devil (8 page)

Ron Holland looked up from a pile of papers and gave him a rueful smile. “And I thought I wanted this job.”

Holland was a good agent who hated his desk job and obviously yearned to be back in the field. He was also new enough as a supervisor to be cautious.

“I'm taking you off the task force. The U.S. attorney says to wind it down. Too many dead ends.”

“I don't think so.”

“Unfortunately you don't make the decisions.” Holland was clearly not happy with the decision. He picked up a file. “We have a money-laundering case. You'll be our lead agent.”

“I'm not an accountant.”

“You can have Robert Haver, and anyone else you want. It's preliminary. If you find anything, you'll turn it over to the Money-Laundering Unit.”

Ben took a deep breath. “What about the Meredith County murders?”

“We haven't been invited yet.”

“It wouldn't hurt to keep up with the investigation. That way we'll be ready when we do take jurisdiction.”

“Sure of that, are you?”

“It wasn't just local. A rookie would know that. No one would take that kind of risk for anything that's penny ante.”

“Maybe someone just doesn't like cops.”

“You don't believe that's what it is, do you?”

“No, but it's one of the motives being bandied around.”

“We need agents on the scene.”

“We'll have one,” Holland said with a wry smile. “That money-laundering case? There's a Meredith County connection.”

“We're going in the back door?”

“As long as the locals try to keep us out.”

Anticipation stirred in Ben. “What do we have?”

“Whispers that Hydra might be involved.”

“Hydra?” The anticipation grew stronger. “That would explain the murders.”

“Yeah, I thought so, too,” Holland agreed with a gleam in his eyes.

Ben knew that name. God, he knew it. It seemed to have tentacles everywhere. No, not tentacles. Heads. Named by law enforcement agencies after the many-headed snake whose heads regrew as they were cut off, Hydra was a criminal network that covered at least five southern states, including Texas, Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama, and Georgia. It was mythical in law enforcement quarters.

Hydra had taken over where another organization—the Southern Mafia—had ruled for thirty years until it was dismantled. But Hydra was far more sophisticated. Where the former had been a loose alliance, Hydra was, according to what they could discover, a very tightly ruled organization of cells, none of which knew—or were aware of—the other cells.

The FBI had few clues as to its leadership. They'd found one witness ready to identify some lower-level members, but he'd been killed, along with his family. Ben doubted there would be many more willing witnesses.

“What connection does this new assignment have?” he asked.

“It's an import business. Perfect cover for laundering money. One of the owners is a developer from Meredith County.”

“Do we have enough for a search warrant?”

“No. It's your job to find enough.”

“Who's the developer?”

“James Edward Kelley. The company is Exotic Imports.”

Ben started. Kelley was one of the developers of a high-scale “fly-in” community near the murder site.

“Name familiar?”

Ben winced. Holland didn't miss much.

“I ran a search for ‘fly-in' communities in Meredith County,” he admitted. “Just a hunch.”

“What else did you run?”

“The property where the murders took place.”

“You were told to leave it alone.”

Ben shrugged. “It was my off time. A mental exercise.”

“And …?”

“It's owned by a company called the Somerville Group, which in turn is owned by a shell corporation. Mahoney's following the trail.”

“Officers?”

“Not Kelley. That would be too easy. Only names are members of a law firm.”

“Who'll claim attorney client privilege if we request the officers' names. You think the locals know who owns it?”

“I would think someone knows.”

“Find out who pays the taxes,” Holland said.

Ben nodded.

“Be discreet. I don't want to step on toes. Not yet, anyway.”

“I'm always discreet.”

Holland raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

“I thought I might go to the funerals. See who's there.” He didn't mention the fact he'd attended the press conference.

“Go ahead. There'll be hundreds of various types of cops. You can always say you're paying respects.”

“We should have someone taking photos.”

Holland shook his head. “A little too obvious. We can get the television raw film. They'll be out there in force.”

Holland's phone rang and he gestured for Ben to go.

Ben paused. “I have a free hand?”

“I'll give you two weeks. Haver won't be available until then. Sniff around. But don't forget to be discreet. I don't want complaints that we're butting in without cause.”

Ben nodded, exhilaration filling him. At last he had a chance of helping bring down a major crime ring, not to mention murderers.

A strike back for his ex-wife.

Robin was at the courthouse early. Her first stop was Justice of the Peace Graham Godwin.

She took him a cup of coffee and donut she'd bought at the crowded diner across the street.

“Ah, Miss Stuart,” he said, a licentious gleam in his eyes. “Twice in the same week. I'm honored.”

She set down the coffee and donut in front of him.

“A bribe?”

“Yep,” she agreed.

“Don't get much for that. Of course …”

“That's as good as I can do today.”

“There's always tomorrow.”

She decided to ignore his last comment. “Have you heard of any gang activity here?”

“There's gangs everywhere these godless days.”

“Kid gangs? Or adult gangs?”

He shrugged.

“Do you know who owns that property where the bodies were found?”

“Not anymore.”

“Who did own it?”

His gaze fixed on her breasts.

“Judge?” she reminded him.

“Used to belong to old Ethan Morgan. Died in a house fire out there two years ago. Didn't have any kin.”

“Who owns it now?”

“Records are in the tax office.”

“But you know everything,” she said, flattering him. “It would save me time.”

“For a cup of coffee and a donut?”

“Lots of coffee and donuts.”

He sighed in disappointment and his grizzled hands tapped a file folder in front of him.

“Who owns it now?” she persisted.

He shrugged. “Something called the Somerville Group. Don't know who they are. Mighty secretive, if you ask me. Locals didn't like it when it happened. A law firm represented the buyers. A corporation. Houston people, someone told me.”

“How long ago?”

“Two years ago or thereabouts.”

“And they've not asked for rezoning or building permits or anything?”

He looked at her with new respect.

“Not that I've heard.”

And he would have. He heard everything. Knew more about the county than anyone. Too many people had told her that to doubt it.

“Wasn't there any curiosity that someone bought a large tract of land like that? Must be valuable.”

“Nothing like the counties closer to Atlanta. It's coming, to my regret, but land is still cheap compared to that closer to Atlanta. They could have bought it for timber as much as lake development. Lots of that going on.”

She had the oddest sense that he was rambling for a reason. She tried to steer the conversation back.

“And crime? Since I've been covering the county, I've heard of very little.”

“Not bad.”

“Drugs?”

“No worse than other places.”

“Do you think someone in either department could have been involved in the murders?”

“Don't mention that around here, missy, unless you want a lot of enemies.”

He had never called her “missy” before, and although she didn't think it was a good sign, she pressed on anyway. “Some say it would have to be someone they knew to take them down like that.”

He leaned back in his chair. “Who are ‘some'?”

“Common gossip,” she lied. “Didn't it occur to you?”

“Can't say it did.”

“Who do you think would murder three police officers in cold blood?”

“Can't say.”

“No guesses?”

“Guesses ain't worth spit.”

She knew she wouldn't get anything else. His voice had grown increasingly hard from the moment she'd asked whether some local cops could be involved.

She stood. “Are you going to the funerals?”

“Yep.”

“I'll see you there.”

He picked up the donut she'd brought, took a bite, and opened the file in front of him.

She'd been dismissed.

Robin hated funerals. She didn't want to attend this one. She felt as if she was intruding on others' grief. But this was one she could not avoid, not and do her job.

She'd come early because she knew as many as a thousand law enforcement officers would attend. Motorcycles and squad cars from a dozen states or more clogged the streets and roads of the county.

When she arrived, people were already milling about the simple white chapel. Two police officers stood ramrod stiff at the entrance. She went up and showed them her press credentials.

“No press inside, ma'am,” one said. “Just the family and close friends.”

She nodded. She'd already been inside when she'd talked to the pastor, but she'd felt she had to try. She looked around at the mourners who were already gathering, then for anyone she might know from the county. She wondered whether Sandy would attend.

There were several other reporters who'd come early for the same reasons she had. They'd hoped to get inside. She went over to where they had gathered in a small cluster. Two television cameras were already rolling.

Hank Conrad, the editor of the local weekly, headed toward her. “Good stories.”

“Thanks. Do the police have anything yet?”

“Not that they're talking about.”

She drew him aside, out of hearing of the others. “Have you heard of any particular gang or crime group operating in Meredith County?”

He shook his head.

“What about the sheriff's department or police force. Any corruption?”

“Nothing big. Just some DUIs that were covered up. Maybe tolerating a few stills.”

“Do you know anything about the Somerville Group?”

He looked startled. “Who?”

“The Somerville Group? They own the property where the murders took place.”

He shook his head and scribbled down the name. “Should have checked that myself.”

“I didn't think of it myself until …” She stopped herself, then changed the subject. “I was thinking about doing a story on crime in the county. Gangs. Drugs. Et cetera.”

“Nothing here that's not anywhere else.”

“That's not what I heard.”

“What have you heard?”

“That there might be a connection to one of the local law enforcement agencies, that the police officers stumbled onto something very big.” It was a great exaggeration of what she had heard, but she wanted a reaction.

“A connection with the local law? You mean police killing police? Where in the hell did you get that?”

“Do you think it could be true?”

His gaze searched her face. “It would explain how three officers could be taken, but no, I haven't heard anything like that.”

“You've heard nothing?”

“They're keeping everything very tight.”

“Because they don't have anything?”

“Maybe.”

Another reporter joined them then. She excused herself and went to her car and opened it. Her leg was aching and she needed to sit down.

She took out her notebook and jotted down some impressions of the church.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the roar of many motorcycles.

She stepped out of her car as what must have been more than a hundred officers on motorcycles roared up to a field just to the left of the church and parked their vehicles. They then lined the road, apparently in preparation for the arrival of the hearse.

Just minutes later, it arrived. Uniformed men went to the back of the hearse and carried first one casket in, then a second as two women, one holding the hand of a child and the other clutching the sleeve of an older man, watched. The child was sobbing.

A huge lump formed in the back of her throat. In defense, she stared around at the growing crowd. She saw Sandy standing with a group of deputies. Then her eyes moved to the right, scanning the crowd of people who followed the caskets into the church.
Family and close friends
.

She jotted down a possible lead to her story:

An endless blue line united by grief and dedicated to memorializing three of their own filled the town today
.

Police officers choked the streets of Benton, some having traveled as far as halfway across the country to pay their respects to three fallen comrades
.

They came first to a small country church, a plain white chapel that overflowed with local mourners. A large screen and plain chairs from other churches were provided for those who could not crowd inside. Hundreds of uniformed officers sweltered in the above-100-degree heat and listened as family and friends eulogized police officers Jesse Carroll and Kell Anderson. The service for the third officer, Zachary Palmer, was to be held later in the day at another church
.

She looked at her watch. Her first deadline was in an hour.

She continued jotting down sentences, forming an emotional backdrop for the story. When the time neared, she would go toward one of the loudspeakers.