“I know,” Jacob blurted. “I’m not a well man, mentally or physically. I might have cancer. They’re running some tests.”
“I can check that,” Pierce said, adding a note of warning.
“I’m going to have testing done,” Gardner mumbled. “I have some troubling symptoms.”
“Here’s what I’m going to do,” Pierce said, making notes on a piece of stationery. “I will pay Ms. Gardner two point five million dollars for the land. In the interest of rewarding you for brokering the deal, I will not merely cancel your debt to the casino, but I will give you an additional five hundred thousand dollars in cash, which is a net to you of eight hundred and twenty-one thousand. And we will all live long and healthy lives-assuming you don’t have cancer, naturally.”
Jacob Gardner straightened suddenly and his lips turned up at the corners. “Okay. I mean, man alive. That’s a very, very generous offer.”
“Now, use all of your persuasive powers to make sure she accepts it.”
“See, I haven’t told her who wanted the land because I know her and I thought that if she sees the intended use for the land, she’ll want more. It has taken a great deal of finesse.”
“Explain to Ms. Gardner that she must take this, or I will pursue alternatives that will be far less financially rewarding. We do not want further unpleasantness, but if there is any, it’s going to be unpleasant for you. That’s all I intend to say on the matter.”
Jacob stood.
“And, Gardner.” Mulvane held out his open hand. “The recorder?”
Meekly, Gardner took a tape recorder from his pocket and placed it in Mulvane’s hand.
“I just wanted to make sure I had it so I’d remember the meeting, the specifics of your offer.”
“Yes.” Pierce snapped the recorder off, took out the cassette, and tossed it into an open drawer before throwing the empty device back to Gardner, who managed to catch it clumsily.
“We have to trust each other. Not to do so is courting disaster.”
“I understand, Mr. Mulvane.”
“I certainly hope so,” Mulvane said, cranking up his smile. “This works as planned. If you screw this one up, nobody on earth can help you.”
41
As Jacob Gardner rode down in the smaller private elevator, he blamed his hangover for the fact that he was sweating, his hands were trembling, and he felt oddly disconnected from reality. The tape recorder had been a risky move, but he had wanted to have evidence of Mulvane taking credit for the girl’s murder on tape to give him an edge, if necessary. Mulvane hadn’t admitted to the killing, but it didn’t mean he didn’t have it done. It was good that he hadn’t taken the recorder personally, though.
It infuriated Jacob that his spoiled bitch of an ex-wife would get any of the money. It was all rightfully his since she had stolen the land from him when he was down-and-out, but at the moment he could see no choice. Despite Mulvane’s Monday deadline, he probably still had time to try to figure out something. Without buying the land, there was no way Mulvane could get his hands on it unless Jacob got the kids to agree to sell it. If Leigh were out of the picture, getting the children to agree would be simple, if he could get power of attorney. With every foot the elevator descended, Jacob was more certain that Leigh was the only obstacle to his financial well-being.
He knew Mulvane had sent the shooter, who had delivered the message that it was a simple matter to kill whomever they chose, whenever they liked. Lucky thing for Leigh that it was the black gal that was targeted, but too bad for him. With enough cash Jacob could start over, buy a successful business, and live like a king without a worry in the world. He couldn’t do that on the pittance Mulvane had offered him-not by a long shot.
As Jacob exited the elevator he almost ran into Albert White and another man who fit the image of what Jacob imagined professional killers looked like. He wondered if that was the man who’d shot Sherry Adams.
Just after Jacob got into his Cadillac, his cell phone buzzed. Checking the ID, he answered it.
“So what the hell are you pulling now, Cyn?”
“Listen carefully, Mr. Gardner. I won’t repeat myself.” The unfamiliar voice sounded almost mechanical. “I have your daughter. She is fine and will stay that way unless Mrs. Gardner holds on to that land. Make that sale happen. Let’s keep this just between the two of us. Any cops get involved…well, you know what.”
The phone went dead.
42
Alexa’s cell phone rang, and when she looked at the readout her heart almost stopped. The display read H. HATCHER. Waving to Winter, she stepped into the sheriff’s conference room to take the call. Assistant FBI Director Hayden Hatcher, who ran the Counterterrorism Division, was calling from his office.
“Alexa Keen,” she said.
“Alexa, Hayden Hatcher. I hope I’m not catching you at a bad time.”
“Not at all, sir. Can I help you with something?”
She pictured the sandy-haired Hatcher, a Bureau golden boy in his late thirties, a few inches over six feet tall, trim as a boxer, and handsome in a corn-fed Midwestern kind of way. He had worked his way up from the Omaha field office due to successful outcomes, an appealing personality, a head for political gamesmanship, and-most of all-a talent for clasping the right coattails. He had been promoted after 9/11 to the growing anti-terrorism arena-the department with the biggest budget, which was therefore where the sex appeal stayed these days. His and Alexa’s offices were on opposite sides of the building, and their paths seldom crossed.
“I understand you have made inquiries into RRI. May I ask what this request for intelligence relates to?”
“A casino operation in Mississippi. The Roundtable. I made an inquiry to assist an investigation by Tunica County, Mississippi, authorities.” Alexa couldn’t imagine why casinos would be of interest to Hatcher, unless they were somehow being used to funnel money to terrorist cells, which seemed unlikely.
“I see. And how is it that the Tunica County authorities went through you? The sheriff called you for it?” he asked.
“Yes.” Alexa felt a heat deep in her stomach and managed to keep her voice neutral. “Actually, one of his deputies asked on his behalf.”
“I assume this somehow involves an abduction, if you were called?”
“No, sir. A murder. The sheriff suspects there may be a connection to the casino because the victim worked for casino security.”
“And do you mind telling me why a deputy sheriff contacted you to make the request?”
“He called me because we’ve known each other since we were teenagers. And we worked together on a case.”
“Who is this deputy?”
The heat in her stomach suddenly felt like a forest fire. “Massey.” She suspected that the deputy director already knew that Winter had made the request, which seemed impossible.
“You worked with Winter Massey on the kidnapping of Judge Fondren’s daughter and grandson in Charlotte.” His lack of hesitation signaled that, sure enough, Hatcher had already known. “Naturally I’m familiar with the case and with Winter Massey. I wasn’t aware that he was a deputy sheriff in Tunica County.”
“He’s working with the sheriff there as a personal favor. Does his inquiry intersect with another investigation under way that involves Counterterrorism?”
“No, I was just curious when I heard about your inquiry. Usually when Massey appears on our radar screen, unpleasant complications arise from his activities. I’m just wondering if the Bureau should become involved in supplying information to him. I’m calling to make an informal inquiry to get clarification on the nature of the request.”