Here he handed Jake a computer printout of Doyle’s record. Jake glanced at it, then passed it to Toad, who read it through rapidly and laid it back on Hooper’s desk.
“Our agents talked to Doyle last night. He was threatened with a federal charge of conspiracy to murder a public official charge, and he talked. He says he acquired three Model 70s for a guy he knew as Tony Pickle.” He dropped another sheet in front of Jake. “This is Tony Pickle.
“Guy named Pasquale Piccoli, also known as Anthony Tassone. Grew up in the rackets, moved to Dallas in the midseventies. Was involved in S&Ls in Texas. Lately been living in Vegas.”
He sat and stared at Jake.
“And,” the captain prompted.
“And that’s it,” Hooper said. “That’s all the evidence we have.”
“The second rifle? Was it one of the three?”
“Don’t know. Doyle didn’t write down serial numbers.”
“Doyle get anything else for Tassone?”
“He denies it. We’re looking.”
“Okay, now tell me what you think.”
“Our Texas office is very interested in Tony Pickle. Seems he was sort of a Mr. Fix-it for some real shady S&L operators, most of whom are being investigated or are under indictment. It seems that two or three may have stepped beyond the usual bank fraud, kickbacks, cooked books, and insider loan shenanigans. It looks like they got into money laundering. Extremely profitable. Perfect for an S&L that was watching a ton of loans go sour and rotten.”
“What does Tassone say about all this?”
“Don’t know. We’re looking. Haven’t found him yet.”
“Who,” Toad asked, speaking for the first time, “were these S&Ls washing money for?”
Special Agent Thomas F. Hooper eyed the junior officer speculatively. “For the big coke importers. Maybe, roundabout, the Cali or Medellín cartels. That’s the smell of it anyway. Lot of money involved.” He pursed his lips for a second. “A lot of money,” he said again, fixing his eyes on the picture of Anthony Tassone.
“Forgive our ignorance,” Jake Grafton said. “But how much money does the FBI consider to be a lot?”
“Over a billion. At least that.”
“That’s a lot,” Toad Tarkington agreed. “Even over at the Pentagon that’s a lot.”
After using every minute of Hooper’s half hour, Jake and Toad left the FBI building at about the same time that Deputy Sheriff Willard Grimes pulled his mud-spattered cruiser up to the pump at the gas station — general store at Apache Crossroads, New Mexico. The deputy swabbed the windshield in the wind and bitter cold as the gas trickled into the cruiser’s tank.
When he had the nozzle back on the hook, Willard Grimes went inside.
The wind gusted through the clapboard building as he forced the door shut. “Whew,” he said, “think it’ll ever get warm again?”
“’Lo, Willard,” the proprietor said, looking up from the morning paper. “How many gallons?”
“Sixteen point six,” Willard said, and poured himself a styrofoam cup full of hot, steaming coffee.
The man behind the counter made a note in a small green book, then pushed it over for Willard to sign. Willard scribbled his name with a flourish. He put twenty-six cents on the counter for the coffee.
“How’s crime?” the man behind the counter asked.
“Oh, so so,” Willard told him. “Gonna be trolling for speeders over on the interstate today. Sheriff told me to write at least five out-of-staters. Damn county commissioners are on him again to bring in some more fine money.”
“You know,” the proprietor said, “the thing I like most about living out here is that there isn’t any real crime. Not like those big cities.” He gestured toward the copy of the Sante Fe newspaper lying on the counter.
Deputy Grimes glanced at the paper. There was a drawing right below the headline. Someone’s face. “That the guy who supposedly took a shot at the Vice-President?”
“Yeah. The President, the Vice-President, and half the cabinet. Cutting a swath through Washington, this one is. Making Lee Harvey Oswald look like a goldfish. And you know something funny? When I first saw that picture on TV last night, I said to the wife, I said, ‘Darn if that don’t look like Henry Charon, that lives up in the Twin Buttes area.’ Crazy how a fellow’s mind works when he sees a drawing like that, ain’t it?”
“Yeah,” said Willard Grimes, sipping the coffee and looking out the window at the lowering sky above the arrow-straight road pointing toward the horizon. He got out a cigarette and lit it as he sipped the coffee.
Oh yeah, now he remembered. Charon. Sort of a nondescript medium-sized guy. Skinny. Real quiet. Drives a Ford pickup.
Grimes ambled back to the counter and stared at the artist’s drawing on the front page of the paper. He squinted. Naw.
“Couldn’t be him, of course,” the proprietor said. “Ain’t nobody from around here going to go clear to Washington to gun down politicians. Don’t make sense. Not that some of ’em couldn’t use a little shootin’. The guy who’s doing it is probably some kind of half-baked commie nut, like that idiot Oswald was. But Henry Charon? Buys gas and food here pretty regular.”
“Couldn’t be him,” Deputy Willard Grimes agreed.
“Now if a fellow had it in for dirtball politicians,” the proprietor said, warming to his theme, “there’s a bunch that need shootin’ a lot closer to home. Remember down in Albuquerque …”
Five minutes later, with another cup of coffee in his hand, Deputy Grimes was ready to leave for the interstate when a game warden drove up to the gas pump and parked his green truck. He came inside. Willard lingered to visit.
The game warden was eating a doughnut and kidding the proprietor when his eyes came to rest on the newspaper. “Don’t that beat all,” he exclaimed. “If that isn’t Henry Charon I’ll eat my hat.”
“What?” said Willard Grimes.
“Henry Charon,” the game warden said. “Got a little two-by-four ranch up toward Twin Buttes. I’ve chased that sonuvabitch all over northern New Mexico. He’s a damned poacher but we could never catch him at it. That’s him all right.”
“How come you didn’t say something yesterday?” Willard Grimes asked, his brow furrowing. “That picture must have been on TV a hundred times already.”
“My TV broke a month ago. That’s the first time I laid eyes on that picture. But I’ll bet a week’s pay that’s Henry Charon. Sure as God made little green apples.”
The envelope containing the lab reports from the Sanitary Bakery warehouse case had lain in the in-basket for four hours before Special Agent Freddy Murray had the time to open it. He read the documents through once, then settled in to study them carefully. Finally he pulled a legal pad around and began making notes.
The corpse of one Antonio Anselmo, white male about forty-five years of age with a partial dental plate, had been found in Harrison Ford’s locked room at the FBI barracks on the Quantico Marine Corps base. The forward portion of his skull had been crushed. Death had been instantaneous. When the field lab people saw the body at eleven a.m. Wednesday, they calculated that Anselmo had died between midnight and four a.m.
Hair, bits of flesh, and minute quantities of blood were found on the landing of the stairwell nearest to Ford’s room. Blood type was the same as Anselmo’s. Threads of clothing and one shirt button had been recovered from the stairs. Marks on the lineoleum in the corridor that might have been made by a body.
Wallet — now this was interesting — both the wallet and a motel key bore partial prints of Harrison Ford.