The Constantine Conspiracy (14 page)

Pleased, Gerald copied the video onto his computer, forwarded another copy to his cell phone, leaned back, and took a deep breath. What a guy did for a woman! He wondered if he should call Shannon immediately or wait until he had more time to chat. Since he’d spent so much time on her offline project, he’d neglected his regular assignments, and if he called now he’d feel rushed to get back to them. Make her wait, he decided, at least until lunch. Then he’d call and give her the good news.

He still needed to track the tag number, of course. Find the owner of the bike that way, no more bother with tracking the tires. Once he managed that, Shannon’s gratitude would force her to go out with him. Not the best tactic to weasel a date, but a guy used the weapons at his disposal, right? A redheaded, short guy with splotchy skin and a tendency to go speechless around women didn’t get many chances with a lady like Shannon, and he didn’t plan to pass up the one that had fallen into his lap.

Gerald popped back up in his chair and his fingers punched his keyboard. With any luck at all, he might have the name of the motorcycle owner by lunch.

Charbeau’s phone buzzed and he took a long look at Tony Gonzalez before he took the call. “You’re a stubborn man,” he said to Gonzalez. “Been working on you off and on for thirty-six hours but got nothing to show for it.”

Gonzalez kept silent, so Charbeau gave up for a moment and switched on his phone.

“We have somebody sniffing around in Helena,” said his assistant in Wolf Creek. “A nerd in the crime lab, he’s connected to Shannon Bridge, the first responder to the 911 call the night of Carson’s death.”

Charbeau glanced at Gonzalez then walked out to the hallway. “She the same woman you caught nosing around outside the Carson retreat?”

“One and the same,” the aid said. “We visited her place after that, trashed things up a bit but found nothing suspicious so we backed off.”

“Where is she right now?”

“We don’t know. Like I said, we checked out her house, then dropped the tag on her.”

Charbeau rubbed his head, a migraine threatening to spread from the base of his skull. “Who’s the nerd in the crime lab?” he finally asked.

“Nobody really, a technician, but he’s made a lot of calls, looking for video in Helena. We think he might have found something.”

“What?”

The aid hesitated and Charbeau wished he could reach through the phone and strangle him. “What?” he bellowed. “I got no time to wait for you to pucker up your courage!”

“He found video of the motorcycle, shows the tag number.”

Charbeau’s headache subsided and he chuckled lightly. Only an amateur would allow someone to tail him through such an obvious tactic, and he was certainly no amateur. He’d taken precautions with the motorcycle records; like a coon doubling back on a pack of dogs, covering its tracks, hiding its scent. Still, he didn’t like it that someone was hunting him. Made him feel . . . unsteady, unprotected.

“What’s the dude’s name?” he asked.

“Gerald Grimes.”

“Does he have family—wife and children?”

“Nope, we already checked. People don’t marry as early as they once did.”

The man sounded quite pleased and Charbeau made a mental note to terminate him as soon as he no longer needed him. Cocky people made mistakes, and with so much at stake, a mistake meant disaster.

He kept his tone neutral as he finished the conversation. “Provide a solution to Mr. Grimes,” he said. “Before the sun sets. Can you do that for me?”

“No problem.”

“Then get ’er done.”

The man hung up and Charbeau moved back to the room where Tony Gonzalez remained in place, his head slumped, his eyes closed. Charbeau lifted Gonzalez’s head and cuffed him until he opened his bloodshot eyes. “Sorry we were so rudely interrupted,” he cooed, as if talking to a small child. “I was about to show you a sweet surprise. You like surprises, don’t you?”

Gonzalez said nothing, so Charbeau stepped away, punched a button by the door, and waited as a drape on the opposite wall peeled away to reveal a plasma screen behind it. “Take a look, Gonzalez,” Charbeau said, pointing to the screen. “It’s your momma in high definition. You see her there?”

Gonzalez’s eyes focused and Charbeau saw the recognition register in them. “Yes, Mr. Gonzalez, pal of Rick Carson. Your dear mother is close by, a guest of mine, shall we say. As you can see, she’s quite comfortable at this moment.”

The video showed Luisa in a leather chair, a blindfold over her eyes, her hands bound in her lap and her ankles shackled but otherwise in good shape. A lean, dark-skinned man in black pants and a white shirt stood beside her, as if waiting to take an order for dinner.

“So I’m giving you one more chance, Mr. Gonzalez,” Charbeau continued. “What do you know of Mr. Carson’s whereabouts?”

“Do I look like a GPS system?” Gonzalez barked.

Charbeau whacked him across the face.

“I don’t know anything,” Gonzalez panted. “Rick didn’t . . . confide in me. It’s the honest truth; let my momma go, she’s got nothing to do with this.”

Charbeau shook his head as if unhappy with a child. “Your momma’s pleasant situation ain’t necessarily permanent,” he growled.

Gonzalez licked his cracked lips and Charbeau moved to a pitcher on a nearby table, poured a glass of water, and touched it to Gonzalez’s mouth.

“Water,” Charbeau said as Gonzalez took a long drink. “And freedom for you and your sainted momma—all for a little information. I ain’t an unreasonable man. So I ask a final time. Where I can find Rick Carson?”

Gonzalez spit the water into Charbeau’s eyes, and Charbeau laughed and grabbed Gonzalez by the hair. “You’re full of vinegar.” Charbeau cackled. “I grant you that. But know this, brave guy. Your courage won’t do a thing to ease the pain your momma’s gone feel real soon. You sure you got nothing to say to me?”

Gonzalez shook his head and Charbeau sighed then pointed to the monitor and offered a thumbs-down sign. If Tony Gonzalez cared nothing about the health of his momma, then perhaps his momma would feel differently about her son.

“Silvio,” he called.

The dark-skinned man standing by Mrs. Gonzalez nodded at him.

“Mr. Gonzalez ain’t cooperating,” Charbeau said. “So we got to make other arrangements. Have you told Mrs. Gonzalez what we need?”

“Yes,” Silvio called. “But she seems to have swallowed her tongue.”

“Remove her blindfold and direct her attention to the monitor on the wall.”

Silvio obeyed and a few seconds later Luisa peered through the camera toward Charbeau and Tony.

“Antonio!” she called.

“You know nothing, Momma,” Tony called. “Tell them that.”

“I need to find Rick Carson,” Charbeau called. “But your son ain’t going along with me. You as stubborn as your boy?”

Luisa stared into her lap in silence so Charbeau pressed her. “I’m asking nicely one more time, Mrs. Gonzalez. But my patience is wearing thin. Tell me what you know of Carson or your son’s life expectancy is going to shorten up some. You comprehend my meaning here?”

Luisa said nothing, so Charbeau pulled his Glock from the holster under his arm and pressed it into Tony’s forehead. “I’d hate to make a scramble of your son’s brains,” he said firmly. “But a man’s got to do what a man’s got to do.”

Luisa started to sob.

“I know you want to protect your boy,” Charbeau said, soothingly. “And I got no real hankering to do him harm. Just a job to me, but I’m good at my job. So . . .”

She wailed louder, and Charbeau smiled then eased the Glock away from Tony’s skull. He had broken her. Once a momma started crying, her resistance ended. “It’s okay, Mrs. Gonzalez,” he said gently. “Tell me where I can find Carson, then you and your boy will go free.”

Her body trembling, Luisa started talking as large tears rolled down her cheeks.

His lunch spread on a cloth napkin on a wood bench beside him, Gerald Grimes sat on a bench in a park a couple of miles from the Helena state lab and pulled the plastic wrap off a hard-boiled egg. After the egg, he planned to eat his tuna sandwich. To top it off, he looked forward to the peanut butter candy bar he’d purchased on the way to the park—a tasty reward for a guy who seldom indulged in anything that contained processed sugar or chocolate.

But hey, he concluded, a guy needs a bonus every now and again—like today when his investigation into the mysterious motorcycle had yielded far more than he’d expected. Not that he had the name of a specific owner yet. But a company named GlobeFree, an offshore Bahamian entity, had purchased the bike and paid the license fees and taxes for it through the state of Florida.

A young couple strolled by hand in hand as Grimes finished his egg, then unwrapped his sandwich and took a bite. His heart warmed as he watched the man and woman. Love, he thought; it made the world go round. Someday he’d find somebody—a woman who loved nature and hated television, a woman pretty enough to meet his mom but not so attractive that he’d ever need to feel jealous.

He thought of Shannon and knew she far surpassed his beauty standard. But a man needed to aim high, didn’t he? He’d call her right after he finished eating. Pleasing her pleased him and he felt confident that his discoveries would make her happy. And, with a few more days and a bit more research, who knew what he could uncover? Enough perhaps to answer all her questions and thereby earn the spot in her heart he so desperately sought.

The love-struck couple disappeared down the path as Grimes chewed the last of his sandwich, then opened his cell phone. A tease, he decided; he’d text Shannon he had some news but say nothing more. Make her want to hear from him instead of the other way around. Appear less needy, less eager to talk to her.

Grimes’s fingers composed the message on the tiny keyboard. Birds and squirrels played in nearby trees. Grimes hit the Send button and the message went to Shannon. Grimes unwrapped his candy bar and took a bite, then leaned against the bench, content with his efforts. Nothing stirred in the park. Shannon would accept his offer of dinner, he decided. She did care for him, he felt confident of that. Not yet in the manner that he wanted, but he could eventually change that. He picked up his phone again and almost called, but then hesitated. Let her wait a couple more minutes, he decided.

The bullet caught him in the left side of his neck, a single crack in the quiet afternoon the only thing announcing it. The candy bar fell to the grass and Grimes slumped over, his phone still in hand. His eyes opened, once, twice, then stared straight ahead. Another shot rang out, but it struck the bench a few inches over his head, splintering the wood.

Grimes gulped as one hand reached for his neck and the other lifted his cell phone so he could see it. Blood filled the hand on his neck. The other hand busied itself with the phone.

“G-l-o- . . .” he worked to type the word. “b-e-F-r-e-e.”

He felt cold as he focused on his phone. He saw the loving couple rushing his way, panicked stares on their faces.

“B-a-h-a-m-a-s . . .”

His hand stilled as he typed the last letter and the phone fell to the ground as the couple reached him. The woman bent to his face and Grimes noticed her teeth, so straight and white.

“Send,” he whispered, pointing as best he could to his cell phone. “Send.”

“Stay with me!” the woman encouraged. “Ambulance is coming.”

“Send,” he mouthed, his lips barely moving. “Please . . .”

The woman grabbed the phone and held it up. He tried to speak again but nothing sounded.

“What?” she asked. “What do you want?”

Grimes wanted to raise a hand but couldn’t. The woman leaned closer but Grimes’s eyes closed and he exhaled.
Shannon
, he thought as he passed out.
Shannon will never go to
dinner with me
. . .

17

Friday, 12:30 p.m.

W
earing black pumps and her cross earrings with a black skirt and jacket over an off-white blouse, Shannon followed the directions of the guards standing outside the Carson Estate and parked her rental on the curb six blocks from the home owned by Rick’s parents. The estate consisted of three mansions, the largest owned by Rick’s grandfather, the smallest by Rick. About a quarter mile of manicured lawn and landscaped gardens separated each house, and Steve Carson’s body lay at rest in the home in the middle. The Carson Acres golf course ran along the back of the estate, its verdant green grass creating a pastoral setting.