21
Thursday night
Meshach sat in the dark living room watching Shanteel’s house through the open patio doors. His backpack at his feet contained the computer, the cash, all of it. Just in case.
Lightning flashed offshore. A gust moved the curtains. The thunderstorms had arrived. Weather was as unpredictable as the broad who’d stuck his own pistol in his face. She’d nearly killed him. Only a finger’s width away. He grinned at that thought. She’d never know.
Headlights topped the levee—an unrelated vehicle, someone returning her car, or the poster boy cop? A glimpse at the bridge of lights mounted on top of the car told him the latter. A man exited the cruiser and walked toward Shanteel’s. He was off duty, dressed in civilian clothes, but no doubt still armed.
He trotted up the stairs to the front door and entered without knocking. The door slammed. Another light came on.
Meshach glanced at his watch: 11:07. He’d like to hear that conversation. He’d bet money it was one-sided.
Lightning illuminated heavy, menacing clouds. The smell of rain rode on a cooler wind. Wouldn’t be long reaching the area now.
Minutes passed: 11:21. The front door opened. The cop stepped out and slammed the door behind him. He walked with authority and determination. Either the wildcat had tried to emasculate him again, and he was fleeing for his life, or he was out to avenge the slight she’d suffered. He trotted down the steps. As he reached the walkway that would take him back to his car, another quick flash of lightning flared almost on top of them. The thunderous crack stopped him in his tracks.
Hard to tell what direction he looked, but Meshach could guess. Another bolt arced cloud to cloud. The guy stood with his hands planted on his hips, staring toward Meshach.
Could he see Meshach staring back from just inside the door? Meshach hoped he could.
In a second, the distance between them filled with a torrent. Wind blew rain sideways through the doors into the living room. Lightning split the night in half, revealing emptiness where the cop had stood.
~*~
Thursday night, Las Vegas
Wes’s cell phone chirped as he walked through the door of the Hampton Inn, not far from the Woodard residence. He glanced at the display and answered. “Mr. Blackwell, good evening.”
“How’s the desert sun treating you?”
Wes moved to one side of the door and shed his shoulder bag. “It’s hot compared to what I’m used to for this time of year it is.”
“You’ve been busy.”
“I have. My apologies for not letting you know my intended destination this morning.”
“Don’t worry about that. I approved the flight. Besides, I hired a professional. I expect him to do his job and I leave him alone. What’s the news?”
Wes walked up to a display like those he’d seen in the lobby of a hundred other hotels. This one held fliers and ads for day-trips to Hoover Dam, casino specials, golf courses, rental cars, nightclubs and live shows. “I’m trying to think about my last update. I told you we actually got a description of our man from an unlikely source the other night. We still don’t know his real name.”
“Any further cyber postings?”
“Yes, and we believe there’s a third player involved now, a Sullivan.”
“Yeah, you mentioned him. What’re your thoughts on my daughter’s security?”
Wes took a deep breath. He knew he was right, but to voice it held risks if he wasn’t. “I believe Meshach’s mission has changed altogether, and you, the Blackwell family, your daughter, in particular, are no longer in the crosshairs. I think they, not he, have something planned, something big, maybe aimed at your Gulf interests or at the industry as a whole. What? I haven’t got a clue. Not yet.”
Female voices in the background on Cole’s end dimmed the silence. Wes gave the man time to think. Wes’s phone beeped in his ear. He gave the face a quick glance. Tony.
“What leads you to that line of thinking?”
“A feeling more than proof. At least three people are involved that we know of. Meshach is a long way from your neck of the woods. I hate to say it, but after I called Bubba and asked for a local contact in law enforcement so we could check flight manifests, hotels, rental cars, that type of thing, Lamech sent a warning about our investigation.”
This time the line went dead quiet. Wes glanced at his phone again—still connected. He waited, looking at the display of fliers without seeing them, distracted, his concentration on Cole’s lack of response. He continued, “I’m sure we had contact with our guy this morning in New Orleans. He tailed us out of the hotel parking lot. I had to lose him in traffic. Unfortunately, we didn’t get a good look at him, nor did we get a complete plate number of the car he drove.”
“Then we’ve got bigger problems, as a whole, and you have a personal problem. I know Bubba’s your friend, but this is some kind of conspiracy. Is he involved? How did an assault on a woman in Texas morph into—into the Lord knows what?”
“I can’t answer those questions right now, but we are getting closer.”
“You have to set him up.”
“Who?” Wes knew whom Cole referred to, but he asked anyway.
“Bubba.” A sigh traveled the connection. “You’ve been to war as a Marine. Now you’re a private investigator. You weren’t born last night. You know the dangers. Keep them in mind. Don’t let an old friendship impair your judgment. I know him and like him too, but think it over, hard. The moment you have the evidence, hand it over to the police and let them sort it out. If it’s as big as you believe, we’ll get the FBI involved, or DHS. I have personal dealings with the Secretary of Homeland Security. I went to school with him. Interfering with oil production has national security implications, not to mention lives are at stake. And the environment.”
“Yes, sir, I will, and I know what you’re saying about Bubba. I’ve got it to do, and I know it.”
“What took you to Las Vegas? And don’t tell me my airplane.”
Albeit dry, Cole had a sense of humor. “A New Orleans murder and a text. May be a tie to our guy. If so, we could find out his true identity.”
“A text?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, I’m not into publishing details about private life or opinions for the world to read, but I exchange texts with my wife and daughter. All right. Hang on.” Papers ruffled. “You said he tailed you.”
Cole was no dummy, and from what Wes had just heard, he took notes. “I believe he did.”
“But you didn’t engage him?”
“I did not.”
Again time lapsed. “Your people with you?”
“Jess and Tony, yes, they were.”
“Smart move. Need some money?”
The man didn’t banter words. “I’ll bill you when this nut’s behind bars.”
“Good night, then. Godspeed.”
The line went dead.
Wes pocketed his phone and stared out the window into the parking lot. The lights from casino row lit the sky. Traffic on the highway looked like rush hour volume, and it was after ten o’clock. His eyes burned. He was tired.
Wes had been working for Cole less than a week. He liked him. Confronting his long-time friend would not be easy. He found it hard just to contemplate the idea.
He dialed Tony back. “Hey, you rang.”
“Yeah, just checking in. Did you visit with the Woodards? Get anything out of it?”
“Not at first glance. Cancer killed his dad. His mom isn’t well. She’s an older woman. We got pics of pics to look at, but nothing concrete. Still have to talk to Marlin. We’ll do that in the morning.”
“Meshach conveyed his thanks to Lamech for the warning. Said he had a good trip to Paris. Dude, I’m telling you.”
Wes looked down at the display again, and Tony’s comments never registered. His focus fixed on a flier in the middle of the mix. He slid the folded slip from its holder and held it up. The words Liz uttered at the mention of the name Meshach echoed through his thoughts. The man from fire she’d called him.
“Unbelievable.”