John Miller - Smoke and Mirrors

“Of course not,” Pierce said quickly. “You?” he asked White.

“I’ve seen nobody. I just told Beals-as Mr. Mulvane told me to-that when someone approached him and used the name Pablo that he should do whatever this person asked him to, and that Pablo would compensate him directly. Jack never told me he had been approached, but I had also told him never to mention it again,” Albert said, smiling uncomfortably. “That’s all I know, and I only know that much inside this room, between us. Mr. Mulvane told me to find someone that could be trusted, and I picked Beals since he has always performed with professionalism. And, as a lifelong resident of Tunica County, he could furnish information on the Gardners. Is it possible this Pablo killed him so he wouldn’t have to pay him? Or to keep him quiet? I mean, with Beals dead, nobody else has even seen Pablo-if he actually ever arrived.”

“I see,” Finch said. “Beals was someone you could depend on. Isn’t it possible that this cheater had someone watching his back who was in the room when Beals went inside?”

“I didn’t know he killed that girl,” Albert said. “Out on the Gardner plantation.”

“The girl yesterday?” Mulvane said, turning his eyes to exchange glances with White, who nodded.

White said, “The sheriff said so on the news a little while ago. They searched Beals’s house, according to my source at the department, and found the rifle used to kill the girl, and close to two hundred grand.”

“Where did Beals get that kind of money?” Mulvane asked immediately. “We don’t pay him anywhere near that much.”

“He might have inherited it, sold something, saved it up, I guess,” White said. “Maybe Pablo paid him that money for helping him.”

“But you can’t be sure it wasn’t stolen from us,” Pierce said. “I mean, if he was embezzling, that makes him appear more criminal and less like he could have been acting on our behalf, like he told that gambler. Right, Albert?”

“He was never alone with large sums of cash. None of my people are.” White seemed confident.

“Nobody pays that kind of money to a helper, not even a full partner,” Finch said.

Mulvane opened his hands expansively. Albert was being slow on the uptake. “Well, obviously he was stealing from us, which means he didn’t get paid to kill anybody, or anything that would need further looking into. We were victims too. Exactly how much money was found?”

“One hundred and eighty thousand, two hundred twenty dollars,” Albert said. “And he had an arsenal in that house. Like thirty guns.”

“Well,” Finch said, clapping his hands together. “I see we’re on the same page here. I’ll tell Herr Klein all of this when I see him. No sense bothering the man with details, is there? He’s not really interested in details, just the overall picture.”

“Of course not,” Pierce said. “Not at all.”

The blue and white restaurant, painted royal blue and white, was located on Highway 61. The Tunica County institution looked like a large roadside restaurant and gas station. Years before it had been a popular truck stop, but all that remained of that was the original cafe structure, the gas pumps long since removed. There was an L-shaped dining room, tables, and a series of booths against the open kitchen.

Brad waved at or made small talk with several diners before joining Winter and Alexa Keen at a corner table.

Brad said as he slid in, “I went over our missing-person files, and some of the people were supposedly headed here, or had called someone from here to say they’d won big. So it’s safe to assume Beals was using his casino job to target people like Scotoni. People he checked out. Maybe he killed them and disposed of their bodies. According to the IRS, four of the missing people paid taxes on winnings at the Roundtable.”

Winter said, “Beals was a security guard, so he would have needed a partner with access to information on the targets. He filmed them leaving, so I think he was off duty when they took their winnings out.”

“Could Styer have been his partner?” Alexa asked.

“I doubt it,” Winter said. “Robbery would be lower than bottom-feeding for him. Styer killed Beals, but Beals’s robbery operation wasn’t their connection. I think the Roundtable is connected to Styer’s presence, and the land Leigh owns has to be why Sherry is dead. Maybe Beals knew about Styer. It’s quite possible the casino wanted Beals killed, so Styer did it, tying Sherry’s murder to Beals so the trail ends there.”

“He knows you’ll know it’s him, but you won’t be able to tie him in officially,” Alexa said.

“The casino may have had Sherry killed as a message,” Brad said.

“Far as the FBI knows, the Roundtable is clean,” Alexa said.

“Doesn’t mean they’re clean,” Winter said.

Brad said, “Albert White knew we were talking about Scotoni and we never used his name. Not proof we can use. White left his job in West Memphis and took the casino position when RRI bought it. Beals went to work there three years ago.”

“Circumstantial at best,” Winter said. “Could be White and Beals were in cahoots, but it still isn’t enough for a search warrant on White’s place. What do we know about RRI?”

“RRI is owned by a German industrial family named Klein,” Alexa said. “Kurt Klein is the present CEO of Klein Industries, which owns RRI. Klein is a billionaire industrialist. RRI is his hobby.”

Winter looked around the room.

“A big-deal German would have access to Styer’s services. He may have brought in Styer to clear the way for the land acquisition. Maybe the purpose of killing Sherry was to put pressure on Jacob. And he killed Beals because Beals could identify him,” Alexa speculated.

Winter said, “Only thing I know is that whatever Styer’s up to, he’s not finished yet.”

“How can you be sure?” Brad asked.

“Because he hasn’t yet made an appearance before Winter,” Alexa said. “And that’s his bow before the curtain falls.”

The trio had finished eating when a slightly stooped white-haired man wearing a wide-brimmed felt hat and a bulky wool coat over a cardigan walked in, looked at their table, and made a beeline for it. A second man, about the same age but twenty pounds heavier, came in behind him.

“Looks like we’re about to have company,” Winter said. “Based on the pictures in your den, I’d say this is the famous Dr. Barnett.”

Brad turned and raised his chin in salute to his father, who was greeting diners as he made his way toward them. “The other man is his best friend, Woody Seiders. They grew up together. Woody is a fixture and a hell of a handyman. He oversees Daddy’s rental properties, keeps my yard straight, and plays nickel-dime poker with Dad and their buddies every other Monday night.”

Woody smiled and waved at Brad as the two men approached.

Brad stood and pulled out a chair beside him, which the doctor lowered himself into. Woody took a chair from a vacant table and sat at the corner to Dr. Barnett’s left.

“Alexa, Winter, this is my father, William Barnett, and Woody Seiders. Dad, Woody, meet Alexa Keen and Winter Massey.”

“Call me Will,” he said, shaking hands with Alexa and Winter. His handshake was firm, his hand warm, the skin loose, bones close to the surface. His bright gray eyes locked on Alexa’s. “My, what a delightful dinner companion you gentlemen have. Ms. Keen, you bring sunshine into an otherwise dreary evening. Is there a Mr. Keen?”

“Alexa,” she said, smiling.

“Cut the crap, Dad. You’re about forty years too late for her,” Brad said, shaking his head.

Woody guffawed. “Doc’s just window-shopping these days. Sex at his age would be like playing the drums with cooked spaghetti.”