John Miller - Smoke and Mirrors

When Leigh left the room, Winter, Alexa, and Brad were left alone with their thoughts.

“We shouldn’t have let him go. We could have helped,” Alexa said. “If he’d just listened to us.”

“Nobody could ever help Jacob Gardner,” Brad said. “He spent his life building fires for other people to put out. And he never told the truth unless he thought it was a lie. We have to concentrate on Cynthia.”

Winter figured that even a disaster of a man like Jacob Gardner deserved a better end than the one he got. Jacob’s death was no great loss to society, but it was a sin that Hamp’s last memory of his father would be of him punching his mother in the face and roaring off, with Hamp wishing him dead. He would always feel a sense of guilt over it, and nothing anybody said or did could change that. As a young man, Winter had often wished his own father dead, before he actually died from an esophageal hemorrhage in his rented room while the drunk barfly he was sleeping with was passed out ten feet away. No matter how much he had despised James Massey, he always carried a sense of guilt for hating him.

“Jacob got three calls from Cyn’s phone since she’s been gone,” Brad told Alexa, handing her Jacob’s cell phone so she could see for herself.

“And one is a text message.” She handed the phone to Winter so he could read it.

“It’s from Styer,” Winter said.

“How do you know?” Alexa asked.

“He signed it. The message he sent is ‘PS I said no cops. No FBI grab experts!’”

“PS where there’s no reason for a postscript. PS for Paulus Styer,” she said. “And ‘n.o. cops.’”

Winter said, “The word ‘no’ has periods after the ‘n’ and the ‘o.’ That took effort and it was done on purpose.”

“New Orleans,” Alexa said.

“It’s a relief,” Winter said.

“Why is that a relief?” Brad said. “The man is a psychopath.”

Winter said, “Styer plans, and if he took her it’s part of his overall scheme. He has either already killed her, or he won’t unless and until it suits his purpose. If he hasn’t killed her, Mulvane should have called him off by now, and we’ll get her back. Styer figured I’d see the text message and know it was him.”

“With Jacob gone, Mulvane’s rid of his most immediate threat-a witness. The question is, what is his next move?” Brad asked Winter.

“Mulvane has to get the land deal done fast. If he hasn’t leveled with Klein and has to have the land-or this casino resort is dead in the water-then Sherry’s death and Cynthia’s grab make more sense.”

Leigh walked in, her face, except for the bruise, blanched. “I told Hamp his father was killed in a wreck. I didn’t mention murder.”

“Leigh, do you have extended family?” Winter asked. “Uncles, aunts, cousins?”

“On my father’s side. I have an uncle and an aunt in Nashville. Another aunt in Miami. Six cousins.”

“Are you close?” Winter asked.

“It’s one of those bad blood situations. They’re embittered over the fact that my father ended up with the plantation because he was the only one in the bunch who worked the land. They were already off spending my grandfather’s money long before he died. My grandfather left the land to Daddy and a lump sum to each for the accident of their births. That was over forty years ago, and they still think they got screwed.”

“If they owned it, would they sell the plantation for a large profit if anything happened to you and the children?” Winter asked, knowing the answer.

“In a New York minute,” she said. She gave him a curious look. “But the children would inherit everything.”

Winter nodded. “Temporarily. And if something happened to them?”

“My aunts and uncle wouldn’t be knowingly involved in a plot to kill us. They aren’t the sort of people who would do that.”

“We’re talking millions of dollars, Leigh,” Brad said. “The plantation alone is worth several million. Not to mention the woodland and the land Mulvane wants.”

“Do you think Mulvane has already talked to them?” Leigh asked.

Alexa said, “He couldn’t very well tell them what he was thinking. But I bet he’s aware they’d sell. He could tell them he’d offered you the deal and you accepted. They aren’t farmers. They feel they’re owed. Most people would cash out under those circumstances.”

“It would be just like Jacob to have told Mulvane about them,” Leigh said.

“I’m working on the best way to handle it,” Winter said. “I’m leaning toward going over Mulvane’s head.”

Winter hoped that Mulvane would want to call Styer off, but Winter had a feeling that Styer’s game was only going to be a part of Mulvane’s plan as long as it served his own.

Pierce Mulvane tapped at the door to VIP suite 825. Kurt Klein’s security man, Finch, answered the door. Behind him the elderly German, wearing a silk robe and slippers, stood waiting in the sunken living room. “Come in, Pierce.”

Finch closed the door. “Please raise your hands, Mr. Mulvane.”

“Do you think Pierce means to do me harm, Steffan?”

“Sorry, sir,” Finch said. “There are security procedure’s in place for a reason. Would you like me to suspend them?”

“I can’t tell you not to do your job,” Klein said, shrugging.

Finch searched Mulvane by moving his hands up and down his frame, then gently but firmly into Pierce’s genitals as well as the crack between his buttocks. After Finch moved back, satisfied, Mulvane’s boxer shorts remained inside the crevasse.

“No problem,” Pierce said, as cheerily as he could. “We must all follow rules.”

“Without following rules, we are no better than animals,” Kurt agreed, with barely a trace of his native German accent. The son of a prominent industrialist, Kurt had graduated from Harvard with an international law degree. During WWII, the Klein factories had made vehicles and military equipment for the German army. After a few years in jail after the war, Kurt’s father had gone right back to it, manufacturing toasters, stoves, train cars, buses, and treaded earth-moving equipment instead of Tiger tanks. Kurt had taken over the Klein businesses some thirty years earlier, and had expanded and diversified until the family name was once again synonymous with goods made from German steel that performed as they were supposed to.

Kurt Klein’s easy smile was as disarming as the eyes of a baby seal. But beneath the polished exterior and gentle demeanor, he was as ruthless as a WWII SS Special Action Unit commander.

“I hope your accommodations are suitable,” Pierce said.

“Quite so, Pierce, my old friend. It is a pleasure for me to be here in your temporary palace,” he said, emphasizing the adjective. “This little Disney World.”

“‘Temporary’ is the right word,” Pierce said.

“Steffan, you may leave us,” Kurt said.

Finch walked to the kitchen and waited with his back to the cabinet, watching, but out of earshot.

“Please, sit,” Kurt said after he had taken a place on the sleek leather sofa.

Pierce sat and crossed his legs to reflect a casualness he didn’t feel.

“Fill me in on the River Royale.”

“Well, Herr Klein, I regret that I have some unpleasant news on that front. Well, not unpleasant, because it is going to be handled, but I seek your advice on a matter or two. You have experience with such complexities. I know this is a small venture for you.”

“Every one of my businesses is as important to me as any other.” Klein’s soft eyes hardened and the smile changed into one that filled Pierce’s veins with ice water. “I’m listening. Please make this business discussion as quickly to the point as possible. This is supposed to be an inspection trip for me. No sugar coating, Pierce.”