Читать книгу Stand Down - Don Pendleton - Страница 9

As soon as the rest of the young men heard the siren, they pulled away from Bolan, leaving him none the worse for wear. He noticed Everado’s expression turn dark at seeing the car, and the young man muttered a curse under his breath.

The approaching sheriff’s cruiser came to a stop in the parking lot, and a Hispanic deputy got out of the car. Bolan eyed the newcomer warily. Even with his mirrored aviator shades on, he resembled the youth close enough to be a relation, which meant the situation could turn bad really fast. The man slung a nightstick into the holder at his side, then took his flat-brimmed hat from the seat beside him and put it on before walking over.

He nodded at Bolan. “Sir.” Then he turned his attention to Everado and the rest of his boys, all of whom were looking anywhere but at the two men. “Everado, what’s going on here?”

The young man stared at Bolan for a moment, then looked away to spit on the ground. “Nothing—sir.”

“Got an anonymous tip of a fight going down in the parking lot at Rollins’s place. Now you boys wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

The group all muttered negative replies.

The deputy turned to Bolan. “Sir, was there any sort of altercation here that you’d like to report?”

Everado spoke up then, “But, Rojas—”

The deputy turned his mirrored sunglasses on the young man, causing his words to die in his throat. He turned back to Bolan. “Sir, you are?”

“Matt Cooper.”

The deputy didn’t write it down, but Bolan was more than willing to bet he’d made a note of it. “Again, did anything go on here that you would care to report?”

“No, thanks. I just thought I saw a misunderstanding, and had come out to see if there was anything I could do to help.”

“That what happened, Everado?”

The young man had turned from hard case to indignant to sullen in the span of a minute. He nodded. “Yeah.”

“All right, then. Glad to know you boys aren’t causing trouble.” The deputy leaned over to spot the girl against the convertible. “Connie? I’m sure school isn’t over till the end of the month.”

The girl rolled her eyes and stared off into the distance.

The deputy’s voice turned steel-hard. “Come over here, girl.”

She stared at him, then slowly walked over. Everado’s mouth opened as if he was about to say something, but the deputy turned his gaze back on the young man, and he shut it with a snap.

Connie stood in front of him. “What?”

The man nodded toward his cruiser. “Get in. I’ll take you back to school.”

Like her boyfriend, Connie was about to try to argue, but the lithe deputy’s stance made it clear he wouldn’t be having any of it. “Goddamn it,” she muttered as she stamped around the cruiser to the passenger side and got in, slamming the door closed.

The deputy turned to the group of young men. “And I better not get any more reports with any of your names in them, else I’m coming after all of you, you hear? Now you all get gone.”

Casting resentful looks back at Bolan, who had just stood and watched the whole affair, the youths got into the Mercedes-Benz. Everado started the car and backed out, then drove sedately off.

Deputy Quintanar—Bolan caught his name tag as he turned—watched until the youths were out of sight, then turned back to Bolan. “On behalf of the rest of the folks here in Quincyville, I’d like to apologize for what happened. They’re what passes for the resident hell-raisers around here, and have to be reined in now and again.”

Bolan nodded. “Boys will be boys, and all that.”

Quintanar cocked his head. “No, not quite. I imagine his father will be talking with him about this very soon. You know how small towns are—nothing’s ever really private.”

“I guess so.”

“Hope you enjoy the rest of your time here.” The deputy turned to go back to his car.

“Oh, Deputy…” Bolan waited until the man had turned half around before continuing. “It’s probably none of my business, but I noticed the large house on the hill with the police tape around it. I’m kind of an amateur crime buff. Can you tell me what happened over there?”

Deputy Quintanar stared at him for a few seconds before walking back over. “I hope you won’t misunderstand my response, Mr. Cooper, but you’re right—it is none of your business. However, if you must know, one of our most prominent citizens and his wife were shot and killed last night. We’re going to find whoever did it, don’t you worry. Now, why don’t you go back inside and enjoy the rest of your meal?”

“Suppose I’ll do just that. Thanks.” Bolan walked back to the diner door and turned to watch the cruiser pull away. Walking back inside, he was surprised to be greeted by a smattering of applause, started by Elaine behind the counter, then spreading throughout the place. Bolan noticed several men who didn’t join in the accolade, either glaring at him or averting their gaze altogether. He understood how they felt—although he wasn’t sure whether they were jealous of it or embarrassed that they hadn’t stepped up—but he wasn’t thrilled with the reception, either. Waving a hand halfheartedly at everyone, he went to his stool and waved Elaine over. “Thought I might finish my lunch.”

“Damn straight you will—on the house. Luke, another blue-plate special!” A few minutes later a heaping plate filled with enough food to choke a grizzly bear appeared in front of him. Bolan eyed the platter, then looked up at Elaine, who stared at him expectantly. “Dig in, honey.”

“I’ll try.” Bolan did just that. The stares and whispers didn’t take the edge off his appetite, and he made a good dent in the double portion of everything before calling it a day. Slipping the fifty out of his pocket, he tucked it under the plate, but before he could remove his hand, the waitress cleared her throat.

“I said your meal was on the house.”

Bolan flashed her an easy smile. “And I thank you, it was delicious. This tip is from Everado and his boys. Make sure the busboy and their waitress get their share, will you?”

Elaine’s mouth dropped at the denomination before she swept it into her pocket. “I most certainly will. You stop by here any time.”

“I will, thanks.” Bolan walked out into the afternoon sun and looked down the street, half expecting to see the punks in their convertible lying in wait for him as he left the parking lot. He looked around at all of the clean, neat buildings and people going about their business. Everything seemed normal.

Maybe that was it—everything seemed almost too nor mal.

Bolan checked his watch. If he was going to hit Chicago today, he should have already been on the road. Still…

He got into his rental vehicle and pulled out his smart-phone, running a quick internet search to find the information he was looking for. Starting the Caddy, he drove to the main intersection of town, then turned right and drove another half mile before pulling into the parking lot of the Quincyville Gazette.

Getting out, he walked past a vending machine with the latest issue in it—the cover story was about the latest round of crop subsidies being voted on in the state legislature. Stepping through the front door of the A-frame building, Bolan walked up to a long counter with a plump, young, bottle-blonde woman behind it. “Can I help you?”

“Yes, I was wondering if you had your back issues on computer file or microfilm?”

“The library would be more likely to help you with those kinds of records. May I ask what you’re looking for?”

“Sure, my name’s Matt Cooper, I’m a freelance stringer for the Capitol Journal. I’d heard there was a double homicide here in town recently, and decided to come out and see if I could get the story.”

While he talked, the receptionist’s face went from curiosity to confusion to concern. “Would you wait here for a moment? I’m going to get someone to help you.”

“All right.” Bolan cooled his heels in the reception area for less than a minute. The receptionist hustled back out with an attractive brunette woman in her mid-to late-thirties.

“This is the gentleman I told you about.”

The older woman held out her hand. “Casey Hinder, editor-in-chief.”

Bolan introduced himself again using the Cooper alias. “Perhaps there’s somewhere we can talk more privately?”

“Absolutely, why don’t you come back into my office?” She led him behind the counter, past a cluster of fabric-walled cubicles, some empty, others occupied by employees. At the back of the large room was a row of offices. Casey ushered Bolan into the corner one, which was slightly larger than the others.

“Have a seat.” Bolan did so while Casey closed the door and crossed around the back of the desk, sitting in an old wooden-backed chair. “Okay, buddy, who the hell are you really?”

Bolan frowned. “I told you, I’m—”

She held up her hands. “Save it, there’s no way you’re a stringer for the Topeka CJ. Mainly because this ‘story’ hasn’t even gone out over the wire, so there’s no way you’re from that paper, as they don’t even know about it yet. Then I get a call about a dark-haired man resembling your general description who goes toe-to-toe with Everado De Cavallos this afternoon and walks away in one piece.”

Bolan smiled. “Deputy Quintanar had something to do with that.”

The journalist shook her head. “Whatever. Look, my source—who knows what they’re talking about—says it looked like you were about to mop the floor with them. I may be the editor-in-chief, but I had my share of bylines before I reached this desk, and it doesn’t take much to figure this one out.”

“I don’t think your source saw the same conversation I had with Everado.” Bolan leaned back in his chair. “All right, I’ll level with you. I’m a freelance journalist on my way back from a convention in Las Vegas. I stopped in for lunch at the diner, heard about the double homicide and thought I might be able to get a story out of it.”

Casey’s slim eyebrow rose. “A freelance journalist?”

Bolan nodded.

“Driving a brand-new Cadillac?”

“Rental. You wouldn’t believe how many frequent flyer points I’ve racked up on my credit cards.”

“Pardon my bluntness, but you look way too fit to be a stringer.”

Bolan smiled again. “Thanks for noticing—I try to keep fit.”

His implication hit the editor after a moment, and she colored slightly. “Hmph.” She studied him for a long minute. Bolan returned her frank, green-eyed gaze with his own pair of vibrant blues, not saying a word. “You got some kind of press pass, online clippings, website, anything?”

Bolan shook his head. “Not anything recent. Website got hacked by the Chinese in retaliation for a piece I did on the tongs last year. Even I can’t access it without getting spammed with a thousand pop-ups for ‘enhancement’ products. Even passed out all my business cards in Vegas.”

“Yes, how convenient.” Casey rested her elbows on the desk. “All right, I’ll give you what I know, on one condition—you give me twenty-four hours to break the story first, all right?”

“Sure, I’d have to sell it first anyway, so no problem.”

Blinking in surprise at having won so easily, Casey recovered and leaned back in her chair. “The decedents are Jack and Sandra Bitterman. Jack was basically the town lawyer. He handled just about everyone’s business here. He also was the main factor behind Cristobal locating their first North American laboratory here. Once they arrived, he served as legal counsel for the company in its dealings with the township.”

“Yeah, I’ve been researching them since I got here. Seems like an unusual place to locate a state-of-the-art facility, don’t you think?”

Casey had slipped on a pair of tortoiseshell glasses and regarded Bolan over the rims. “That question’s been asked many times before, and the heads of the facility say they wanted a place where it was peaceful and quiet. No doubt the tax break package Jack lined up with the state government had something to do with it as well.”

Bolan had been doing an internet search again, and held up his smart-phone. “This victims?” He’d located a picture of the family, a man, woman and teenage girl, who looking to be about seventeen years old, posing at some kind of county fair next to a blue-ribbon science project.

“Yeah, that’s Sandra, Jack and Kelly…” Casey’s voice trailed off.

Bolan asked the obvious question. “Where is the daughter now?”

Casey stared at him as if he’d just sprouted wings. “Oh my God, just fire me already… The sheriff’s department hasn’t mentioned a single word about her yet.”

“So she’s still out there somewhere, yet from what you just said, the sheriff hasn’t put out an Amber Alert for a missing teenager, or sent out any sort of BOLO announcement yet.”

Casey’s expression had gone from disgust for not seeing the connection to uncomfortable at Bolan’s comments. Before she could reply, her desk phone rang. “Excuse me, will you?”

She picked up the phone. “Hinder, editor’s desk…yes, Principal, how can I help you?…she was where?…Yes…I’ll be right over to discuss it with you…thank you.”

She slammed down the phone, then looked up with haunted eyes. “Do you have any children, Mr. Cooper?”

Bolan shook his head. “Haven’t found the right opportunity yet.”

“Well, if you ever decide to take that particular plunge, think long and hard about it before you do—they’re equal parts heaven and hell, but my daughter seems to be leaning toward the latter recently.”

“Let me guess—she was caught skipping school and brought there by a Deputy Quintanar, right?”

Casey had been rising from her chair while Bolan talked, but stopped halfway to the door, her mouth open. “How’d you know that?”

“She was at the diner when I ran into Everado. Matter of fact, she was with Everado—”

Casey cut Bolan off before he could finish. “Goddamn it all to hell! I told her to stay away from him! Nothing good’s gonna come from her hangin’ out with any of them. Sorry to cut this short, but I gotta go.” She handed him a card. “If you need anything else, you know where to find me.”

“That I do. Thanks for your assistance, and good luck with your daughter.” Bolan rose and got the door for Casey.

“I’ll need more than luck to deal with her today.” They both walked into the bullpen to see Deputy Quintanar talking with the receptionist. He looked up to see Casey and Bolan together, and his brow furrowed in puzzlement before he smoothed his expression over while waiting for them to approach.

“Ms. Hinder, I was wondering if you had a few minutes.”

“Sorry, Rojas, but I got a problem I have to take care of first. Maybe we can catch up later this afternoon?”

“That would be fine. I’ll check in with you later.” He kept an eye on Bolan as Casey ran out of the building. “You’re certainly taking an interest in our little town, Mr. Cooper.”

Bolan nodded. “I’ve been looking for a place to settle down for the past few months, somewhere quiet, peaceful. I thought Quincyville might be just the town I’ve been looking for. I was asking Ms. Hinder about local businesses that might be hiring and properties available for rent or sale.”

The deputy digested this story for a moment. “Quincyville is always glad to have new folks settle down here. It’s a good place to raise a family. What line of work are you in?”

In for a penny, in for a pound, Bolan thought. “Private security. I used to work for Blackwater, but got out before the government stuck its nose in too far. Times have been a bit tight lately. That’s why I was looking into local businesses. Right now I’m into whoever can give me a steady paycheck.”

His reply seemed to relax the deputy somewhat. “Interesting. If you do decide to call Quincyville home, perhaps you and I should talk again. It’s possible I could recommend you to our company as a security specialist.”

Bolan frowned. “Our company? I thought you worked for the state?”

Quintanar’s frown matched his for a second, then he smiled. “That’s true, but all of us here in Quincyville are very proud of what Cristobal has done for the town. I hope you’ll excuse our possessiveness.”

Bolan nodded with what he hoped looked like relief. “Doesn’t matter much to me, as long as the pay’s steady. Any word you could put in would be great, although I wouldn’t expect you to have much trouble out here.”

“You’d be surprised. There are always problems that need attention in the pharmaceutical business—corporate espionage, product transfer security, even bodyguarding our senior officials when they travel outside the U.S. A man with the right experience could prove to be very useful.”

“I’d appreciate the opportunity to talk with your superiors if possible. Truth be told, except for that Caddy outside, my pockets are a bit on the light side at the moment. If I decide to stick around, I’ll be in touch.”

The deputy tipped his hat. “Hope you do. I’ll see you around.” He pushed the door open, holding it for Bolan to follow him out, then headed for his cruiser. Bolan watched him leave before getting into his own car and hitting the speed-dial for Stony Man Farm.

“Hey, Striker, looks like I win my bet with Hal.” The cheerful voice of Aaron “the Bear” Kurtzman sounded in his ear. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to go more than twelve hours before checking in.”

“I was thinking the same thing about you guys,” Bolan said dryly.

“So how’s the road trip going?”

“Funny you should ask. I’ve run into a bit of a detour in a town called Quincyville, in Kansas.”

“What’s going on out there?”

“I’m not quite sure yet. If you’re only tackling the usual three or four things at the moment, can you check the national law-enforcement databases for information on a double homicide involving an attorney named Jack Bitterman?”

“He the vic?”

“Yeah, apparently he and his wife were both killed sometime yesterday.”

“Okay, just a sec.” Bolan heard Kurtzman’s fingers flying over his keyboard. Stony Man Farm intelligence-gathering apparatus was unrivaled by any other organization in the world, and Kurtzman was the brains behind making it all work. After a few seconds, the analyst spoke up. “I got nothing on local, state or regional DBs. No bulletins or anything. You didn’t have anything to do with this, did you?”

“No, but the local sheriff’s department is keeping it on the QT, which seems really strange. Do me a favor and have Akira place a cover file for Matt Cooper setting him up as an ex-field employee of Blackwater, let go in the recent past under questionable circumstances. Tag any inquiries originating from Quincyville ISPs and trace them back to their source host.”

“We’re on it. You looking for a good or bad jacket?”

“Make it gray—charges brought but nothing proved. Prioritize that one. I have a feeling someone’s going to be checking out my background very quickly. That reminds me, ‘Matt Cooper’s’ last mission was as a DOJ agent. Delete that file. I don’t want this guy stumbling across that jacket while searching for my other fake identity. If anyone needs to check my DOJ affiliation, I’ll have them make a call.”

“I’m on it. Anything else?”

“Yeah, do a search on cell phone records for a Kelly Bitterman. That’s their daughter, who’s been missing since yesterday, and hasn’t been found yet. Two more things. First, get me a jacket on a deputy out here named Quintanar.” Bolan spelled the name as he recalled it from the deputy’s nameplate. “First name Rojas.”

Kurtzman’s fingers sounded like they were moving so fast, Bolan could have sworn he smelled plastic melting. “Got it. What’s the second?”

“There’s a company in town named Cristobal Pharmaceuticals. They seem to be a big player here. What can you tell me about them?”

Bolan heard more tapping. “I can send you their most recent quarterly statement if you’d like. Let’s see… Founded in 1987 in Veracruz. Originally known as a health-food company, selling herbal supplements and the like. Bought out in 2004 by Cristobal Enterprises out of Maracaibo, Venezuela, which renamed itself the Cristobal Pharmaceutical Company. They built their U.S. headquarters in 2006 in Quincyville, Kansas. No initial ties to criminal organizations that I can find, however, it seems Cristobal, no matter how it’s been reinvented, has a rather tangled past. It’s been passed around several South American holding companies like a hot potato. Want me to keep digging?”

“Absolutely. And let me know when you’ve accessed Kelly’s phone records. I want to know if she’s contacted anyone in the past twelve hours.”

“You got it. Hey, if Hal calls for you, what should I tell him?”

Bolan’s mouth quirked up in a half smile. “Tell him I’m doing a little house hunting in Kansas.”