SANDSTORM (RICK SANDS SUSPENSE NOVELS Book 2) Page 5

  "I grew up there, Tom," King said, observing that the liquor and wine appeared to have gotten to the older man.

  "Humor me. OAD - old agent disease - constructing theories to fit the crime."

  "Be my guest." King had listened to many such lectures in his law enforcement career, usually from white cops after they consumed too much alcohol.

  "Segregation created a legally and economically powerless minority that could be and was exploited by the white power structure. If you can't vote and you can't sit on a jury, you are at the mercy of those who control the system. Harrison challenged all that. He was a war hero. He returned home with the ability, drive, and skill to become a successful businessman. No question that he was a top notch mechanic, not a bad thing to be in the era of cheap gas and big cars, all made in Detroit. The Klan was made-to-order by the white power structure as a means of terrorizing the black community everywhere in the South including Florida. The power structure used the Klan to threaten Harrison and then to murder him."

  King had to admit that Ryan had raised a problematic issue - had the Klan been a tool of the Establishment or had the Klan acted on its own volition?

  "What if the Klan was the power structure?" King asked. "Let's assume all those Klan guys are either dead or sitting in nursing homes drooling on their white hoods and white supremacy manifestos. Why would anyone in power now care whether the Harrison case was reopened?"

  "They care!" Ryan exclaimed, his voice too loud in the quiet dining room. "The people who got rich because of Jim Crow had children who built upon that wealth. They're in power now. Politicians are controlled by more than money: real power is rooted in the past. I'd be willing to bet you another bottle of this wine - excellent, by the way - that the families that controlled north Florida in the 40's and 50's still control it. Only now the sons and daughters of those Klan killers will do anything to avoid having their good names destroyed by revealing that Daddy was a cross-burning lyncher of an African-American war hero."

  None of this was news to King. Like everyone who worked for a time in the criminal justice system, he had learned that law and local political power go hand in hand, and that the power almost always resided in certain families, usually ones that had at least two generations behind them in their community. The State Attorney's office, King knew, was filled with the sons and daughters of state and federal officials. Many of them would eventually occupy political office or judgeships at the county, state, or federal level. While a few black judges now occupied the bench in north Florida, they were still a rarity, and given the history of segregation, unless they had moved there from outside the South, few, if any, had parents who had been lawyers, let alone judges.

  "I get all that," King said. "Where I hit the wall is your conclusion - that these sons or daughters of the Klan guys would be willing to kill to cover up a racial murder committed fifty years ago. After all, you said the sheriff is now ninety. So we're talking about children who are probably 60 if not older - back then lots of people got married right out of high school. I can't see a 60 year old plotting to murder someone like, say, Karen Smith."

  Ryan drained his martini.

  "Hate to say it, Ty, but you're naïve. People in power will do whatever it takes to keep it. Look at J.Edgar, for heaven's sake. He was a freak, but deep down he was no different than ninety per cent of the politicians in Washington. If he had lived to be two hundred, he'd still be running the FBI."

  "Karen Smith was certainly scared to death someone would come after her."

  "I used to be. And you ought to be."

  King let that one sink in. In focusing on Plessy, was he underestimating the danger from the Klan side? He mulled it over as they finished their deserts.

  "The hotel has a great cigar bar," Ryan said. "Care to join me - this one's on me."

  "Sounds great."

  King signed the check to his hotel room and they went through the lobby to the cigar bar on the other side of the hotel. They found two leather chairs facing one another over a small table and ordered aperitifs and cigars. The bar was barely lit, and occupied solely by other men, clustered in small groups, smoking, drinking and talking. A young waitress with blond hair brought them their drinks and cigars. They lit up and sat in silence, savoring the cigars and the liquor.

  "So," Ryan said, breaking the silence, "You've got the children - or grandchildren - of the killers on one side, silent and hoping the past will stay buried. Who's on the other side? Who hired you to look into this?"

  Sparing no details, King related the events that began with the bombing of the construction site.

  "Why do you think Plessy picked you?"

  "I don't think he did. Either he came to us because we represented Peninsula, or he had some reason to contact my partner. I don't think he knows me at all."

  Ryan shook his head. "I don't buy it. He must have had you in mind. And not just because you're black. He must know you from somewhere. Your partner, God bless him, may be the best trial lawyer in north Florida. But Plessy, whoever he is, changed the game from money to his own personal crusade. He wanted a special person to do the investigating. You're his sword, Ty, not your partner."

  "Not a pleasant thought."

  "One thing to remember about psychopaths - they want to win. Plessy believes he's on the path of the righteous, and he picked you because he believes you have the best chance of solving the case."

  "Do you think Plessy's black?"

  "That would be the most obvious conclusion. And no doubt that's the view the feds will take. A black professional hell bent on revenge." Ryan puffed on his cigar and King felt his eyes studying him.

  I know what's coming next, King thought.

  "I wouldn't be surprised if the feds target you as their prime suspect. In fact," Ryan leaned forward, "the people we're talking about have probably already contacted the U.S. Attorney and pressured him to open a Grand Jury investigation of you and your partner. I don't need to tell you - an investigation, by itself, even if it leads nowhere, can destroy your reputation and your career."

  So true, King thought. Few people outside the criminal justice system realized the power to destroy lives that rested with prosecutors. If a Grand Jury was convened, and subpoenas issued, those in power knew full well that suspicion would spread throughout the community like poison through a victim's veins, forever tarnishing the target's reputation whether or not an indictment ever resulted.

  "So, the Feds' theory will be that I'm writing the letters and using my partner as my dupe. How clever of me."

  "Just be prepared for it."

  "What do you think the profilers would say?"

  Ryan scoffed out loud. "Don't tell me you buy into the Hollywood version of profiling?"

  "I was long gone from the Bureau before profiling became a thing. And we didn't use them when I was in the State Attorney's office."

  "I'm a buff," Ryan said.

  "I've got all night."

  Ryan ordered another drink and lit up a second cigar. When he had the new drink in hand, he began talking again.

  "Profiling is a legitimate tool, but it's not the get into the mind of the killer nonsense that Hollywood has sold to the public. Profilers look at the way the crime is committed and try to draw inferences from the behavior of the killer. It's all based on behavior, not mind reading."

  "Plessy hasn't killed anyone."

  "That you or anyone else knows of. But assume you're right. I'd still bet he's a classic psychopath."

  "What does that mean, anyway?"

  "We have defined it as a diagnosis. Viewing it as such, gives us a way to study it objectively."

  "Who's we?"

  "Retirement involves filling a lot of hours. I'd go out of my mind, or become a drunk, if all I did was play golf. Got to have something to keep you alive mentally. For me, profiling is my hobby. I go to conferences, keep in touch with people around the country. Shall I go on?"

  "Fire away."

  "First, not all psychop
aths are alike. They cover the spectrum from genius to idiot. Some are drawn to positions of power. And, they know right from wrong. Their disease just makes it easier for them to commit crimes." Ryan lowered his voice. "What you might have here is a psychopathic couple."

  "A couple as in sexually together?"

  "Not necessarily. At least not overtly. But they're still getting off on their crimes. A bombing is an obvious climax."

  "We're assuming one is a lawyer. We have to figure out how he and the bomber met."

  "Forgive me for stating the obvious, but I vote for in the system. But there have been cases where the couple meets as children or teens. For the relationship to survive into adulthood, one of the two will establish themselves as the leader and the other the follower. They may have complimentary needs. Here, the lawyer would be the social one. His profession thrives on glib and superficial charm and a grandiose sense of self. Also, the ability to lie to someone's face convincingly, and the ability to manipulate."

  "Those are personality traits of most of the successful trial lawyers I know."

  "Including your partner?"

  "Only when he's in the courtroom."

  "Psychopaths don't accept boundaries. Anyway, that's Plessy. Now, the other half of the couple, Rebel. The bomb maker. He will have high intelligence, but not necessarily verbal. He could be learning disabled, but with over-the-top mechanical, technical skills. He's impulsive, has poor behavior control, needs thrills, and most likely has had other run-ins with the law. Juvenile arrests and so forth. He will hate and despise authority, with one exception - Plessy. Somehow, when their adult bond was forged, Rebel allowed himself to become Plessy's Robin without sacrificing his self-image."

  "Or Plessy manipulated him into it."

  "He may have at the beginning, but for it to continue into adulthood at some point Rebel had to convince himself that Plessy was his boss."

  "If we're talking Viet-Nam era, there were lots of guys between eighteen and thirty who were given the choice of jail or the military," King said.

  "Where Rebel went from being an amateur who liked to blow up home made pipe bombs to a professional who learned to use sophisticated explosives."

  "Keep going."

  "If you ever get to interview Plessy, he'll talk only about himself. Psychopaths will consider the consequences of their violent acts, and go ahead and do them anyway. Plessy sounds like he'll even be self-righteous about any murders he does commit. He provides Rebel with direction, a purpose. In return, Rebel enables him to use violence to achieve his grandiose goals."

  "They haven't killed anyone, yet."

  "It's only a matter of time."

  "Wonderful." King suddenly felt exhausted. All his energy seemed to have drained away and he suppressed a yawn. "Jet lag must be getting to me."

  Ryan glanced at his watch. "Way past my bedtime."

  "I hear you." King doubted that this was true - Ryan struck him as someone who could keep going all night. But he was grateful for the exit line.

  King walked Ryan through the lobby and stopped at the door.

  "It's been real," Ryan said.

  King nodded. "Thanks, Tom. You given me some great intel."

  "Nothing you wouldn't have figured out on your own. Good luck in the hunt."

  "Thanks, I'll need it."

  King shook hands with Ryan and then watched him quickly disappear into the night; there were few streetlights and the darkness was profound. King hadn't expected Ryan to give him contact information. Ex-law enforcement types were a strange breed. Most just wanted to be left alone. Ryan had been unusually candid with him. He had nothing more to say that could help King solve the Harrison lynching. There was no reason to continue the relationship.

  Chapter Seven

  "Think there's anything significant about the motel he picked?" Jane asked.

  "Who knows?" Sands said. "No doubt Plessy thinks it means something."

  Huge cumulus clouds floated overhead, blocking the sun at brief intervals, casting pools of shadow across the sea, the sand, and the road. With the morning breeze cutting across the open car, it was a perfect day for a drive up the coast. Perfect except that they were following Plessy's instructions.

  The day after receiving Plessy's second demand letter Sands had found yet another letter taped to his apartment mailbox, directing him to drop off a progress report at the Blue Wave Motor Inn, a notorious hot sheet motel that rented rooms by the hour. Though they still had time, and King would not be back from Arizona until the next day, they had decided to go ahead and deliver a brief summary of King's information - with the conclusion that the case was simply not solvable and there was nothing else they could do. The alternative, pointing the finger, without proof, at a sheriff who may or may not have been involved in the lynching - someone Plessy knew about anyhow - would be to set themselves up as accessories to murder, should Plessy decide to kill the sheriff just because Tom Ryan believed he had covered up the crime.

  As they drove along the ocean the Ormond Pier came into view, jutting out into the Atlantic. Shortly after the office coup that ended his career as a prosecutor, Sands had obtained a license to carry a gun. He had been involved in a shooting on the pier and one of his assailants was still at large. Thereafter, at Ty's urging, he had given up carrying a weapon. Without explanation, Ty had assured him that he no longer had anything to fear from his assailant. Sands knew he could rely on Ty's assurance; but he also knew that he could not ask for an explanation. Ty had made it clear to Sands early on in their professional relationship that he would always tell Sands whatever he needed to know - without being asked. It had still been difficult for Sands to let the gun go. He had realized that his career as a prosecutor had made him paranoid, and carrying a gun was like an anti-anxiety medication.

  They passed the Pier just as a gigantic cloud appeared to detach itself from the sun, releasing a cascade of light onto the surface of the Atlantic. The pylons extending upward to the pier from the water looked to Sands as though they had been set on fire by the sunburst. He wished that he could have snapped a photo of Jane at that moment; with the pier directly behind her, the light seemed to reflect off the sea and surround her face in its golden halo. The image reminded Sands of an Italian Renaissance portrait.

  "What?" she asked, as he stared at her.

  "You're beautiful," he said.

  She shook her head in disbelief. "You must be blind."

  "No I'm not." He drove onto the shoulder and stopped, then drew her close, and kissed her. The kiss deepened until it could go no deeper and slowly they let each other go. They stared at each other.

  Jane patted his hand. "We can't stay here all day, my love."

  "Just call me that one more time."

  "You're killing me! This is too intense. I'm too old for this!"

  "Bull. I want this to go on for the rest of our lives."

  "It will, my love. I promise. But now we have to make our delivery."

  Once they were past the pier, the large condo towers and hotels vanished, replaced by small motels and an occasional private house, most of them familiar to Sands as having been built in the late forties or early fifties. Looking at them stirred a stream of visual memories from his childhood, when Sam and Esther would drive him and his sister on this road to Marineland, with a stop for dinner at a local seafood restaurant, Quick & Tasty, on the way home. Somehow his mind retained vivid images, even the taste and smell of the fried shrimp and hushpuppies at that restaurant, the best, at least in memory, he had ever eaten.

  Jane poked him. "What? I can see that you're thinking about something."

  "Flashback. Memories of coming up this way with Sara and my parents. My Dad was still in his thirties. They were so young and happy."

  "This dying business is tough."

  Sands nodded. "As the writer said, each of us owes a death."

  "Let me guess - Hemingway?"

  "Sorry. I'm way too predictable."

  "Not for me. If you wer
e quoting rap lyrics, I'd jump out of the car."

  "I'll try to come up with some Shakespeare next time."

  "I like Hem just fine."

  "The feministas will excommunicate you."

  "There are worse fates."

  "Let's hope Plessy doesn't decide to prove that to us after he reads our so called report."

  Jane gestured to their left. "There it is."

  About fifty yards ahead, across the road, was the motel, with a flashing blue neon sign. He slowed and cut across the highway into the Blue Wave's parking lot. It was a stucco building, two stories, with the back of the rooms facing the parking lot on both levels. Most of the parking places were filled and the curtains were closed on all but one of the rooms.

  "Busy day," Jane said.

  "Must be the ocean view that packs them in."

  Like many motels from the fifties, this one had a registration office at one end of the structure with an entrance under a canopy. Sands left Jane in the car with the motor running and went through the electronically opened sliding doors. The lobby was small, with just enough space for a couple of chairs and a coffee service. Tucked away in the corner Sands saw a doorway that led into a bar. A woman in her 70's sat behind the registration desk.

  "What can I do for you, today?" she asked.

  "I have an envelope for Plessy." He held it out.

  Without comment, she extended her hand and took it, and then in one motion secreted it behind the counter. She glanced out at the car.

  "You and the lady want a room? Got one left is all."

  "No thanks."

  "Well?" Jane asked, once they were out of the parking lot and on the highway headed south.

  "They were expecting it."

  "I didn't see anyone lurking about. Did you?"

  "No reason why Plessy would. He won't risk being seen."

  "No one can stay invisible forever."

  "Maybe not at all. I have an idea - let's go to your house."

  "Motel make you horny?"

  "Not that idea. I think we can figure out who Plessy is - or at least narrow it down."