Even When You Win... Read online

  “What kind of time do we have?” I asked.

  Hurst reopened her notebook, “It’s Wednesday, the threat calls for a personal ad in the June 12 edition, which means we’ve got to decide and execute a strategy by...” she was running her finger through the notes. “... next Wednesday no later than eleven p.m.?”

  “What has Quantico told you about this person or persons?” I asked Richards.

  A pained expression froze on the agent’s face, and before he answered me he turned his whole body to face Ed and Rita, “Before I go into that, you have to understand that the only thing our behavioral scientists really have to go on is past actualities... you know, after a case is solved and all the facts that can be known are known either through the investigation or by conducting extensive interviews with the perpetrators. You see what I’m saying?”

  I could tell from my perspective that Richards was laying groundwork for some really bad news, and I was glad at that moment it was his turn.

  “If you understand that, and I tell you that your situation is kind of like several but identical to none, then you can understand that none of the scientists is placing any kind of probability factor on the accuracy of their suppositions...”

  “Out with it, agent,” Ed snapped. “I made my living projecting outcomes on insufficient information.”

  “I’m sorry,” Richards said and I could sense his sincerity, “In every case that is similar in one way or another... it’s been a family member.”

  “A hundred percent?” Ed blurted.

  “Out of how many cases, Archie?” I asked.

  He looked at me, “That’s the whole thing... in the history of the FBI it’s less than a handful that even come close to this, and these others have been straight kidnapping or a battle over a will – all significantly family-oriented issues.

  “None of them were giant, publicly announced windfalls.”

  “You see that as a significant factor?” Rita asked.

  “I do,” Richards said earnestly. “It opens the field to anyone who saw it on TV, read about it in the newspapers or national magazines or on the Internet... the scope of the publicity around this entire episode has been unlike anything in our annals...”

  “Lindbergh baby...” Jan whispered.

  Hurst shook her head, “That was without television or the Internet. You’d have had to live in a cave to not have heard about this prize.”

  I let that settle for several minutes as each of us pondered what this might mean. “I never considered us as cave dwellers, but we hadn’t heard a word of this until Ed called me.”

  Ed laughed jovially, “One thing that came through loud and clear as we’ve been talking is how far away from the maddening crowd you’ve positioned yourself, Jim. I don’t think you represent any demographic on the planet.”

  Everyone laughed at that, and I could see the air lightening in the room.

  “In any event,” Richards continued, “I don’t see any way of clearing your children of involvement – and not alerting them if they are involved – that includes having an agent interview your children...”

  We all sat there thinking about what and how until Rita spoke up, and how she’d handled five kids and a classroom became evident. “I’ll start calling the kids right now, telling them about these journalists – who happen to be old friends of ours from high school – working on this story, and I need them to take part in an interview. I’m sure they’ll all participate without a question when I tell them how much it means to us.”

  “Perfect,” Richards said. He turned to Jan and me, “The only question is, do you want to start from West to East or vice versa?”

  Rita took the reins again. “Cindy and Gene live in Columbia where Gene practices law; Crawford and Clara live in Chesterfield just outside St. Louis... you could see both of them tomorrow if you started early. Then you could fly to New York tomorrow night, drive down to see Matthew and Liz on Friday – I’ve always used Syracuse, but Rochester would work too – and then on Friday night you could fly to San Diego, and meet with Peter on Saturday... I know he’s in port now, too. That would bring you back here no later than Sunday or Monday at the latest...”

  “You up for that?” Richards looked back and forth from Jan to me.

  “Sounds like a lot to ask,” Ed said.

  Jan looked at me for a long moment, and then turned to Rita. “If you don’t make those calls right now, it’ll get too late in New York.”

  Rita excused herself and left the room. We heard her bouncing step as she went upstairs.

  “There’s an office she uses up there,” Ed said absently, “Hear that bounce in her step?” Nobody responded. “That means she’s sure they’ll clear themselves and she can’t wait to get past that so we can deal with the real villain whoever that might be.”

  Chapter 17

  After Rita was gone, Richards waste no time either. He stepped out of the room fishing his phone out of his pocket and came back ten minutes later all business.

  “Have you folks got a credit card that can handle this load on short notice?”

  Jan said, “Several and they’re all current except for the charges we’ve put on this trip already. That’s not an issue.”

  “Perfect. Keep receipts. The FBI will pay for all of this – travel, rooms, and meals.” He looked at me, “They get picky about alcohol on the receipts, but a glass of wine or a cocktail at dinner won’t raise an eyebrow.”

  “Why, Archie, you sound like my file indicates that I drink a bit...”

  “Nothing of the sort,” he said with a gleam in his eye. “I have first-hand accounts from Ray Jensen and Marcia Reynolds.”

  “Who’s Marcia Reynolds?” Jan asked innocently.

  “Before your time,” I said quietly.

  She turned to Richards, “Is she an agent?”

  “Retired but still reachable for background on old cases,” he said with an evil grin on his face. I could tell he was enjoying this.

  Jan dug an elbow gently into my ribs, “Is that what you are, dear? An ‘old case?’”

  “Sara was four; Jeremy was born while I knew her. Sandy and I were young... I don’t really want to go into this now.”

  “Okay, lover. We all have secrets, I guess,” and she turned Richards’ evil grin right back on him.

  He laughed out loud, “I’m sure it was a completely professional relationship.”

  “Oh, that’s okay,” She said in her best off-handed voice. “It’s just another part of his past life that he keeps to himself. If I really cared about him, it would be a bigger deal...”

  “Later,” I whispered.

  “Deal.” She whispered back. “You can bet on it.”

  About that time, much to my relief, Rita came back into the room. “I reached them all. They’re excited and waiting. I took a few seconds and made this,” she handed a card to Jan.

  “Perfect,” she said, flashing it so I could see the names, addresses and phone numbers for all four interviews.

  “And I thought this might help,” she said, handing me a photograph. “That was this spring; Mother’s Day.” It was an eight-by-ten color photo of the whole family. She stepped behind me and pointed to each face as she said the names.

  “Thank you, that’ll help for sure.” I looked at my watch. “Did you set a time with Cindy for tomorrow?”

  “No, just morning; same with Crawford, just late afternoon; you’re to call when you can pin down an e.t.a.”

  “Great work; I mean it.”

  “That’s what she does,” Ed piped up. “She’s the most organized human I’ve ever known without any of the anal retentiveness that so many of us so-called organizers display.”

  We all chuckled, and then started making our way out.

  Richards and Hurst walked with us to our vehicle. “Turn your vehicle in at the airport. We’ll have cars waiting for you in Syracuse and San Diego and again when you get back to St. Louis,” he said.

  “That’ll work if t
he FBI can afford to rent a vehicle with leg room,” I said.

  “Don’t worry. I specifically noted that on the request. If there’s a problem, call us,” and he handed me both his and Hurst’s cards. “Day or night. You can file reports on those e-mail addresses, too. I think you should do that as soon as practical after each interview. The more detail the better, because we can feed that stuff into the guys in the white jackets in Quantico and they might trigger on something you or I would never hear.”

  “We can do that,” Jan said. “We normally type up notes on our activities or conversations out of habit... and the fact that both of us have horrible penmanship.”

  “It’s a curse of the reporting life,” I added.

  We shook hands, and started to climb into our rental. Richards held Jan’s door open for a second, and then said, “Good hunting!” and slammed it closed.

  Chapter 18

  We pulled into Columbia just at nin Thursday morning, and found a chain restaurant immediately. I called Cindy’s number, and she answered on the first ring. We set our meeting for ten, and Jan and I had breakfast.

  Cindy and Gene Hastings lived in a two-story house on a tree-lined street just off the University campus. We parked on the street and heard the sound of children playing nearby along with the sound of lawn mowers and the shriek of cicadas in the trees.

  “Urban background noise is different from what we’re used to,” Jan said as we walked toward the front door.

  Cindy Hastings opened the door before we reached the steps to the porch that ran the full width of the house. She was stunningly beautiful, and I got an almost deja vu reaction to her as if I was seeing Rita back in time, and then, for the first time, I remembered why I had asked her for that one date when I was a senior.

  She had her mother’s smile and energy as well. “Hi!” she said with a big smile, “You must be the Stantons. I’m so happy to finally meet you, Jim. I’ve heard your name for years – my dad can remember all kinds of things about you in high school, and of course he’s read your books...”

  “Thanks,” I said. “This is Jan Stanton, my wife and collaborator.”

  “Come on in,” she held the door open for us and we walked into a hallway next to stairs to the second floor. “It seems dark in here after being outside, but walk toward the light. I thought we’d sit on the back porch. I have coffee or tea if you’re interested... have you eaten?”

  “We called you from a restaurant,” Jan said. “But I’ll bet your coffee is better than Perkins.”

  “I sure hope so, both Gene and I are a bit snobbish about it.”

  “Is Gene here?” Jan asked.

  “He’s in back with the kids. He spends every spare moment with them, but this’ll work well. Junior is ready for his nap, and I’ll assign Donna to ‘keep an eye’ on him; a nap never hurts a six-year-old either.”

  We sat while she went for the coffee. Gene Hastings and the two children came up the steps and onto the porch. “Hi!” he said to us.

  “I’m Jim and this is Jan; we’re the Stantons,” I said as we shook hands.

  “These are our children, Donna and Eugene Jr.”

  I knelt down in front of them. Donna stuck her hand out to shake, but Eugene slid around to peek at me from behind his dad’s leg. “My pleasure, Donna,” I said as we shook hands. She giggled, and turned to Eugene.

  “Don’t be a scaredy cat, Eugene; he won’t bite.”

  Eugene was unconvinced, and I smiled at him. “No problem, I’m pleased to meet you.”

  I stood up as Cindy came out on the porch with a tray she set on a wicker coffee table in front of our chairs. “I brought coffee and a little treat for everyone who’s drinking coffee, and I have juice and a treat in the kitchen for you two.”

  The kids bolted out of the room, and Cindy followed them, calling over her shoulder, “I’ll be back in fifteen.”

  Gene was a handsome man; I guessed early 40s, with premature gray starting at his temples. I guessed him to be just under six feet tall, and it was obvious that he was in good shape; lithe and balanced in his movements. He appeared to be very comfortable with this situation as he poured coffee into our cups and pushed cream and sugar in our direction as he spoke, “Cindy is just elated that you two have chosen her family to write about.”

  He looked up from his duties and pierced me with his eyes, “You, especially, Mr. Stanton. Her dad has told her stories about you from high school that, well, frankly, he might have been your biggest fan. He never played sports that I know of, but he must have seen every game you ever played.

  “Did you play ball of any sort after high school?”

  “No,” I said, adding a little cream to my cup. “I got involved with the Navy and then college and newspapers... I played a little Y ball to keep in shape, but despite what you may have heard, I wasn’t all that good in any of the sports, certainly not on the level Cindy’s brothers played.”

  He nodded. “I find it hard to believe just how well those guys did, but I went to school here in Columbia. I played three sports, but, hell; there were as many kids in our high school as the whole population of Elliotsville proper... I was no star, that’s for sure; I didn’t earn any scholarships in the classroom, either. They’re quite a bunch of guys.”

  “This coffee is worthy of the name,” Jan said. “Mmmm.”

  “The French press knows no equal,” Gene nodded. “We only take the time on weekends or when we have guests.”

  Cindy rejoined us, took a cup of her own from Gene, and then sat down. “I understand you’re headed for St. Louis yet today, so we better get started.”

  For the next three hours, with bathroom breaks and turning down an invitation for lunch, we probed the impact of the American Tribute Sweepstakes on the extended Sweet family.

  Finally, we had no more questions, and I was becoming anxious to give this couple’s day back to them. “I think that’s everything,” I said. “Sometimes, as we continue our research, other questions can arise; can we call you?”

  “No problem,” Gene said for them. “Do you have any idea when this will appear in print?”

  “Not really,” Jan said. “We know that we have a very short time frame to do the research, craft the article and get it submitted...”

  “Can you tell us where it’ll appear?”

  “No, I’m sorry,” Jan said. “Magazines never let free lancers such as us release that information... sometimes stories such as these meet all the qualifications for publication, but for reasons beyond our control never appear. It’s a code of the business that we can’t release that information until we get the word that it’s in the print schedule.”

  “Then you’ll call us?” Cindy asked.

  “Of course,” Jan said. “Could I use the bathroom one more time before we go?”

  As we made our way to the I-70 east interchange, Jan finally let out a deep sigh and said, “If these people – Riley and Cindy and their spouses – are indicative of the whole family, this is a huge waste of time and money.”

  I agreed, but didn’t say anything, focusing instead to make sure I got safely on the interstate. When I had the big vehicle cruising just over 70 mph, I dared to glance at her in profile. “Nice folks, huh?”

  “God, Jim; why is this happening to these people?”

  Chapter 19

  We found our way to Crawford Parker’s home in Chesterfield by following U.S. 63 straight south from Columbia. It was mostly two-lane highway, and it was almost 4 when the GPS told us we were close enough to call.

  I found a gas station where we could use the facilities. I called, and Crawford answered right away, as if he had been waiting.

  I explained where we were and guessed we’d be there in fifteen minutes.

  “That’s pretty close. Just come around to the back of the house when you get here, we’re pretty relaxed.”

  The Parkers lived in a modern ranch-style home in what appeared to be a subdivision platted in the 1970s. The trees had matured a
bit, the streets were wide, and there were children everywhere on this humid June day. All of them it seemed were wearing bathing suits and flip flops and carrying a towel.

  As we parked in the driveway, we could hear the sound of merriment coming from the back yard, and when we got there we found the destination of all those swimmers: The Parker’s back yard abutted the community pool... and Crawford or some previous owner had carved a gate in his fence to gain access to the park’s boundary.

  “It beats having them walk all the way around, I guess,” Jan said under her breath.

  We found Crawford and his wife, Clara, sitting on a patio under a pergola covered with grapevines. The shade was welcome but did little to defuse the oppressive humidity.

  Crawford, dressed in shorts and a tee as if he had just come in from non-contact football practice, bounced out of his recliner at the sight of us. A wide grin split his face. He looked as if he was in shape to go play football, too.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Stanton!” He greeted us. “Thank you for coming.” He shook Jan’s hand and then reached for mine. He held my hand as he half-turned and waved at Clara who was climbing out of her own recliner, but it was slow going; she looked as if she might deliver a baby any minute. “This is Clara.”

  “I’m Jim, this is Jan,” I said grinning back at him. “We sure appreciate your taking the time to meet with us this afternoon.”

  I realized I was almost yelling, competing with the din from the pool – kids having a ball and radios competing between hip hop and country western music at the top of their volumes.

  Clara smiled at her introduction and walked over to us, grabbed Jan’s hand and started to lead her into the house. Crawford laughed and reached for my elbow to guide me in the same direction. “We need to get some quiet if we’re going to talk,” he said into my ear.