 
Cold Case

A Clarence Askew and Delbert Mitchum Mystery

by Darryl Matter

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2019 by Darryl Matter

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Cold Case

This is a work of fiction. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

PROLOGUE

April 27, 1964. 2 p.m.

The stocky man wearing a military surplus camouflage jacket crouched behind an outcrop of rock well up on the rugged mountainside. From his vantage point, he studied the man and woman wearing backpacks and descending the mountain trail some distance above him. Nylon jackets they'd worn that morning were now tied around their waists, attesting to the afternoon warmth. He'd get rid of his as soon as he finished his task.

The twosome on the mountainside moved slowly and easily, almost gracefully, side by side, obviously in no particular hurry. Through his binoculars, the camouflaged man observed them smiling and laughing as if they were enjoying each other's company. Although he could not hear what they were saying, he knew from their facial expressions that they were talking excitedly to each other as they descended the slope.

As they walked down the trail, the young couple appeared to be completely at ease with the mountains as well as with each other. Occasionally, they paused on the trail to examine something the stocky man could not see—a bird, perhaps, or a peculiar rock formation. Once he saw the woman write something in a small notebook she carried in her backpack. He'd been sent to get that notebook.

Exactly what the man and woman were talking about didn't interest the man in the camouflage jacket. Maybe it would have interested the man who hired him, but not him. Killing them was just another job for him, and he was eager to get it over with so he could go back home to Chicago. Collect his pay, go home, and forget he'd ever been here.

The camouflaged man was certain that the young people above him on the mountainside were totally oblivious to his presence. That would make his job easier, although it didn't really matter if they did become aware of him and his deadly mission. By the time they discovered his purpose there, it would be too late for them.

The mountain trail narrowed and became even more rugged, and the woman moved ahead of the man, just as the camouflaged figure knew she would. Both the man and woman slowed their pace even more and employed their sturdy walking sticks to keep from stumbling on the slippery rocks and undergrowth over which they now were making their way. They would descend this part of the trail single-file—exactly as the hidden watcher anticipated.

As the couple drew still closer to the outcropping that concealed the camouflaged man, he placed hearing protectors on his ears, pulled his jacket's hood over his head in order to be even more secreted from the world, and then placed the binoculars aside. Lifting his high-powered rifle into firing position, he studied the young couple through the telescopic sight. Moments later, he centered the sight's crosshairs on the woman's chest, breathed deeply, and waited patiently for the precise moment when the man would be directly behind the woman before he squeezed the trigger.

CRACK!

Both the woman and the man staggered and crumpled to the ground without a sound as the ambusher's bullet tore through them. The camouflaged man calmly studied the two forms for several moments through his scope, watching the streaming blood stain their clothing, coldly alert and ready to shoot again if either of them moved or cried out. Neither did, and satisfied that they both were dead, the assassin quietly assured himself that no one was nearby, then leapt to his feet and quickly sprinted to where the bodies lay sprawled near the mountain trail. A quick examination of the bodies revealed that they were indeed dead. No need for a second shot.

The sight of the victims' blood did not bother the shooter in the least. He'd seen a lot of spilled blood in his lifetime. He was used to it. Killing was his profession.

Once assured that the man and woman were dead, their killer hastily rifled through their backpacks, found the small notebooks he was looking for, and then refastened the packs. He was an expert at leaving no clues, and once refastened, the backpacks appeared never to have been disturbed. His gloved fingers would not leave fingerprints, and the rocky soil would not retain any identifying footprints.

The man and woman died near a deep ravine, just as the shooter planned. With seemingly little effort, the stocky man dragged their lifeless bodies to the edge and pushed them over, watching without any show of emotion as his victims tumbled grotesquely onto the rocks and brush far below. Moments later, he retrieved the couple's walking sticks, tossed them into the ravine, and watched them clatter on the jagged rocks below. With any luck, it would be days or even weeks before the bodies would be found.

"One shot, two kills!" A twisted smile crossed the killer's face as he breathed the words to himself. Satisfied that no one nearby had heard the shot, the camouflaged and hooded figure, himself skilled at mountain climbing, strode quickly but noiselessly down the mountainside to where he'd parked the car he'd stolen earlier that afternoon. The well-planned job had gone smoothly, the mark of a genuine professional, the camouflaged man smugly told himself. He'd wipe away his fingerprints and leave the car in an underground parking garage where it wouldn't be found for days, at best.

* * * * *

The two young people had been reported missing by their respective employers for almost 46 hours before the Search and Rescue airplane crew spotted their crumpled bodies at the bottom of the rocky ravine about three miles south of the Lazy-D Mine owner's cabin. From the air, it appeared as though they might have accidentally fallen to their deaths, but rescue workers on the ground quickly determined that they had been shot to death and radioed the sheriff.

It wasn't hard for sheriff's deputies to identify the couple as Fred Russell and Carol Holman, both 26 years of age. Both were avid hikers and mountain climbers, and they'd long had standing permission from the mine owner, Delbert Mitchum, to hike and climb on his mountainous property. Indeed, they'd hiked, climbed the mountains, and explored the caves in that part of the county together ever since they'd discovered these mutual interests while they'd been attending college.

Identification of the young people may have been easy, but the questions of who murdered them and why were not to be answered. Although the sheriff apparently pursued every possible avenue of investigation, the case—officially noted as Case #64-16/17—remained unsolved. They were the sixteenth and seventeenth murders in the county to-date in 1964.

Fred Russell had worked as an electrical engineer for a company that designed and manufactured parts for small aircraft. As far as investigators could determine, he was well liked by his co-workers and was a skilled and dependable employee. Carol Holman was a third grade teacher. Like Fred, she was well liked by her co-workers and students, and seemed to have no enemies.

From the couple's friends, it was learned that they intended to spend three days in the mountains, climbing one of the more rugged slopes and camping in a cave part way up the mountainside at night. They apparently had been returning from this adventure on the third day when they were shot and killed.

Robbery did not seem to be a motive that would explain the murders. The hikers typically carried their climbing and camping gear and a very minimum of cash. Neither wore valuable jewelry. In fact, their backpacks and wallets were found with their bodies and did not appear to have been rifled. Approximately $30 in cash, about the amount authorities were told they typically carried, was found on the bodies, as were their watches.

Public appeals for help were issued and a sizable reward was offered for information leading to the identification of the killer, but to no avail. There had been no witnesses—or at least not any who were willing to come forward with information that might aid the police. No informants came forward to offer credible suggestions as to why the two had been killed. Finally, after all possible leads had been exhausted, the folder was stamped "UNSOLVED" and placed in the file cabinet reserved for unsolved cases. COLD CASE #64-16/17.

* * * * *

April 29, 2005.

Clarence Askew, soon to be _retired_ Deputy Sheriff Clarence Askew, pulled three thick folders marked "UNSOLVED" from that same file cabinet and carried them to his desk. It was almost exactly 41 years to the day since Fred Russell and Carol Holman had been found murdered.

Deputy Sheriff Askew did not look forward to his retirement. No way did he wish to retire! Furthermore, the very thought of retirement almost turned his stomach. Police work had been his entire life, and he had no hobbies or other interests to sustain him. He'd been married once, but his wife had been killed in a hit-and-run accident some 20 years earlier, and they'd had no children. In fact, his only living relatives were a much younger sister, Katrina, a registered nurse, who lived across town from the apartment building where he lived, and her daughter, Karen, also a nurse who lived in the city. Although he kept in touch with both Katrina and Karen, they shared relatively few interests.

One night when Askew couldn't sleep, however, the thought occurred to him: Why should he quit doing the only thing he'd ever really enjoyed just because he wouldn't be paid for it? At 67, he still was in reasonably good health and, well, why not take a look at some of the older cases that had never been solved, the so-called COLD CASES? The answer to that question came to him the very next moment: There was no reason for him to quit working. He'd do it! He'd work the COLD CASES! He might not solve any of them, but he'd give them his best shot.

The folder marked "#64-16/17" and "UNSOLVED" intrigued Clarence Askew most of all. He'd been 27 years of age, just one year older than the victims, when the murders had taken place. Although he'd been in the service at that time, he could vaguely remember people talking about those murders when he'd been home on leave.

A lot had transpired in Askew's life since that time. He'd served his time in the Army as an MP, including two strenuous tours of duty in Vietnam, before coming home and completing the law degree he'd studied toward before being called to active duty. Once his degree was completed, he'd joined the county law enforcement community as a deputy sheriff. That had been over 30 years ago. The time had passed quickly. It seemed like only yesterday.

With renewed interest in his upcoming retirement, Askew photocopied every bit of paperwork he found in the folder marked "#64-16/17." This case was where he'd start his new, self-directed "assignment." Reluctantly, he returned the other two unsolved case folders to their places in the filing cabinet. If all went well, he'd have a chance to work on them at a later time. Maybe he'd even be able to interest another retired cop in working on cold cases. Maybe they could partner.

Having settled the question of what he'd do in his retirement, Askew had to admit to himself that he felt much better than he had in some time. He now had a mission, something that could make his life in retirement worthwhile.

File "#64-16/17" included a reference to an evidence box containing the victims' clothing and personal items deemed relevant to the case as having been placed in Sheriff's Storage at the time of the original investigation. To Askew's disappointment, however, the box was not to be found. Forty-some years had probably taken its toll, and the box simply had been misplaced during that time, yet the missing evidence box somehow troubled Askew. Exactly how much evidence is missing—and why is it missing?—he wondered.

* * * * *

What had been especially surprising to Askew was Sheriff Jeff Bowlee's apparent disinterest in his looking into the department's unsolved cases. Even though Askew assured his soon-to-be former boss that he would work on them on his own time and with his own resources, the sheriff seemed reluctantly cool and indifferent—almost hostile to the idea.

"Aw, Clarence, go get a life," Bowlee had growled, as he shrugged his shoulders. "Don't get into that old stuff. Go fishin' or just get some sun on a park bench. You've put in your time. Earned your retirement. Get yourself a girlfriend and forget about bein' a cop."

So much for Jeff Bowlee's encouragement. It wasn't that Askew would be the first cop to work on unsolved cases in his retirement. In fact, he had read of a retired cop having solved such a case in Seattle just a few weeks before. Brought to justice a killer who'd been free for 28 years. Maybe reading that news item was where he got the idea.

Of course, Askew hadn't been one of Bowlee's favorite deputies, especially after he'd brought heat on the sheriff by gunning down a drug dealer who was charging him with a butcher knife—and who just happened to be the mayor's son. And another time Askew had stopped a senator's daughter who was driving under the influence—and resisted all attempts by her father to bribe him, a move that, when the press got wind of it, cost the senator the next election. There had been other things, too. No, Askew decided, once he'd thought about it, he shouldn't have expected Bowlee to want him investigating any cases the Sheriff's Department hadn't been able to solve.

At any rate, Askew didn't press his investigative interests with Sheriff Bowlee, but he did file away the reception he'd received in the back of his mind. "If that guy was a suspect for having done something and I was the investigative officer, I'd be asking myself what he's got to hide," Askew murmured to himself as he climbed into his pickup after his unexpected rebuff from the man he'd worked with over the past twenty-some years.

When Askew shared his plans with Stanley Abolence, the county attorney, however, he'd been warmly—indeed, enthusiastically—received. "Go to it, man!" Abolence had exclaimed. In fact, the CA had given him the formal designation of "Special Investigator for the County Attorney." While this designation didn't provide for financial reimbursement, it did give Askew a certain standing within the law enforcement community. "You report directly to me and not Bowlee, because from now on you're working with me," Abolence had pointedly told him after Askew mentioned the sheriff's coolness. It was one of the first hints Askew ever had that the county attorney and the sheriff did not exactly see eye to eye.

"By the way, Clarence," Abolence began, as Askew got up to leave the CA's office. He waved the lawman back to his chair. "You're one of the first to know that I've decided to run for State's Attorney General. I'd appreciate your vote in November."

The obvious wasn't said: It certainly would enhance Stanley Abolence's election chances if he and Askew, "working together" as Abolence had called it, were to solve a long-unsolved murder or other serious crime. Askew wished him well and said he'd keep in touch.
CHAPTER 1

Clarence Askew pulled his white Chevy pickup up next to the small stone gatehouse on the rock road leading to the Lazy-D Mine, showed the guard his identification, and told him that Delbert Mitchum was expecting him. After a careful examination of Askew's identification papers and a brief telephone conversation with the mine's owner, the guard waved him through the gate. It was then that Askew noticed something that had piqued his attention the very first time he'd come up here to see Mitchum. The guard, whose badge stated his name as Johnny Roger, waved stiffly—as if he had an artificial arm.

It had been some time now, perhaps a year given the way time seemed to slip away, since Askew had visited Mitchum at his Lazy-D Mine. The deputy had been investigating a case involving stolen silver bullion and had wanted information from the mine owner about how the thief might go about selling or disposing of the loot. After all, as Askew learned, it isn't easy to turn bars of silver into cash. Mitchum had readily supplied Askew with the names of reputable bullion dealers he knew, and with a few well-placed telephone calls, helped Askew apprehend the thief and recover the stolen property.

Although Askew had heard that Mitchum was a crusty recluse who always carried a gun and didn't tolerate visitors, the two men hit it off on that first visit. In fact, the deputy discovered that Mitchum had spent a few years as a cop himself, working primarily as an undercover drug enforcement agent, before discovering the ancient silver mine on land he'd inherited from an uncle. At that time, he left law enforcement to work his mine, the Lazy-D Mine.

Some stories floating around portrayed Mitchum as fabulously wealthy. His influence, some said, extended to the highest levels of state and federal government. Others said those stories simply weren't true, that the silver mine had not proved out, and that Mitchum was living in semi-poverty. Still others whispered that Mitchum had financed several missions to search out and recover fabulous treasures stolen and buried by pirates or gangsters, ventures from which he'd reaped tremendous profits. And it was rumored that he actually had purchased a bank in order to secure a vault large enough to hold his accumulated treasure.

Askew didn't know which stories, if any, were true. It really didn't make much difference to him one way or another. He did know that Mitchum appeared to live quite simply in a sturdy, weathered cabin he'd mostly built by himself from rough-hewn timbers, and the buildings behind and to the side of Mitchum's cabin were well-weathered as well. Yet Askew had known a number of people who appeared semi-impoverished but actually were wealthy beyond anyone's expectations. Appearances could be, and often were, deceiving. At any rate, it was Mitchum's cooperation in this investigation and not the man's wealth that concerned Askew as he approached the mine owner's rustic cabin.

Askew and Mitchum had swapped a few cop-stories on that first visit. In fact, although Mitchum was generally wary of cops and feely admitted this feeling, he'd felt comfortable with Askew and told him so. Furthermore, he'd seemed pleased when Askew had called earlier in the day and even said that he was looking forward to seeing him again. Forget the stories about the guy, Askew told himself, and concentrate on solving one more crime: Cold Case #64-16/17.

Mitchum was there waiting for Askew, rising from a chair on the tree-shaded porch of his cabin when he saw the retired deputy approaching. Even from a distance, the elderly mine owner presented a wiry, imposing figure in his faded denim shirt, blue jeans, and work boots. A slight man of perhaps 150 pounds and standing perhaps 5'-10" tall, he had wispy white hair and a fierce explorer's beard that first caught one's eye. Drawing closer, one might note the man's near-leathery features and his intense—some said insane—blue eyes, as well as the Colt .45 pistol he carried on his left hip in a cross-draw holster.

"Park your truck out there in the shed by mine, Clarence," Mitchum directed, motioning toward a large, open-sided metal shed as the retired deputy braked to a stop in front of him. "That'll keep it outta sight of the eye in the sky," he added pointedly, by way of explanation.

"Eye in the sky?"

"Ya. There's a spy satellite of some sort that goes over here every day about this time. They tell me it's got a camera that can read a vehicle's license plate. Since you don't know who you're dealing with in looking into these old murders, it's as well nobody can spot your truck while you're visiting me out here." Mitchum chuckled. "They tell me the eye doesn't see through a sheet metal roof. Park in there, and somebody won't know you're here. Oh, they'll know there's another vehicle in that shed because the eye'll detect the heat of your truck engine, but they won't know it's _your_ truck."

Askew scratched his head, thinking as he did so that the old man must be extremely paranoid. Still . . . . He'd humor the older man. "Okay, but won't the eye in the sky see you and me out on the mountain anyway?"

"Maybe. Maybe not. It'll depend on where we're at when it passes over. Ya still wanna go out to the place where those young people were killed?"

"Yep. Have you got your metal detector?"

"Ya. Go park your pickup in the shed. We'll go when you're ready."

As he parked his pickup where Mitchum indicated, Askew noticed the relatively new Dodge pickup Mitchum had referred to as his. Once a metallic green in color, the truck now was well rusted and dented, its remaining paint badly faded to a dull grey-green. In fact, it looked like one of the older vehicles Askew had seen when he'd visited northern Minnesota a few years ago, where a whole lot of salt is used on the roads during the winter. "Rust buckets," the people there had called the rusty vehicles like Mitchum's. At least, that was the most polite wording they used. And then Askew noticed how muddy and almost illegible the license plate was, and it dawned on him: This was a camouflaged truck, designed to blend in with its surroundings and not call attention to its driver. Even the windows were deeply tinted. Despite its appearance, he'd bet it was mechanically perfect.

Further down under the same shed's roof sat a nearly new, dark blue Buick, most likely Mitchum's car. It was a shiny four-door sedan, and Askew noted that its windows also were tinted against outside observers.

In front of the Buick was parked what appeared to be a Harley-Davidson motorcycle of recent vintage. From what Askew could see of it, it was a much-customized Dyna Low-Rider. And was that a Screaming Eagle Stage One setup on the bike? It was a little difficult to see the motorcycle clearly from where he stood. Askew's neighbor had one very much like it, though, and from what Askew could see, Mitchum's Harley-Davidson was clearly set up for speed. All very interesting!

Was Mitchum a motorcycle enthusiast? Askew could easily picture Mitchum roaring down the highway astride a big, powerful Harley-Davidson, bushy hair flying in the wind! Authentic image or not, at any rate Mitchum was proving to be an extremely interesting individual!

Askew retrieved his camera and a notebook from the pickup he'd parked under the metal-roofed shed, then followed Mitchum to his side-by-side Mountain Goat ATV. "Mount up, Clarence. We might as well save our legs and ride as far as we can," Mitchum said, motioning for the retired deputy to sit beside him, as he turned the ignition key and cranked the rugged four-wheeler to life.

Even though he'd lived in the area much of his life, Askew had never been back into these mountains, had never in fact been very far off a paved highway for almost thirty years. Somehow, he now envied Mitchum living here surrounded by the mountains with their beautiful trees and rugged features. He could certainly understand and appreciate the desire some people had for a cabin or a retreat of some sort, if not a year-round dwelling, high in these hills.

The two men rode in silence until the trail became too steep and rocky for even the tough little ATV. "They were killed about half a mile from here," Mitchum said as they dismounted, pointing in the direction of the murder scene. "We'll have to hike in the rest of the way."

Askew recognized the spot where the couple had been murdered from photographs and drawings he'd photocopied from the investigative file. "We're gonna find the bullet that killed them if we can," he told Mitchum. "If we can find it, we may at least get a clue as to what kind of firearm the killer used. That's why I asked you to bring your metal detector."

"The cops went all over this area looking for the bullet," Mitchum replied, somewhat skeptically.

"Yeah, they went over the area, but they didn't know where to look. You and me, we've got some great new technology helpin' us that they didn't have back then."

"What technology's that?"

"I'll tell ya about it. After I studied the case file, I went to see a guy I knew in the service. He was an MP with me in Vietnam, an officer. Sharp guy. Anyway, the military has developed a computer program that helps them detect where enemy fire is coming from, and he's worked on adapting it to locate and pinpoint sniper fire."

"How's that gonna help us?"

"We approximated the terrain here from the photographs in the file and placed the victims as they were when they were shot. Then—"

"Wait a minute. How'd you know where they were when they were shot?" Mitchum interrupted. "Oh, I'll bet I know," he continued after a moment of thought and before Askew could answer. "The autopsy results would've given you a pretty good idea of how they were standing when they were shot, and the blood-trail would have located them."

"Right on both counts. The autopsy report defined the entrance and exit wounds. We got a pretty good idea where the sniper shot from in relation to where the guy and the girl were standing.

"Nobody's quite certain exactly where the sniper was positioned, of course, but we ran some calculations from the most likely spots. I guess there initially was some question as to whether there were two shots or one, so we played around with the data. Then my friend calculated trajectories and estimated where we'd find the bullet or bullets. Of course, we've still got some leg-work to do with your metal detector, but we've got some idea of likely places to look."

"Okay. How do we go about this?"

Askew didn't answer immediately. "You know this area better than I do, Delbert. Is this for sure where the couple was killed?" The retired deputy pointed to the spot that seemed to match the photographs he'd seen.

"Ya, best as I can remember, but before we look for the bullet or bullets, let's sit down and talk for a few minutes, answer some questions for me." Askew sat down on a rock, and Mitchum did likewise.

"Clarence," the older man began, "I want you to tell me your take on how the killings went down. I only know what I read in the papers back in 1964, and that was a long time ago. An' the stuff in the papers may not have been factual. Besides, I want to know what you think about it 'cause I don't always believe what the cops tell the newspapers."

"Okay. I figure whoever killed 'em was hidden down there at one of two or three places." Askew pointed downhill to where there were several outcroppings of rock. "The killer had to have watched the two of them before on this trail so he knew where they'd be."

"Ya, I reckon so. Okay. One shot or two?"

"One."

"Some said two."

"Yep, but I say one. Sure, it coulda been two, but my guess is that the killer knew they'd be one in front of the other comin' down that trail in this particular spot and he could get 'em both with one shot. Draw less attention to himself with one shot instead of two."

"Means he had a fairly high-powered rifle."

"Yep. If we can locate the bullet, we'll know what caliber rifle he was using. Maybe some other things about it, too."

"Nobody heard the shot?"

"No. Nobody said they did anyway."

"Nobody woulda heard it, not up close. Back then, there wouldn't have been anybody within two or three miles of this spot. Even so, one shot would have been harder to pinpoint than two. Back in the 1960s, people hunted up here some, too, so people were used to hearing an occasional shot. Wouldn't have thought much about hearing a single gun shot."

"Right."

"So, you figure the sniper shot 'em an' then went up and dragged their bodies to the ravine and pushed 'em over the edge."

"That's the way I figure it. The killer knew it would take longer to spot the bodies in the ravine than if he left 'em on the trail. He probably pushed 'em into the ravine so he'd have more time to get away."

"Okay. So far, you and me are thinkin' alike." Mitchum stood up.

"Good. Now, Delbert, what I want you to do is stand up there where those people were when they were shot. I'm going down and take a look at you from where the sniper most likely shot from. There are three possibilities I want to check out, so be patient."

"See which spot you would have chosen if you were the killer," Mitchum advised. "That's what I'd do."

"I'll do that." Askew started downhill, then turned back. "Delbert?"

"Ya."

"Have you done what I'm going to do—looked up at where those people were killed from the killer's possible vantage points?"

"Ya."

"Okay. I figured you had. Let's compare notes later."

Mitchum nodded his understanding, then walked over and up the mountain trail to where Fred Russell and Carol Holman had been killed. Askew checked some drawings he'd made in his notebook and then made his way down the mountainside to where the shooter might have waited to ambush the couple.

There were at least two large outcroppings of rock that would easily have concealed the shooter. Another, smaller outcropping, merited attention as well. Askew went to each of them in turn, got behind them to see how the shooter might have viewed the couple through a telescopic sight, made a number of notes and sketches in his notebook, and then returned to where Mitchum was waiting.

"Where we'll find the bullet will depend on the type of rifle the shooter used. My guess is that it'll be about fifty yards maximum from here on a line with either that boulder up there or that clump of shrubs over there." As he spoke, Askew pointed to each landmark he'd identified as marking potential lines of fire, then added, "'course if the bullet hit a rock and ricocheted, we'll never find it 'cept by accident."

"Let's give it a try. Which path ya wanta try first?"

"Toward the boulder."

Mitchum readied his metal detector. "I'm gonna start right here where they were killed and head for the outcrop." Moments later, he was expertly swinging the metal detector's search coil in a wide arc, moving slowly up the mountainside as he did so.

Halfway to the outcropping, Mitchum's metal detector chimed in his headphones. Swinging the search coil slowly until he had pinpointed the identified target, the older man dropped to his knees, withdrew the heavy knife he carried on his belt, and cut out a plug of dirt perhaps six inches in diameter and six inches deep.

Askew watched closely as Mitchum broke the plug of dirt apart to expose the bit of metal that had been identified by his detector. "What do you make of this?" Mitchum asked, examining the unearthed metal disk for only a moment before handing it to the retired deputy.
CHAPTER 2

Askew turned the metallic disk that resembled a silver dollar in size and design over in his hand, rubbed the remaining dirt from both surfaces, and studied it carefully. "It's probably silver, all right, but it's counterfeit, a _counterfeit_ silver dollar," he finally said.

"Ya. Remind you of anything in particular?"

"Yep. Harper's treasure."

Mitchum smiled. "It lends a little credence to the old story, doesn't it?"

"It sure does." Askew handed the coin back to Mitchum, who had by then replaced the plug of dirt in its hole and was now on his feet.

Mitchum dropped the counterfeit coin into his pocket, replaced the ear phones on his head, and started back up the mountainside in the direction of the boulder, swinging the metal detector as he walked, taking his time as he moved slowly over the rough slope. Moments later, the detector again chimed. After showing his "find" to Askew, another silver dollar-sized counterfeit coin joined the first one in his pocket. Maybe it, too, had been a part of Harper's treasure.

Harper's treasure? Harper's treasure was very much discussed, but to Mitchum's knowledge, this was the first tangible evidence he'd ever seen that suggested it might actually exist.

As the story went, a prospector named Harper had discovered and worked a silver mine in the vicinity in the early 1800s—probably the very mine that Mitchum had rediscovered in 1958.

Over several years, Harper supposedly accumulated a huge store of smelted silver that he molded into bars and coins. Because of increasing Indian hostilities in the area, however, he hid his cache of bars and coins, both real and counterfeit, in a nearby cave. Harper was later killed by the Indians, and while several serious searches were made for his cache, no one managed to locate his rumored treasure—leading some to dismiss the story as a hoax.

Mitchum continued searching the area with his metal detector until he reached the boulder without discovering any additional coins—or the bullet Askew was seeking. Turning, he continued the search to the right side of the route he'd just walked until he returned to the spot where the young couple had died. He'd not had so much as a chirp from his metal detector. Nothing.

Resting only momentarily while checking the metal detector's settings, Mitchum continued searching, this time on the left side of the initial route he'd covered. Halfway up to the boulder, an old metal button made its appearance and was added to his pocket, but no bullet was to be found.

Askew came over, shaking his head, scowling. "I was sure we'd find it," he said.

"Don't get discouraged yet," Mitchum replied. "We've still got the other territory to search—and the bullet may lie further outside the area we've already searched. After all, it could have been kicked aside years ago, or an animal might have dislodged it. Then again, I might simply have missed it, 'cause ya don't always find things buried in the earth on the first try, even if ya walk right over 'em, with a metal detector. We'll keep looking."

After a few moments rest, Mitchum again took up the search. This time he started at the spot where the couple had died and moved in a straight line toward the clump of shrubs identified by Askew as marking another possible course the bullet might have taken.

Askew followed along with Mitchum as the older man swung the metal detector in wide arcs, moving slowly, trying not to miss anything that might be buried. They hadn't had sophisticated metal detectors such as the one Mitchum was using back in the 1960s when Fred Russell and Carol Holman had been killed. If they had, Askew reasoned, they might have been able to locate the bullet.

Or maybe not. They'd have had to guess at the bullet's probable location whereas Askew had technical advice as to its possible location. It had to be out there—somewhere.

Mitchum stopped suddenly, and Askew knew from the way he was swinging the search coil that he was pinpointing another "find." Moments later, Mitchum dropped to his knees, withdrew his knife, and began once again to dig into the earth.

The clump of dirt Mitchum examined didn't at first glance contain anything of interest. Then, suddenly, a flattened lead bullet fell right out of the dirt and into Mitchum's hand. "This may be what you're looking for, Clarence," the older man said, extending his hand with the bullet.

"Yep. It just might be," Askew replied, carefully examining the bullet before placing it in a small plastic evidence bag. It was far too early in the game to get excited about what might be a dead-end lead, and he'd wait to have a forensic expert look at the bullet before making any judgments about its caliber or the kind of rifle it might have been fired from. Still it obviously was a rifle bullet—and it just might be the one that killed Fred Russell and Carol Holman.

It was beginning to get dark as the sun sank in the western sky, and Mitchum suggested that they call it a day. "I'll bring you back out here anytime you want," he assured Askew, "and I'll also do some more searching with the metal detector. Maybe that's the bullet that killed Carol and Fred, but maybe it isn't. Like I said, there have been hunters in this area over the years, but that's a sizable bullet, heavier than would have been used on most of the game around here. Anyway, I'll walk both likely areas again as soon as I can, perhaps tomorrow."

"Tomorrow!" Askew's voice was a little strained with excitement. "I want to come out here again tomorrow myself."

"Okay." Mitchum wasn't sure what they'd be looking for the next day, but if that's what Askew wanted to do, he'd help as best he could.

Once back at Mitchum's cabin, Askew seemed reluctant to leave. "Come on in," Mitchum invited, "and I'll fix you 'n' me some grub."

"Thanks, I'll take you up on that offer." Askew had not been inside Mitchum's cabin before. On his earlier visit, the two men had sat on the porch and talked. Now, as he glanced around the cabin's interior, he saw that it was sparsely but attractively furnished—and clean. Immaculate, in fact, by anyone's standards. Mitchum must have someone come in regularly and clean for him.

Mitchum's small living room was furnished with a sofa and a recliner. Lamps were positioned on two small tables. No television set was visible, a fact that interested Askew because he'd never been in a house that hadn't contained at least one and more likely two television sets prominently displayed in the living area.

The kitchen and bathroom were to the back of the cabin. From what Askew could see of them, both were spotless—unlike kitchens and bathrooms in the houses of most bachelors he knew. Two closed doors likely led to the mine owner's bedroom and office, Askew speculated.

"There are some things I want to talk to you about, Delbert, okay?" Askew said, once the two men had finished eating and were seated at Mitchum's kitchen table.

Mitchum raised an eyebrow. "Ya? Go ahead."

"I didn't see any indication in the case folder that the cops ever interviewed you about the murders." It was more of a question than a statement. "Maybe they asked you a question or two, but never really interviewed you. Am I right?"

Mitchum shook his head slowly. "You're correct. They didn't actually interview me. I suppose they didn't figure I knew anything that'd help 'em."

Askew frowned and shook his head as if he didn't understand why Mitchum hadn't been interviewed. "You knew Carol Holman and Fred Russell didn't you?"

"Ya. I knew them fairly well as a matter of fact. Considered them my friends, I did. They were about my only real friends back then."

"I thought maybe you knew them fairly well. Tell me about them."

Mitchum leaned back in his chair. "Okay I'll tell you about them, but it's a longer story than you might expect. I'll probably ramble a bit, and it'll take some time to tell you what I know about 'em."

"I've got time."

"You have to realize how things were out here in the woods back then," Mitchum began, leaning back in his chair and clasping his hands behind his head. "I discovered this mine, what I call the Lazy-D Mine, in the spring of 1958. Started working it in earnest the next summer. After word got around that I was actually mining silver, a whole bunch of bums came out here looking for handouts. You understand what I mean?"

"Yep. I'll bet they did. Just like when some guy wins the lottery or a sweepstakes prize. They all come lookin' for a part of the cash."

"Ya. This was before I hired a guard to intercept the bums at the main road into this place. Oh, I had 'Keep Out' signs posted all around the property, but you can imagine how much good those signs did."

Askew nodded. "I can imagine."

"Never seen so many bums in my life," Mitchum continued. "A total of eighteen people showed up, all claimin' to be my long lost cousin. None of 'em were. None of 'em wanted to help me out, either. All they wanted, each and every one of 'em, was a handout. And they all had kids or relatives who were sick and needing expensive care of one kind or another—at least those were the sob-stories they laid on me. What a bunch of bums. I sent 'em all packin', and they were a mighty unhappy bunch. Cursed me out and called me all kinds of names.

"Now, getting around to Carol and Fred. They first came out to visit me in the spring of 1960. When I first saw 'em, I figured they were lookin' for handouts like everybody else. I was wrong. They weren't.

"Clarence, I'm a-tellin' you, they were the nicest people I've ever met. They wanted permission to hike on my property, over there on the part that's really mountainous, to hike and climb and explore the caves. They'd seen my warning signs, and they didn't want to trespass. Can you imagine that? Those signs didn't slow down anybody else. Well, I didn't have any objection to their hiking and exploring so I gave 'em permission—written permission, just in case they needed to show somebody they had it.

"Let me tell you, they were awfully nice to me. The second time they came out to visit they brought along groceries, and Carol fixed us supper. Both of 'em were happy people, too, laughing, enjoying life, having a good time—quite a contrast to the typical riffraff that showed up here looking for a handout."

Again, Askew nodded his understanding.

"Fred did something for me early on," Mitchum continued, "something that probably saved my life, too"

"What was that?"

"You know he was an electrical engineer?"

"Yep."

"You see, I didn't have any kind of an alarm to let me know when people were around my cabin, and Fred helped me fix up a perimeter alarm system. Something like they use in the military to secure an area. Warn of trespassers."

"I know what you mean."

"Well, guess what? Two nights after we got that alarm system working, it went off and woke me up about three o'clock one morning. Sure enough. Just what you'd suspect. A few minutes later, two punks carrying baseball bats and a shotgun kicked in my door. So, ya, Clarence, I'm a-tellin' you, Fred's alarm system saved my life—'cause that pair had murder in their eyes. They'd a-killed me, took what they wanted, and never blinked an eye.

"But, hey, I was tellin' you about Carol and Fred and—"

"Wait a minute," Askew interrupted. "What about those punks who—?"

A faint smile flitted across Mitchum's face, but his eyes turned icy. "I said I was tellin' you about Carol and Fred," he repeated, ignoring Askew's question.

"Right. Tell me about Carol and Fred." Askew knew better than to press Mitchum on the question of what happened to the guys who'd broken into his cabin that night. Mitchum was a hard man, and it was likely the interlopers were still out here somewhere, buried deep enough that nobody'd ever find them.

"Carol and Fred." Mitchum paused for a few moments and closed his eyes as if reflecting on the young couple before he continued. "They were simply the nicest people who ever came out here. Came to visit me once or twice a month, and Carol fixed us supper every time they did. She'd put up some leftover food in little containers and leave them in my refrigerator. That way I could heat the food and eat it later. And she always made extra food for me. Fred helped me with stuff, too, things he knew about that I didn't. Helped me a whole lot."

"Did they talk about climbing the mountains and exploring the caves?"

"Some. We shared experiences. It was good to have them to talk to, and they seemed interested in some of the things I'd done, too."

"Were they looking for Harper's treasure?"

"Clarence, I reckon _everybody's_ been lookin' for Harper's treasure ever since the guy was killed. Carol and Fred had heard about the treasure, of course, and we shared the stories and speculation. I told 'em that if they found any of Harper's treasure on my property, we'd split it three ways. Each of 'em could have a third, and me, I'd have a third. Told 'em I'd help 'em sell their shares of the silver if they wanted me to."

"Is that what they were doing up on the mountain? Looking for Harper's treasure?"

"Oh, not really. I think looking for the treasure was incidental to the hiking and climbing they enjoyed. I know what you're thinking, though. Maybe searching for or finding the treasure got 'em killed?" It was a question that had been asked over and over again when the couple had been killed, and nobody knew the answer.

"Could finding the treasure have been what got them killed?"

"I seriously doubt it. Off hand, I don't think they found Harper's treasure. If they did, they never told me about it, and I think they would have. And I don't know of anybody having removed any smelted silver coins or bars from my property. So, if somebody did kill Carol and Fred for their supposed secret treasure map, like some speculated, I don't know that anyone has profited from the knowledge.

"Ya see, Clarence, sellin' silver bars or counterfeit silver dollars like the ones we found isn't easy," Mitchum continued. "There's coin dealers who'll buy any real silver dollars that might be found, but gettin' rid of silver bars or counterfeit coins would have been much harder. 'Course, I've got arrangements made to sell what silver I mine, and that's why I told Carol and Fred that I'd help 'em sell any silver they found.

"Now, I said it isn't likely that anyone has found Harper's treasure, at least not since I started mining out here. I say that because I alerted the guys I know who buy silver to alert me if anyone tried to sell 'em a hoard. They've all heard about Harper's treasure, and I'm certain they'd have alerted me if someone tried to sell something like that."

Askew thought for a moment about what Mitchum had said. His experience with buyers of silver bullion suggested to him that they would have been loyal to Mitchum on that count, but he made a note to himself to check with one or two of them just the same, just to verify Mitchum's thinking. Then the turned back to the mine owner: "Changing the subject just a little. Harper's treasure was supposedly hidden in a cave. You've got several caves on your property. Have you ever searched those caves?"

Mitchum smiled. "You can see the openings to three caves over on the face of that one mountainside. I've been in the lowest one. In fact, I've been in there twice, once by myself and once with Carol and Fred."

Askew arched an eyebrow as he questioned, "You've only been in the one cave?"

"Ya. Now you're wondering why I've not explored all three, so I'l tell you. That lowest cave isn't real easy to climb to, but a long time ago somebody cut steps and handholds into the side of the mountain leading to that cave. Maybe the Indians did it. Maybe Harper did. I don't know who did it. At any rate, that cave is the only one I could get to, and getting there was scary enough for me. Carol and Fred climbed slopes much easier than I did, of course. To them, climbing those steps was a lot of fun. To me, it was just scary."

"What did you find there?"

"Let me tell you about that cave. The entrance is maybe three feet in diameter. It's not round, but it's approximately that big. Once you're inside the entrance, however, the cave opens up into a small room, say around eight feet wide and with enough height for me to stand up without hitting my head on the ceiling. The room, as I'll call it, extends back maybe fifteen feet and then funnels down to a small opening maybe ten or twelve inches in diameter. You with me?"

"Yep."

"That opening becomes a long, narrow passageway that extends back maybe fifteen feet. Maybe more. If you shine a flashlight into the passage, it appears to open up into another room, a large, open space. You can throw a rock down the passageway and into the larger room, and it takes a few seconds for it to hit bottom. So, near as we could tell, that room is fairly deep."

"You think that's where Harper stashed his treasure?"

"Beyond that little passageway?"

"Yep."

"Could be. Your guess is as good as mine."

"How could you find out?"

"With dynamite, I suppose. You'd have to enlarge the passageway so that a person could crawl through it. Maybe then you could see what was in that cavity. Or, nowadays, maybe a person could rig up a video camera on a pole, push it down the passageway, and see what the camera could see."

"You never did that, though?"

"No. I had enough to do working the silver mine."

"Did Carol and Fred want to blast out the passageway?"

"If they did, they never told me."

"What about the other caves?"

"Like I said, they're beyond my reach. In order to explore those caves, a person would have to climb maybe a hundred feet up a near-vertical rock cliff. I'll show 'em to you tomorrow. You'll see what I mean. Carol and Fred coulda climbed to 'em easily, of course, but not me. I don't relish the idea of falling off a mountain."

"Okay. I hear you, but I'd like to see those caves for myself. See 'em from a distance anyway."

"Right. We'll go take a look at those caves. But, ya got to realize, Clarence, that if Harper stashed his treasure in a cave, he probably dynamited the entrance. That's what I woulda done. There may well have been another cave somewhere around where he did just that. Fred was thinkin' in that direction, and he was thinking of ways to detect a cavern like that, but you already know that if you read through his notebook."

"His notebook? I've never seen his notebook, and I don't believe it was listed with his possessions found at the crime scene."

"Now that's odd. You see, Fred carried his notebook everywhere. When he was out here visitin' and we were talkin', he'd sometimes get out his notebook and make some drawings or notes. We'd try out ideas on each other, and he'd make notes of our conversations. He went through several notebooks, but he always kept one with him—and I'd wager he had one with him when he was killed."

"I've never seen that notebook you refer to. You're sure he had it with him when he was killed?"

Mitchum closed his eyes and through for a moment. "Can't say for sure, but I don't know of him ever not having it with him," he replied.

"Killer get it?" Askew asked the obvious question.

"Don't know what happened to it." Mitchum shook his head, then continued. "Well, like I said, Fred was thinking of ways to detect an underground cavern like a sealed-off cave. His ideas were sound, too, because others have since developed devices to do just that."

"Like what? I mean, how do they work?"

"One device measures variations in ground temperatures. The thinking is that the ground over the concealed entrance to a cave will be a slightly different temperature than the more solid ground around it. It's a very sensitive instrument, of course. The other approach uses ground-radar or sonar to detect disturbed earth."

"You've never used these devices to look for a hidden cave?"

"No. Never had the time. If Fred had been able to build some sort of device to look for a cave like that, I'd have been happy to help him. Me, I have enough money from the silver mine, so I'm not too eager to go lookin' for more." Mitchum paused, then looked hard at Askew. "Find that notebook Clarence," he growled.

Askew pulled his own notebook from his pocket and made a number of notes for himself. "What kind of notebook was it Fred carried? What size? Color?"

"About five inches by seven, I'd say. Blue cover. Fit in his jacket pocket. Carried it there or in his backpack."

Askew wrote.

"Speaking of notebooks, do you have Carol's?"

Askew sighed. "No. Tell me about that one, too."

"Well, I'll have to back up and tell you about Carol's interests. Are we keepin' ya here too late?"

"No. I've got all night."

"Okay, then. Carol was interested in missing treasure, but not so much Harper's as Meto's."

"Meto's?" Askew thought a moment. "The mobster?"

"Ya. Meto's treasure used to be referred to as the 'mobster's diamonds,' and later as the 'mobster's _missing_ diamonds.' Some said they were worth millions and millions of dollars, and that was in the late 1930s. You know Meto's story don't you?"

"Meto? _Ivan_ Meto, I believe it was?"

"Ya. Ivan Meto."

"Okay. Ivan Meto, hmm? I've heard just a little about him. Guess every cop has. But I don't know about his missing diamonds—or millions, or whatever. I guess you'd better tell me about Carol's interest and what she knew." Askew readied his notebook and pen.

"Okay. I'll tell you about Meto and his missing treasure as Carol told me—and she'd read every scrap of information she could get on him. Good detective, she was. Good as you and me. Maybe better. Hot on the trail of Ivan Meto, she was. Summarized her information in a notebook similar to Fred's. Kept it in her backpack when she was out here. We talked about Meto, and I've seen her refer to that notebook any number of times. Didn't she have it with her when she was killed?"

"It wasn't recovered at the crime scene. Neither Carol's nor Fred's either. At least they weren't listed in any of the investigative information I've seen."

"Maybe I'm not surprised. 'Course as you can probably figure from things I say, I'm not too impressed with a lot of cops—no offense. I checked _you_ out a long time ago. Wouldn't a-talked to you for a minute if you hadn't checked out squeaky clean either. Anyway, we talked about the Meto treasure quite a bit, Fred, her, and me."

"You said she was hot on the trail of Meto and his treasure. Tell me about him, and what she knew about the missing treasure."

"Well, as the story goes, Ivan Meto made a fortune in the 1920s and 1930s. He did it by extortion and whisky-running and probably was involved in murder-for-hire. Gambling, for sure, too. Not a nice guy. Had a gang of thugs working for him, and some claimed half of 'em were cops. At any rate, he always seemed to be a step or two ahead of the law whenever anybody tried to catch him. And try they did.

"Interesting thing was that Meto was fascinated by diamonds, and he carried a pocket full of 'em wherever he went. He'd get 'em out and count 'em, line them up on a restaurant table while he ate a meal just to show 'em off, things like that. Never let anybody touch 'em, and he never gave any of 'em away, or so the story goes. Rumor was he had a whole lot more diamonds hidden at his home—or somewhere.

"One day one of Meto's bodyguards betrayed him. Sold him out to a rival gang leader named Barney Blitz for a reported wad of cash. About two days later, Blitz had Meto liquidated in typical gangland style—or again so the story goes, because nobody ever found Meto's body.

"They never found his diamonds, either. Somehow, before he was killed, Meto stashed those diamonds."

"The ones he carried?"

"All of 'em. The ones he carried in his pocket and the ones he kept at home. The hoard of diamonds simply wasn't anywhere to be found after his death."

"How do we know that Meto didn't just take off? Grab his hoard of diamonds and take off for Mexico or somewhere he'd be safe?"

"Carol figured he had too big an ego to just disappear. He was a kingpin, at least in his own mind, and felt that nobody could touch him. You see, it was quiet a few years after his death that his bodyguard told the story of selling out Meto to his rival. Actually, it was a deathbed story. Had a ring of truth to it, though."

"So Carol was looking into what happened to Meto and the diamonds?"

"Ya. See, there was no indication that Meto left town, at least while he was alive. The cops searched his house and grounds but didn't find anything. Later, people literally tore up his house and dug up the grounds around it lookin' for those diamonds. They looked over other properties he owned or was suspected of owning, too, of course. Didn't turn up a thing, near as anybody knew. For sure didn't turn up his body."

"So how was Carol going about _her_ investigation?"

"Like I said, Carol was a crackerjack detective. She read all the old newspaper accounts at the library. Then somehow she got a police file on him, too. Also, she checked at the courthouse to see if he'd owned any other property, that is, other than his house. He did, so that was something she wanted to check out, just in case he'd buried the diamonds there. It took her awhile to locate Meto's other properties, 'cause he'd owned property under different names. Then she tried to look up any of the people who might have some firsthand knowledge of Meto and his disappearance."

Askew's eyes were wide, questioning. "She find any of 'em still alive?"

"Ya, but most of 'em weren't willing to talk about what they knew. You can understand that. She did have an interview with one of the rival gangster's bodyguards, though. Guy was 90 years old or more, but he was mentally alert, or so she said."

"What'd she learn from him?"

"This guy claimed to know where Meto was buried."

Askew leaned forward, intent. "Is that so? Where is he buried?"

"You sure you want this knowledge?"

"You bet I do."

"Well, according to Carol, the bodyguard claimed he and his pals kidnapped Meto. Tied him up and drove him out of town in the trunk of their car. Tried to make him tell them where his diamonds were stashed but couldn't. Finally, they killed him and buried him about seven miles east of town, off the road maybe a quarter of a mile."

"Seven miles east of town. Given the fact that the town has grown considerably, and the city limits moved accordingly, that puts him about . . . ."

". . . half a mile from where Carol and Fred were killed," Mitchum finished Askew's statement. "Now, Clarence . . . ." Mitchum lowered his voice.

"What is it?"

"Here's the kicker: The guy Carol interviewed claimed there was something buried with Meto that would point to his killer."

"So it may be worth it to somebody to keep Meto's body in its grave."

"Maybe so."

"You said Carol was on the trail of those missing diamonds?"

"Ya. She was."

"Where's that trail lead, Delbert?"

"Before we get into that, you gotta know that this information may be awfully dangerous."

Askew's eyes were fixed on Mitchum, intent. "Dangerous? How so?"

"Ya. Dangerous. And I mean _dangerous_. Remember I said Carol talked with this old guy who claimed to have been Blitz's bodyguard."

"Yep."

"Well, two days after they talked, this old guy had a fatal heart attack."

"A fatal heart attack, eh?"

"That was the official cause of his death. Carol didn't believe it for a minute. She thought somebody killed him. Of course, it was only a couple of months after she talked with him that she was killed."

"Was she getting close to the diamonds, you think?"

"Not really. That's my opinion. But she was getting _warm,_ what with her interviewing people and reading the stuff in that police file. Then, too there was a book written about Meto back a few years after he was killed, and Carol practically knew that book by heart. Interesting thing was, when she compared the different stories about Meto's activities the last two days of his life, she found a couple of major time gaps."

"Time gaps? Gaps in the stories?"

"Ya. She was trying to create a time line for Meto's last few days to see when and where he might have had the opportunity to hide the diamonds. Or whatever. And the stories she gathered about Meto's activities didn't jibe. Where they didn't jibe was that they didn't account for various parts of his last day. She was trying to figure out just exactly what he might have been doing, taking the different accounts into consideration. Unfortunately, she was killed before she could finish her analysis."

"So, you think somebody killed those two because Carol was getting close to discovering Meto's body or his missing diamonds?"

Mitchum leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. "I've put in a great many hours thinking about that question—and I just don't know."

"You read all the speculation that was in the newspapers, didn't you?"

"Ya. Well, some of it, anyway. The newspapers apparently didn't know much about the Meto connection, but they played up the search for Harper's treasure angle." Mitchum closed his eyes, then opened them and stared hard at Askew. "After awhile, it was obvious to me that the cops weren't going to find the guy who killed Carol and Fred. To the rest of the world, they weren't very important people, so the cops went on to more exciting cases—or something. That's my opinion."

"Nobody mentioned a thing about Carol's interest in Meto or the missing diamonds in the newspapers, and there's nothing in the police reports about that either."

Mitchum smiled. "That doesn't surprise me. Carol wasn't stupid. I don't think she told anybody except Fred and me about that particular interest. Of course, once she started looking into courthouse records and visiting with the former bodyguard and maybe another guy or two, well, somebody who cared could have put two and two together and . . . ." Mitchum's voice trailed off.

"Beyond that possible reason for her being killed," Mitchum continued, "I can only speculate—but I can't add anything to what's been hashed over a hundred times."

"But you can rule out some of the ideas."

"Like I told you, I knew Fred and Carol pretty well—and I liked both of 'em. I don't think they had any evil intent. Maybe they didn't even know they knew something that it was dangerous for them to know. If I had to make a guess as to why they were killed, though, that would be it: They knew something or were getting close to learning something that somebody didn't want them to know. What that would have been, I simply don't know. Maybe it didn't have anything to do with their hiking and mountain climbing. Maybe the mountain trail was just a convenient place to ambush 'em. I suppose I'll always think they were close to finding Meto's body or his diamonds—or maybe even something that would point to Meto's killer."

The two men sat in silence for a few minutes before Mitchum spoke again, softly this time. "Talkin' about Carol and Fred brings back some old memories. Ya see, Carol reminded me quite a little of a girlfriend I once had."

Askew cocked his head. This was a side of Delbert Mitchum he'd never seen. "Tell me about her. The girlfriend."

"Oh, this isn't something that'll help you find who killed Carol and Fred. This is just something about me."

"It's okay. Go ahead."

"It's hard for me to believe these days, but I had a girlfriend once. Her name was Lori and . . . ." Mitchum fell silent and grimaced, as if the memory was somehow disquieting.

"Go on," Askew coaxed, "Tell me about Lori."

Mitchum hesitated. "Well, I guess you're okay. Lori was an actress, not a Hollywood star, but she was a member of a good-sized community theatre group. Acting was her passion. Maybe she could have made it big time, maybe not. I don't know."

"You didn't keep in touch with—?"

"Lori was killed in a fire," Mitchum interrupted, his voice low, almost a throaty growl. "Her group was doing a play on a riverboat cruise ship, and the theatre somehow caught fire. Killed six of the players and a bunch of the people on the ship. She was 21."

"I didn't know, Delbert. I'm sorry."

"Ya. It's okay. I'm mostly over it. One lasting thing about my relationship with Lori was that she got me interested in acting. She taught me some things that stood me in good stead as an undercover cop. Once or twice I did some acting that would have made her proud—and just might have saved my skin."

"You never married?"

"Never even had another girlfriend. If Carol had had a twin, I'd have been interested, though, 'cause I really liked her. She had Lori's big brown eyes and hair." Mitchum paused for a long moment and then laughed derisively. "Women! You should have seen some of the proposals I got once word got out about the silver mine. I got letters from women as far away as Australia with offers to marry me—if I'd send 'em the fare to get here. Some of 'em even sent me pictures of some girl they said was them. Gold diggers all. I trashed all that stuff."

Askew nodded his understanding, then looked at his watch. "It's late. I'd better get going."

"You're welcome to stay here tonight if you want to, Clarence. You can have my bed, and I'll roll out my bedroll. Then you'll be here in the morning, and we can head over to the mountain early on."

"Oh, . . . ." Askew hesitated.

"It's okay if you want to stay. You won't inconvenience me. I can sleep anywhere. Heck, when I was getting started mining out here, I didn't even have this cabin to stay in. Slept out in the back of my pickup. Or on the ground. Rolled up my coat for a pillow. Went to sleep a lot of times out under the stars."

Askew yawned, leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and thought over Mitchum's suggestion. "I'd take you up on the offer, Delbert, but I want to get this bullet over to a forensic expert, a friend of mine. Want to get it to him yet tonight if I can."

"The military guy who helped you with the trajectory?"

"Yep. By the way, his name's Joe Thompson, Colonel Joe Thompson."

"Okay. I was hoping you could work this case outside the regular police channels. Have as little to do with the cops as possible. Anyway, that's what I'd do."

"Wha . . . Why?" Askew stumbled, somewhat surprised at Mitchum's emphatic response. Did he really not trust cops—or didn't he trust anyone?

"No good reason I can explain. It's just that I've always wondered why the cops didn't solve this crime the first time around. Oh, and by the way," Mitchum changed the subject before Askew could respond.

"What's that?"

"You said you wanted to go back over to the crime scene in the morning. I'll look around some more with the metal detector to see if we can spot another bullet, but exactly what are we looking for next time up there?"

"Where the killer parked his car, and the path he took up the mountain. I want to recreate the crime, or as much of it as we can."

Mitchum nodded his understanding. "Okay. I've got a good idea where the killer parked."

"I want to put ourselves in his place and walk up and down the mountain," Askew continued. "Follow his footsteps. See where he might have parked. I want to recreate the whole thing if we can."

"He probably drove a stolen car and then ditched it."

"That's my thinking, too. And, I've got the stolen car records from a week before the murders as well as records of recovered stolen cars for a month afterwards. Going to see what, if anything, we can determine from them." Askew paused, then added, "Guess I'm sort of taking you on as a partner in this investigation. Hope that's okay."

"Be happy to help you any way I can," Mitchum replied, "and what you say and do is safe with me. It won't go any further without your say-so."

"Thanks. Oh, do you subscribe to the _Times_?"

"The _Times_? The newspaper. No. Why?"

"I ran a boxed notice describing the murders of Carol Holman and Fred Russell back in 1964 and asking for any information anyone could give me. Gave them my home phone number and a rented Post Office box number. Thought I'd see what might turn up. Haven't seen the printed notice yet, though, so I thought if you had a paper . . . ."

"Sorry, no. Let me know what responses you get, and Clarence?"

Askew turned toward Mitchum. "What's that?"

"We don't know who you're up against. You be awfully careful out there."

"Will do." Askew thanked Mitchum for his help. "I can see the gate's closed. How do I get out?" he asked as the two men walked to Askew's pickup.

"My guards check in with me and then close the gate at ten o'clock each night. Go off duty 'till six tomorrow morning. I can open it with this, though," Mitchum explained, as he pulled an electronic remote gate opener from his pocket. "When you reach the gate, I'll open it. Once you're through, I'll close it behind you. Simple, eh?"

"Fred help you with gate mechanism?" Askew asked, as he opened the door to his pickup and placed his notebook on the seat.

"Ya. He designed it. Electric gate openers are common now, but they weren't back in the 1960s." Mitchum reached into his pocket, extracted one of the counterfeit silver dollars he'd unearthed while searching for the killer's bullet on the mountainside, and handed it to Askew. "Here. I want you to have this. Maybe it's a part of Harper's treasure—and maybe it'll serve as a good luck piece."

"Thanks. See you in the morning. Maybe not too early." Askew pocketed the coin, started the truck, and backed it out of the shed. As he reached the gate, it swung open. Then, as it began to close behind him and he started down the rock road away from the Lazy-D Mine, his cell phone chirped.

Only a few people had his cell-phone number. "Hello."

"Clarence, I . . . I . . . ." The voice stumbled and dissolved into a sob.

"Katrina." Askew recognized his sister's voice. "What's wrong?"

"Oh, Clarence, it's . . . it's . . . Karen. I . . . I . . . She . . . She's . . . been . . . ."

"Take it easy." Askew tried to be reassuring. "What about Karen?"

"I'm sorry, Clarence. I'm . . . I'm really . . . really upset." Katrina, Askew's sister, pulled herself together, then continued. "Karen . . . Karen's been . . . She's . . . She's . . . She's been . . . been k . . k . . kidnapped!"
CHAPTER 3

"Kidnapped! Karen's been kidnapped, you say? Tell me what you know." Askew tried to remain calm and focused as he eased his pickup to the edge of the narrow road, and then stopped in order to pay complete attention to his sister.

"I . . . I got a . . . a message . . . a phone call actually . . . from . . . from . . . from . . . somebody. I . . . I don't . . . I don't know who."

"It's okay. Try to be calm. What was the message, Katrina?"

"They . . . They gave me a . . . a number and said to call you right away if . . . if . . . if I want . . . wanted to see Karen alive again. Said . . . Said to have you . . . have you call that number and . . . and said they'd . . . they'd give you . . . give you instructions. How to . . . How to get . . . get her back." Katrina was sobbing.

"Can you describe the voice?" Askew hoped his sister could remain coherent, but he knew that Karen's abduction would be extremely hard on her.

"No. It was . . . It was one of those . . . those metallic, computer-like voices. You . . . You know what I mean."

"Yes. Okay, give me the number and I'll call 'em. See what they want." He was almost certain as to what they wanted, but he'd let them tell him.

"Clar . . . Clarence?"

"Yes?"

"One more thing. They said I . . . I shouldn't call the cops. I . . . I didn't. Was that . . . Was that the right . . . the right thing to . . . to do?"

"Yes, that's okay. You did the right thing. You're at home now, right?"

"Yes."

"Lock your doors and stay right there. Call me if there's a problem, but I don't think there will be. Not right away, anyway. I'll get back with you as soon as I can."

Askew hesitated a moment, thinking. If he called them on the cell-phone, they'd zero right in on his whereabouts. They'd know he'd been out to Delbert Mitchum's—and they'd guess why if they knew he was investigating the murders that had happened on Mitchum's property. Still, Karen's life or at least her well-being was likely at stake. Besides, when he'd spoken to Katrina, they'd probably monitored his call so they knew where he was anyway. With only a moment's hesitation, he punched in the number Karen's kidnappers had provided.

Someone answered on the fifth ring. "Askew?"

"Yes."

"Listen carefully. Very carefully. V-e-r-y carefully. You hear me?" It was a metallic voice. Somebody was using a voice changing mechanism of some sort.

"I'm listening."

"Good. You listen very carefully. We've got Karen. I'm going to tell you how to get her back, alive and unharmed." Silence.

"I'm listening."

"You'd better be. Your niece is in the basement of an abandoned warehouse. I'm going to give you the address in a minute. The first thing you're going to do is drive there—alone. You'll go inside, find her, untie her, and get her out of there. And you'd better be fast about it because every pervert who frequents that part of town would love to find her before you do. You know that, don't you?"

"I know that."

"You know what they'd do to her, don't you?"

"Yes."

"I thought you would. Now listen."

"I'm listening."

"The second thing you're going to do is drop the investigation of that old double-murder, the Holman and Russell case. Know what I mean?"

Now Askew understood exactly what this was all about. It was the motivation for kidnapping that he'd expected. Not that he was going along with the kidnapper's demands, but he understood the reason for Karen's kidnapping. "I understand what you're asking."

"I hope you do, Askew. This time you're going to get Karen back alive and unharmed. Next time, you won't. Keep investigating that case, and you won't find your sister alive either." Silence.

"What's the address?"

"You hear what I'm sayin'?"

"Yes. What's the address?"

"1217 Makings Street. Repeat it."

"1217 Makings Street."

There was a metallic "click" in Askew's ear as the phone went dead. With a glance in his rear-view mirrors to assure himself that there was no unexpected traffic, Askew shifted the truck into gear and pulled back on to the roadway.

He knew where 1217 Makings Street was, all right. At least, he knew where Makings Street was. Every cop did. Makings Street passed through a semi-abandoned warehouse district that now was populated with a few homeless people and home to a few rough bars. Every pervert and derelict in the city eventually gravitated to that area, and every crime known to mankind was committed there. Almost every night. Askew hoped whoever had kidnapped Karen was keeping an eye on her or at least on the building she was in, and he hoped he could get there and get to her before one of the perverts found her.

This was no time to speed and risk being stopped and delayed by a cop, however, so Askew drove the legal speed limit even though he wanted to get to Karen as quickly as possible.

Once he was back within the city limits, Askew took Seventeenth Avenue down to Silverleaf Boulevard. Three blocks later, a right turn would place him on Makings Street. Askew began watching the street numbers: 2200s, 2100s, 2000s, 1900s, . . . .

It became obvious that Askew was entering a run-down part of town. His truck bounced over deep potholes in the broken and neglected street that once carried heavy truck traffic as he continued past buildings with broken and boarded up windows, past abandoned vehicles sitting on concrete blocks and rusting at the curbs, past drunks huddled in darkened doorways, his eyes constantly scanning the few visible street numbers as well as searching the darkness for danger.

There it was: 1217. The once-brightly painted numbers were badly faded, now barely readable in the semi-darkness, in fact—but they were there. This was it. Askew pulled to the curb and surveyed the building. They'd picked a real dump in which to leave Karen, an abandoned warehouse with peeling paint and boarded-up windows. A place where many of the city's countless derelicts most likely found temporary refuge from stormy weather.

The front door to what once was an office appeared to be broken and hanging open on one twisted hinge—as if it were inviting anyone fool enough to enter the abandoned warehouse to go right ahead and do so. Street lights on either end of the block were broken and dark, making it almost impossible to see into the shadows. And there would be only darkness and stench beyond the entryway.

Askew made a mental note to check out the ownership of the building at 1217 Makings Street. That probably wouldn't tell him much, he knew, because most of these old warehouses were abandoned many years ago. Truth was, it might be impossible to determine exactly who owned the building. He'd try.

There wasn't any street traffic to speak of. Askew looked up and down the street, his eyes searching for any sign of human presence, as he slowly climbed out of his truck, Beretta in his right hand and a powerful tactical flashlight in his left. It appeared as if the warehouse at 1217 Makings Street covered at least half of a city block and probably consisted of a full basement and two floors above ground, maybe three. Finding Karen might take some time, depending on how well her abductors had hidden her.

There still was nobody in sight on the street. That was good. If anyone was watching him, and he had to assume that Karen's kidnappers were, they were inside one of the nearby buildings or perhaps on a roof across the street. As he made his way toward the front door of 1217 Makings Street, Askew slipped off the Beretta's safety.

The front door that now hung open by one bent hinge opened into what originally was an office area. No furniture existed there any more, but the floor was littered with liquor bottles and paper trash, the bottles having likely been left there by homeless bums seeking shelter from the cold. And the stench! The horrible stench! The unmistakable smell of human derelicts hung in the night air.

The voice said that Karen was in the basement. Okay. He'd have to find out how to get there. Having satisfied himself that no one was in the office area, Askew moved cautiously to a door at the back that appeared to lead into the warehouse area. No use in trying the knob, though. That door was secured with a massive hasp and locked with a heavy padlock that not even the bums had managed to break.

There was another door in the far corner of the office area. It appeared to be unlocked and ajar. Beretta at the ready, Askew stood aside and yanked it completely open, only to discover that the door led to a small washroom. The once white fixtures were broken and hanging from the wall or in pieces on the floor, and the smell suggested that the bums who regularly inhabited the building used the room for an open toilet.

Askew knew he had to locate a door to the basement. It might be he'd have to force the locked one that led from the ruined office to the warehouse area, but he'd look around outside the building first. Whoever kidnapped Karen hadn't made it easy for him, but then that was probably part of the message they were giving to him. Besides, the padlock on the inner door didn't appear to have been used any time recently. Her kidnappers probably hadn't taken Karen inside the warehouse that way.

Back out on the street, Askew again determined that no one was in sight, then carefully surveyed the building. There were no other doors on the front, on Makings Street. Making his way cautiously, feeling as if cold eyes were following his every step, Askew made his way down the broken and crumbling sidewalk to the corner.

Three doors were visible along the side of the building. Two were large overhead doors that opened over truck loading docks. The other was a walk-in door marked "Employees Only" in faded yellow paint.

Something seemed wrong with what he was seeing. This building appeared to have been one of the many long-abandoned warehouses in this district. The front office area certainly hadn't been used as an office for years. Yet, as he played his flashlight over the loading docks and the concrete drives leading to them, he could imagine that there were fresh tire marks and a recent oil stain or two on the concrete. He must be mistaken, Askew told himself. Nobody used warehouses in this part of town anymore.

Or did they? It appeared to Askew as if the overhead doors had been opened recently, to judge from the scrape marks in the rusted metal frames.

Askew's urgent concern for finding a way into the basement and locating Karen overshadowed his interest in whether someone had recently used the building. He'd try the walk-in door first. If it wouldn't open, he'd try one of the larger doors. Moving cautiously, keeping an eye on his back as best he could, Askew reached the walk-in door and then pushed at it. At first it appeared to be locked, but then as he exerted more force, the door began to move. It hadn't been locked after all.

Askew ran his fingers around the edges of the door, checking to see if there were any trip-wires attached. Not finding any wires, he pushed harder, easing the door open until he felt it bump against something. He pushed even harder, and the door moved heavily as if there was something behind it that had to be pushed out of the way in order to open the door.

Stepping back, Askew examined the door by the light of his flashlight. Someone had recently worked on the lock to that door. Askew was certain of that because there were traces of freshly applied lock oil about the bolt and the keyhole. That meant somebody had a key. He'd find out exactly who owned the building if he could, and more importantly, who had keys to that door; but for now Askew was intent on finding Karen.

Half expecting to find a corpse behind the door, Askew beamed his light inside as he pushed harder—to discover a heavy, rolled up, corpse-sized carpet, perhaps placed there as yet another warning of what he might find behind a door if he didn't drop the murder investigation.

It was totally dark inside the windowless warehouse. Even Askew's tactical flashlight's brilliant beam seemed unable to penetrate to the farther corners. Still, he saw enough to assure him that the warehouse was essentially empty, and that there were few places where a person might hide, except behind the pillars that supported the second floor. Not that Askew expected anyone would actually lie in wait for him, not this time anyway, but he had to be sure.

Stepping inside the cavernous building, Askew again beamed his flashlight into each corner. No one was in sight. Still, he felt those eyes following him. Perhaps Karen's kidnappers had placed a hidden camera in the room, but Askew didn't want to take time to look for it.

To the far left was a spiral stairway leading up to a second floor. A similar stairway leading to the basement was under and behind it, and Askew made his way there, keeping his back to the wall, his eyes searching every possible hiding place for an ambush.

Once he reached the stairwell, Askew beamed his flashlight along the stairs. Karen was down there, all right. Still wearing her nurse's uniform, she was seated at the foot of the stairs on the bottom step, gagged and blindfolded, her wrists securely tied behind one of the steel pipes supporting the stairway.

"Karen. Don't be scared. It's me, Clarence," Askew whispered hoarsely, his voice somehow echoing hollowly in the huge warehouse.

Karen nodded in recognition as Askew cautiously make his way down the stairs, stairs that were surprisingly solid for their age.

After a quick but studied glance around the basement to assure himself that they were alone, Askew inspected the ropes around his niece's wrists. Instead of untying them, he used his knife to cut them, then slipped the knotted pieces into an evidence bag, one of several that he always carried with him.

The moment her hands were free, Karen pulled the blindfold from her eyes and the gag from her mouth. Askew took them from her and placed them into separate evidence bags. The way in which the knots were tied and the materials used to blindfold and gag her might help him identify the ones who'd kidnapped his niece. Of course, he might not now be able to take them to a forensic lab as he had when he was employed as a deputy sheriff, but Abolence would help him get the evidence analyzed.

"You okay, Karen?" he asked.

"I'm . . . I'm okay. Just . . . Just scared." She rubbed her wrists, working at them to restore circulation.

"Right. You're a brave girl. Let's you and me get out of here."

Askew put his arm around his niece, helped her to her feet, and steadied her as they slowly climbed the metal stairs, crossed the warehouse to the outside door, and made their way around the corner to his pickup. There was no one in sight, but he was certain that someone was watching their every move.

The note stuck under the pickup's windshield wiper was printed in black block letters and read "NEXT TIME YOU DON'T GET HER BACK ALIVE." Just as he suspected, someone had been following his movements after he'd arrived there.

"What's going on?" Karen asked, as Askew drove away.

"Somebody sent me a message."

"By kidnapping me?"

"Yep."

"What's the message, as if I couldn't guess?"

"Somebody wants me to stop investigating those two cold-case murders."

"I figured it was something like that." Karen was certain that the message had fallen on deaf ears, or maybe would actually motivate her uncle to work even harder on solving those murders. After all, he'd been warned off cases before, and he'd never paid any heed. Still, with her life and probably her mother's life on the line, maybe . . . .

"I've got some errands I'd like to run yet tonight," Askew broke into her thoughts. "First, though, I'll run you over to your mother's. We'll pick her up and go from there."

No, Karen understood, her uncle wasn't giving up the investigation. "Go . . . Go from there? Where . . . Where will you take us?"

"A guy I know will help us." The sky was beginning to lighten in the east. Maybe he wouldn't get those errands run tonight after all. Delbert would be awake soon. Turning to Karen, he asked, "Want to tell me what happened?"

"I left the hospital as usual about nine o'clock. It was getting dark. They were waiting for me as I got to my car. Came up behind me, grabbed my arms, and stuck a gun in my face. Told me to shut up and come with them or I'd be dead. From the way they talked, I believed them. They shoved me into the back seat of a car, blindfolded and gagged me, and drove off. After about twenty minutes or so, they stopped, walked me into that building, still with a gun at my face, and tied me where you found me. Said you'd come get me—if I was lucky."

"What can you tell me about the people who did this?"

"Not much. The voice could have belonged to any guy—or a woman, I suppose—because the commands sounded mechanical, like a computer voice. Maybe he used some kind of an electronic device to hide his true voice."

"Probably. They do that on the phone, too You didn't see any of them?"

"No."

"Sounds like a professional job," Askew mused.

"Those guys sure seemed to be coordinated in what they did. Except for the one guy, they didn't talk. Nobody gave any orders. They just knew what to do, like they'd rehearsed the whole operation. Yes, I'd say they were professionals, of what type I don't know."

"The guys? how many of them were there?"

"I really can't say. For sure two, maybe three. I didn't get a glimpse of any of them."

"What kind of a car did they drive?"

"I don't know. I was face down on the back seat most of the time."

"Big, roomy?"

"Yes, I'd say so. There was plenty of room for me to be bent over and face down on the seat and have a gun at my head. Wait a minute. There was a guy behind me, too. Okay, there must have been at least three of them, because another one did the driving."

"Okay. Smells?"

"Nothing I remember. Not like a new car smell or anything like that. Seemed clean to me, though. Not littered with papers or trash or anything. Big car. Quiet. Couldn't hear much street noise. Couldn't get a clue as to where they were taking me."

They rode in silence, Askew continually checking his rear-view mirror and sometimes circling around a block or two if he thought somebody might be tailing him. Then the thought abruptly came to him: Whoever left that message under the windshield wipers would also have had the opportunity to place a bug of some sort on the truck, a bug that would broadcast the truck's location. They wouldn't have to tail him. They'd simply tune in the bug and it would tell them where the truck was located. Certain that that was the case, Askew drove directly to Katrina's apartment. They'd expect him to go there.

* * * * *

"I want you both to pack an overnight bag and do it fast," Askew told the women. "We're going to get you out of here for awhile."
CHAPTER 4

Delbert Mitchum had just finished washing his breakfast dishes when the speakerphone intercom chirped and alerted him that someone was at the gate. "What's up, Tommy?" he asked the guard who was on duty.

"Clarence Askew's here. He's got two women with him, his sister and his niece. It's been a very bad night for all of them, but I'll let him tell you about it. I'm sending them on through, okay?"

"Okay. I've had a feelin' that somethin's gone wrong. Better alert Johnny and step up security. Maybe all night tonight."

"Right. I'll get right onto it."

Mitchum dried his hands and walked to the front door just in time to see Askew park the small white rental car in the metal shed where he'd parked his pickup the day before. "Looks like things got hot for Clarence already," he mused as he walked out to greet the threesome. "Can't say I'm much surprised. Not with the stuff he's lookin' into."

Askew, Karen, and Katrina climbed out of the car. Both of the women were carrying travel bags as Mitchum approached. "Good morning!" he called softly.

"Hello, Delbert," Askew responded with weariness in his voice, then introduced his niece and sister to Mitchum.

"Come on in. You can tell me what's going on over some hot coffee," Mitchum invited. He took the travel bags from the two women, one in each hand, and motioned for the group to follow him back and into the cabin.

Askew was obviously tired, but he was pumped. No way was he going to accept Mitchum's invitation to sleep a little before rushing off. No way. He'd leave Karen and Katrina, if it was okay with Mitchum, and take care of some business. Take care of things he'd not been able to do the previous night.

"Karen and Katrina can stay as long as they like, but let's think a couple of things through before you leave," Mitchum advised.

"Yes!" Katrina exclaimed, grabbing Askew's arm as he started to move toward the door.

"Okay." Askew sank in to his chair, mild exasperation in his voice.

"You've got things mapped out in your mind that you want to do today, but are you going to fill anyone else in on what happened last night?" Mitchum asked.

"I don't think so. Not yet. Give me a day or so to see what comes along."

"Want to contact the FBI?"

"Maybe eventually, but not yet."

"What about Stanley Abolence?"

"The County Attorney? Hmmm?" Askew mulled that possibility over in his mind, then shook his head. "He'll have to know eventually, I suppose, but not yet. I want to keep this development to ourselves for awhile. To ourselves—and whoever we're up against. They'll know, of course."

"You're gonna tell _somebody_ where we are, aren't you?" Katrina asked, motioning toward Karen and then at herself.

Askew thought for a moment. "No, not for awhile, anyway. Nobody needs to know where you're at—and you're gonna be here for a few days, 'till we get some things sorted out. You both go ahead and request time off from work. Call on Delbert's secure phone. It'll be better if nobody knows where you're staying, so don't tell anyone," Askew repeated. He stood up and looked around at Delbert, Karen, and Katrina. "Now, I've got to get going. Okay?"

"Okay. Good luck," the others responded, almost in unison.

After they watched Askew drive away, Mitchum showed Karen and Katrina around the small cabin and suggested they make themselves at home. "I'll be out and around, trying to keep an eye on things," he promised, then showed them how to use the speakerphone to contact the guards. "Tommy, the fellow you met when you came in, or a fellow named Johnny will be at the gate. You're safe talkin' with either of 'em, and they know how to reach me if necessary," Mitchum added.

* * * * *

Askew drove first to a run-down apartment building on Maple Street. Once in the unoccupied lobby, he found a public telephone and dialed a number he'd memorized many years ago. Upstairs, that phone rang in Bobby Mahone's apartment.

Mahone had been a marine in Viet Nam, where Askew had pulled him from a crashed and burning helicopter. Later, he'd visited the badly injured man in the military hospital where he was recovering, and the two had become friends.

Life hadn't been smooth for Mahone since that time, but Askew had stuck by him through his prolonged recovery and rehab, then helped him find a job. Even when Mahone had made some bad choices about how to use his extensive knowledge of electronic alarms and other devices and subsequently served jail time, Askew remained his friend. That friendship had paid off for Askew several times over the years and was about to pay off again that day.

There was a barely audible "click" as someone picked up the receiver, but no voice came on the line. That was the way Mahone always answered his phone. Askew stated his name: "Askew."

Mahone's voice. "Whatcha want, pal?"

"I need some help, and I need it right away."

"Whatcha need, pal?"

"You know my pickup?"

"Sure."

"Well, it's sitting in my sister's apartment parking garage. You know where that is?"

"Yes."

"It's probably got a bug stuck under it some place, the kind of bug that allows somebody to keep tabs on the location of a vehicle."

"And you want it removed as soon as possible, right?"

"Right."

"I'll get over there and take a look. No promises, okay?"

"Okay."

"You gonna call back, see that I found it?"

"Yep. How long?"

"Two hours."

"Okay. I'll call ya in two hours."

There was another metallic "click" as the line went dead. That was Mahone's way of ending a telephone call.

That phone call completed, Askew surveyed the parking lot to see if he could spot anyone tailing him. Not seeing anyone, he called Colonel Thompson before returning to the rental car.

Thompson was waiting by his car in his driveway, resplendent in his uniform, obviously ready to leave for his office, when Askew arrived. "Got the bullet?" he asked, without any chitchat whatsoever.

"Yep. At least, I think so. Could be a hunter's bullet, though. We'll look more, but I want to know what you can tell me about this one." Askew handed Thompson the evidence bag containing the bullet Mitchum had found the previous day.

Thompson studied the bullet intently for several moments before he spoke. "I'll need to run some tests and take some precise measurements, but if this is the murder bullet, you might have some worthwhile clues."

"Like what?"

"Okay. This is all preliminary, right?"

"Right."

"Don't get your hopes up."

"Okay."

"Offhand, I'd say this is a fairly heavy .30-'06 Springfield bullet, maybe 200 grain, maybe heavier, the kind a smart hunter would use on big North American game like elk, moose, or big brown bears. Of course, there aren't any of those critters around here, but maybe he goes big-game hunting somewhere." Thompson turned the bullet over and over in his hand. "It's got—or had—a metal jacket so it's a hunting bullet, all right. We'll do an analysis of the marks to see if we can tell what kind of rifle it came from."

"Anything else you can tell me right off?"

"Maybe. This may have been a hand-load."

"A hand-load, you say. Not a factory round? Somebody hand-loaded the cartridge?" Excitement crept into Askew's voice.

"Maybe, but don't get your hopes up just yet. We'll analyze the metal to see if we can determine who manufactured the bullet. Don't know if that information will help you, but it's a little bit more knowledge than you had before."

"Yep. So, if it was a hand-load, we're looking for someone who not only owned a hunting rifle chambered for the .30-'06 round but who also had the equipment to hand-load his own cartridges. A marksman, too."

Thompson climbed into his car, started it, and rolled the window down. "Right" he replied. "Somewhere, in the military, maybe, the guy learned how to shoot, and my guess is he used a telescopic sight when he shot those two kids. Maybe he was a sniper in the service. Now, I'll try to have more accurate results for you by this evening. I know this is important to you, but I emphasize 'try' because I sometimes don't know what the day will bring."

"I understand."

"Can you give me a call this evening, say after nine o'clock?"

"Yes, but . . . wait." By way of response, Askew quickly reviewed the events of the previous night, then said he'd do his best to call from a public telephone. "I'll get you called somehow," he said.

"I assume you're going to pursue the investigation regardless of what happened last night?" Thompson asked. He asked it as a question, but he already knew how Askew would answer.

"Yep."

"I hope you get the guy who's behind all this and if I can help in other ways, you'll let me know, okay?"

"Thanks." Askew waved to Colonel Thompson as he drove away.

Askew sat in his car for several minutes, thinking about Thompson's initial reaction to the bullet. The .30-'06 was a rather popular hunting round and had a long history as a military cartridge. It wasn't much to go on, but he now knew—assuming that bullet was the one that actually killed Carol and Fred—just a little bit more about the killer and his weapon.

* * * * *

Delbert Mitchum stayed close to his cabin that morning, keeping an eye on the surroundings as he worked. When he checked on Karen and Katrina mid-morning, he found them asleep, Karen in the recliner and Katrina on the sofa. He let them sleep.

* * * * *

After writing notes about the bullet in his notebook, Askew drove to the Post Office where he'd rented a box in order to use that address in his newspaper notice. If someone wanted him to drop the investigation badly enough to kidnap his niece, they'd most likely be watching the box. Askew checked every car in the parking lot and the nearby street for any suspicious characters, and finding none, parked his car where he could keep an eye on it while he went inside to see if he'd received any mail.

To Askew's surprise, there already were two envelopes in the Post Office box. Slipping them into his pocket after a brief glance at the addresses to assure himself that they really were addressed to him, he hurried back to his car. Then, as he drove away from the Post Office, Askew watched carefully to see if he was being followed. To his relief, he didn't see anyone.

After circling the block again and satisfying himself that he really wasn't being followed, Askew parked on a side street, tore open the two envelopes, and quickly glanced at the written messages. When another car passed him twice, however, he hastily shoved the materials back into his pocket and drove away. He told himself it couldn't be anyone actually following him, but still . . . he could study and think about the messages later.

Just over two hours had passed since Askew had asked Bobby Mahone to check over his truck for a possible bug. When Askew drove by a convenience store and saw a public telephone, he pulled in and dialed Mahone's number.

There was the familiar "click" followed by silence. "Askew," he said.

"There were two of 'em, one easy to spot, one not," Mahone stated, matter-of-factly. "They figured you'd check for bugs, so they gave you an easy one thinkin' you wouldn't look beyond it. Truck's clean now. I also checked your sister's car. There was a bug on it, too but I got it. Looked 'em both over for bombs, too, but I didn't see anything like that."

"Thanks. What do you make of the bugs?"

"Sophisticated. Miniaturized. Expensive. Cops use 'em all the time, but anybody can get 'em if they got the cash."

"I see."

"Askew?"

"Yes?"

"They'll know somebody found 'em before long. You know that."

"Yes."

"Watch your back."

"Thanks."

There was a metallic "click" as Mahone hung up the phone and the line went dead.

Askew drove directly to his sister's parking lot, parked the rental car, and got into his pickup. Moments later he was on his way back to Delbert Mitchum's cabin. On the way, he stopped at a convenience store and made a telephone call to David Winters, recently retired owner of the Superior Abstract and Title Company.

David Winters probably knew more about the ownership of property in the county than anyone, and he was familiar with the courthouse records. He could trace the ownership of the abandoned warehouse at 1217 Makings Street if anyone could.

Once assured that Winters would do his best to find out who owned the building where Karen had been abandoned following her abduction, Askew continued on his way.

* * * * *

Mitchum, Karen, and Katrina were sharing a mid-afternoon pot of coffee when Askew arrived. As Katrina poured him a cup of coffee, Askew pulled the letters he'd found in his Post Office box from his pocket and handed them to Mitchum. "What do you make of these?" he asked.
CHAPTER 5

Karen and Katrina looked over Mitchum's shoulders with wide-eyed interest as he unfolded the messages contained in the envelopes and spread them out on the table before them. The first one, printed in the bold black ink of a felt-tip pen read simply: "LOOK CLOSE TO HOME."

"What do you make of this message, Clarence?" Mitchum asked.

"Don't know what to make of it. Might mean different things." Askew shrugged his shoulders as he replied. "'Close to home' could refer to my family, or my friends, or to cops. My guess is the reference is to cops."

Katrina wrinkled up her face. "Cops, Clarence?" she asked, questioningly, her hand on Askew's shoulder. "You . . . You think somebody's telling you that cops were involved in the murders of Carol Holman and Fred Russell?"

'Yep. That's what I think."

"What about you, Delbert," Katrina asked. "Do you think it refers to cops being involved?"

"Don't quite know what to think about it, Katrina, but maybe so. As Clarence knows, I don't have a high opinion of cops in general, and I've always wondered why they didn't solve the case in the first place. Now, exactly why cops would have been involved in any way is a good question. Wish whoever wrote that note would have elaborated."

Karen spoke up. "Those guys who kidnapped me sure knew what they were doing." Her voice wavered. "Do you . . . do you think they . . . _they_ . . . could . . . could have been cops?"

Mitchum nodded at her as he unfolded the second message. "They could have been cops, all right." Turning his attention to the second sheet of paper before them, he continued, "Let's take a closer look at this one."

The handwriting was shaky, as if the writer were an elderly person, but the message was clear:

The afternoon of the murders, there was a dark green car

parked alongside the road, a four-dour sedan, Chevy maybe,

a newer model. Parked as close as you could drive to where

that couple was killed. Same place as where those kids

parked their car. I went by there all the time, and I never

saw it before or after. Saw a big guy walking up the mountain,

too. He was carrying something bulky under a jacket over

his arm. Stocky man. Maybe 30, to judge by the way he walked.

Bushy brown hair. Crew cut. Wearing dark trousers. When

I came back three hours later, the car was gone. Never told

the cops because I didn't want to end up like those two kids

did. Hope this helps.

"Wow! That could be a description of the killer!" Karen exclaimed.

"Could be," Askew responded. "At any rate, it's the best description we've got so far, but then it could be a hoax, too."

Karen sighed. "Yeah, I suppose so."

Mitchum studied the postmark. "I'll bet you could get a good idea of where this came from by checking with the Post Office branch where it was mailed. With that information, you might even trace the writer."

"Possibly could. However, the writer might have driven across town to mail it. And if we could trace the writer, would it help with anything?"

"It might, if you need identification of some type, say of the car or maybe even the man the writer describes. Maybe even in court some day."

"You're right, of course." Askew shook his head as if to clear it. "Right now, I'm so tired I'm not thinking clearly."

"I know you're sleepy, but I need you to stay awake for a little while yet." Mitchum changed the subject. "Actually, maybe all three of you could stay awake and alert until it gets dark."

"Until it gets dark? What's on your mind?" Askew asked.

"I'm going to get some shut-eye now," Mitchum responded, "and then, about dark, I'm going to go up the hill behind the cabin to a place where I can keep an eye on things over night."

"You . . . You're going to stand guard? All night?" Karen's brown eyes were wide, questioning.

"Ya. I'll leave this radio with you. Johnny Roger will be watching at the gate all night, too. He'll have a radio, and I'll have one. The three of you can get some sleep and if either of us sees anything alarming, we'll call on the radio and wake you.

"And you can be confident in Johnny, too. He's a former Army Ranger. Lost an arm and a leg in Nam, but he's alert and he's tough, the kind of guy you want on your side when you walk down a dark alley." Mitchum grinned. "They called him Jolly Roger, after the pirate flag, not because he was jolly, but because he was fearless." Mitchum turned to Askew. "Anyway, we'll have radios and night-vision binoculars, so you guys can sleep okay after dark."

"The radio? It's always on?" Karen asked, picking up the radio and examining it as she asked.

"Yes. You'll hear one of us speaking, calling you, if there's trouble. You can hear us, and you can respond by talking right into the microphone on the radio. Or, you can call us if something happens and you want to get in touch with us. Messages are encrypted so someone monitoring our conversation won't be able to decipher what we're saying." As he explained the radio, Mitchum showed each of them how to operate it.

"Where . . . Where'll _you_ be?" Katrina asked, glancing around behind her as if she feared someone might be watching them even then.

"I've got a spot part way up the hill behind the cabin where I can keep outta sight while keeping an eye on things. Actually, it was a kind of naturally sheltered spot, and I blasted out some additional space there, sort of like opening up a shallow cave. With my night-vision binoculars, I can see the cabin and quite a little area around it. The fellow at the gate can keep an eye on things below the cabin."

"Okay if I make some phone calls from your phone?" Askew asked.

"Sure. As long as the little green light on the box under the phone stays on, you're okay. The red light comes on if somebody puts a tap on the line. Now, I'm going outside to rest a while. You lock and bar the door once I'm outside. Like I said, I'm going to get a few hours rest, and then at nightfall, I'll be ready to keep an eye on you. See you in the morning. Maybe have breakfast with you."

As Mitchum rose to leave, Karen stopped him. "Mr. Mitchum?"

"Ya?"

"I don't mean to pry, but do you play the guitar?" Karen smiled as she motioned toward a guitar standing against the wall.

Mitchum shook his head. "No. I'm afraid I'm not very musical. The guitar belonged to a friend of mine many years ago." He didn't tell her about Lori or that she sometimes came to him in his dreams, and that when she did, she often played that very guitar. Nobody needed to know that. They'd think he was crazy if they knew.

"May . . . May I . . . ." Karen hesitated.

Mitchum smiled. "May you play it? Is that what you're asking?"

Karen smiled back and nodded. "I'd sure like to."

"Ya. Sure. You're welcome to play it all you like. Maybe you'll even play something for me sometime, perhaps tomorrow?"

"Sure I will, first chance I get. What kind of music did your friend play for you?"

"Oh, she liked all kinds of guitar music, the livelier the better. Guess I liked the livelier kind, too. What kind do you play?"

"Different kinds. I'll show you, and I'll play something lively for you tomorrow, okay?"

Mitchum smiled and nodded, then he was gone. Askew locked and barred the cabin's doors, then checked the windows before turning his attention to the telephone.

Before lifting the receiver, Askew examined the little telephone tap-detector sitting under Mitchum's telephone. The green light glowed steadily, but Askew knew that new methods of taping a telephone probably wouldn't trigger the red light. Still, it was the best he could do for the evening. Moments later, he placed a call to his home telephone to see if he had any messages on his voice-mail system.

There were two messages: Stanley Abolence, the County Attorney, had called to ask how the investigation was going. And, on the second message, the metallic voice he'd heard the previous night intoned, "The women, Askew. The women. Think about the women."

It was a little early to call Colonel Thompson, but he'd try anyway. Moments later, Thompson was on the line.

"What I told you about that bullet this morning was pretty much right," Thompson began as soon as Askew identified himself. "It's a .30-'06 Springfield caliber, 220 grain, jacketed bullet. Even after all these years, the marks on it still are such that I could match it to the rifle that fired it with a great degree of certainty. You've just got to find that rifle.

"Now, here's the best part," Thompson continued, as Askew made notes, "That bullet was made by Remington and sold for reloading purposes. So, Clarence, you probably need to find somebody who reloaded his own .30-'06 Springfield rifle cartridges back around 1964, and there weren't all that many guys who shot and reloaded that cartridge around here. Of course, the shooter might have been imported from somewhere, and it might not be the bullet that killed those two kids. You must not jump to conclusions," Thompson cautioned, then added "but you're a cop—you know that, right?"

"Right. Would Remington still have any records of what gun shops in our area stocked that particular bullet?"

"I doubt it. Your best bet would be to talk to people who worked at gun shops back then. See if one of them can remember stocking that particular bullet and who among their customers might have reloaded that caliber. And that may not be as hard a task as it seems because there weren't that many reloaders in the sixties, and those who did reload were fairly well known by the other reloaders. Check with the gun clubs, too, and the guys who frequented the rifle ranges."

"I'll get onto it first thing tomorrow. You want to keep the bullet for me?"

"I'll keep it, and I'll keep it safe. And, Clarence, if the time comes, I'll testify to what I told you. Bring me the rifle, okay?"

"I'll give it my best try." Askew thanked Thompson for his help, then looked around for Mitchum's telephone book. It was too late to call any of the gun shops, but he could look up the telephone numbers and get ready to make the calls in the morning.

* * * * *

As the sun set and darkness settled over the mountainous area, Mitchum climbed the narrow path he'd climbed many times before to his lookout. He carried not only his tactical radio, his pistol, his directional microphones, and his night-vision binoculars, but a powerful tactical flashlight as well. It had been some months now since he'd kept a night-long watch from the shallow cave he'd blasted into the mountainside, but he'd actually spent quite a bit of time there over the years, especially when his paranoia had convinced him that it wasn't safe for him to sleep in his cabin.

Only it hadn't exactly been paranoia. At least not every time. Twice when he'd slept in the cave on the mountainside above his cabin, he'd awakened to an alert from his directional microphones to discover heavily armed prowlers approaching his cabin. The thugs were still nearby, in unmarked graves, of course, as were the two intruders he'd mentioned to Askew. Nobody would ever find the bodies. Never. They were buried deep. He had no remorse, either. Those thugs had come out here to kill him. He'd killed them instead. The one who'd sent them knew what happened, but he'd never be able to prove it.

Mitchum sat on the comfortable bench he'd built and placed the powerful flashlight nearby. He was wearing dark grey clothing and seated as he was in the shadows behind a pile of well-placed rubble, was almost invisible to anyone who might chance to look his way. Lifting the night-vision binoculars to his eyes, he scanned the entire area before him, paying particular attention to the area near the cabin. Nothing moved within his range of sight. The directional microphones he'd brought with him were quiet, too, not detecting any sounds, as were the wireless monitors placed around the perimeter of the Lazy-D property. Those monitors would trigger a receiver on his belt; he'd feel the vibration if they detected any activity.

So far, so good. There were no signs of intruders—yet. Still, Mitchum knew that Askew's current enemy might well be more cunning and better prepared to kill than the intruders who had paid him visits over the years.

Thinking about the bodies buried nearby in light of the present situation with Askew caused Mitchum to grimace in the darkness. The retired deputy certainly had opened up a can of worms—a can of worms that Mitchum thought he had sealed years ago, sealed with the evidence he'd gathered from the intruders and buried in a strongbox under his cabin. Maybe it was time to fill Askew in on what he knew about the mysteries of these mountains and the dark side of the city, time to see if he could seal that can of worms once more—for good. Perhaps tomorrow he'd talk to Askew about the ghosts that inhabited the Lazy-D Mine property. Then again, perhaps it would be well to let Askew get to the bottom of this case his way—regardless of the consequences. Let the chips fall where they might. Let the mighty fall into their own traps.

Mitchum couldn't be sure, of course. Perhaps Askew already knew or guessed what had happened? Even though he'd been one, it was hard to judge exactly what a cop knew. Although Mitchum liked Askew, the truth was that he simply did not trust cops. And with good reason.
CHAPTER 6

It was on the sixth telephone call the following morning that Askew struck pay dirt. He'd been referred to Tim Hoftman, a man who'd owned a gun shop back in the 1960s and who specifically catered to reloaders. "He'd know the guys who reloaded their own cartridges in the 1960s if anyone would," Askew was told repeatedly. He immediately dialed Hoftman's number.

"Someone who reloaded with 220 grain, .30-'06 Remington bullets? Hmmm? Seems as if I do recall maybe two or three men who reloaded that round back in the 1960s. Hunters they were, all right. Big game hunters. Can't say that I recall their names right off, but maybe if I think about 'em awhile I can, and I'll sure try," the old man responded to Askew's questions.

"Mr. Hoftman, could we get together and talk?" Askew asked.

"Sure."

"Today, maybe? This afternoon?" Askew glanced at his watch. "Say, one o'clock?"

"Better we wait 'till tomorrow," Hoftman responded, his voice wavering just a bit. "That'll give me time to think a little, maybe look over some of my records. They're stored in my basement, and it'll take me a little time to find those from way back then. Don't know that I'll be able to give you any names, but the records just might trigger something in my mind."

"Shall we say tomorrow afternoon at one o'clock?"

"That'd be fine," the retired gun shop owner said.

Askew sank back in his chair after saying "Goodbye."

"Bingo?" Katrina asked. She'd been listening to her brother talk on the phone.

"Yep. Bingo!"

RAP! RAP! RAP! RAP! RAP! RAP! RAP!

It was Mitchum's knock, and Katrina jumped to her feet to unbar the door. "Coffee's ready," she invited, "and I'll fix you some breakfast if you'd like. We . . . We helped ourselves to your supplies," she added sheepishly.

"Glad you helped yourself, and yes, I'd like some breakfast. Maybe a couple of scrambled eggs and bacon and toast if you don't mind cookin' 'em for me." Mitchum sat down, the effects of having been awake and alert the previous night showing in his weathered face.

Katrina smiled. "Two scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast. Coming right up, sir, and, Mr. Mitchum, we're not moochers. We'll restock your refrigerator the first chance we get."

It was Mitchum's turn to smile. "Don't worry about it," he said. "There's a fellow at the grocery store who brings me groceries. I order once or twice a week. Make out a list of things you'd like, and I'll order them. They'll leave 'em at the gate so nobody need know you're here."

"Okay. I'll fix up a list," Katrina replied as she busied herself at the stove.

"Everything seem okay around here last night?" Askew asked.

Mitchum nodded. "Near as I know. You still want to go out to where we think the killer parked?"

"Yes."

"Okay. Better make it this afternoon, though. I'm gonna need some shut-eye after I have breakfast, but I'll be awake by noon."

"You planning to stand guard tonight, too?"

"Ya. Me and Johnny'll keep an eye on things. Maybe I'll call in another fellow, too. Whoever's threatening you probably isn't set up for wilderness surveillance and a stealthy attack. It'll take 'em awhile to get out here and get coordinated—and I've got some pretty good men who can be keeping an eye on things. Truth is, I think you'll be all right here at the cabin for a second night, and then we'd better find another place for the three of you to sleep—especially if they, whoever they are, find out you're still working on the Holman and Russell case."

* * * * *

"Over here's where the cops thought the killer parked his car." Mitchum pointed to the leveled and hard-surfaced area just off the road. "It's where Carol and Fred usually parked when they didn't park down around my cabin. In fact, I had that space widened somewhat and rocked just so they would have a safe place to leave their car near where they could commence to climb some of the trails they most enjoyed."

"Are you sure that's where the killer parked?" Askew asked.

"No, can't be absolutely certain, but this would be the most likely place. It's the closest parking place to where he shot from. Seems to go along with that message you got, too, because it's where the killer was said to have been spotted. Somebody was spotted near there, anyway."

"Are there any other places he might have parked? Or where somebody might have dropped him off?"

"Sure, but the alternative parking places are a ways off. He'd of had to walk some, maybe half a mile or more. This is where I'd have parked if I were the killer, close to where I'd do the job and then get back to my car for a getaway. Of course, if somebody dropped him off and picked him up, well, who knows where the driver might have parked—or if he parked at all. Are you thinking something different about the killer's parking here?"

"Just this: If Carol and Fred were coming down that trail up there where we were yesterday, they were almost close enough to see another car parked beside theirs. Would they have known that something wasn't right?"

"It probably wouldn't have made any difference. Even if they saw another car, and even if they thought something wasn't right about its being there, they were going to be dead by the time they could see the cars—and the killer knew it. Besides, I doubt they could have seen either car clearly from where they were killed. We can check that, though, if you'd like.

"Okay," Mitchum continued, "Let's pretend you're the killer. Walk up the mountain to where he hid, behind one of those two outcrops. Only first, let me go up to where Carol and Fred were killed. You stay here where the cars probably were parked and I'll see if I can see you—or you me."

Askew and the two women, whom Askew had insisted would be safer with them than staying by themselves at Mitchum's cabin, waited while Mitchum climbed the mountain. After they'd determined that the vehicles would not have been clearly visible from the spot where Carol and Fred were killed, they followed the path the killer most likely had taken toward where Mitchum was waiting at the site of the murder.

"Are we looking for something in particular along this path?" Katrina asked as they walked.

"Not really," Askew replied. "I doubt that we'll find anything by just walking the path, but I'll ask Delbert to go over it with his metal detector, just in case. My guess is that this shooter was a pro, and pros don't leave clues."

Before long, the three joined Mitchum at the spot where the murders had taken place. "I've got a question for you, Delbert," Katrina began, as the four of them rested momentarily from the climb.

"Ya? What's that?"

"Your sign down there, the one that says 'NO TRESPASSING'? Know the one I mean?" Katrina pointed in the direction of the sign.

"Ya?"

"You identify this property as the 'LAZY-D MINE.' Right?"

"Ya. That's right."

"Mind if I ask where that name comes from? I assume the 'D' stands for 'Delbert' but the 'LAZY' part certainly doesn't describe you."

Mitchum chuckled. "Fair question Katrina. I'll tell you where the name comes from, and it's not quite what you're thinking."

"Okay." Katrina leaned forward, elbows on her knees, eager to hear Mitchum's explanation.

"I inherited this property from my uncle, a man by the name of Dave Mitchum. He was a cattleman, a rancher in Oklahoma, and the 'Lazy-D' was part of his cattle brand. Actually, the 'lazy' part refers to the position of the letter 'D.'"

"Oh, so it's the letter that's lazy!" Katrina exclaimed.

"That's right. In Uncle Dave's brand, the letter 'D' is slanted; it's 'lazy' in brand-talk."

Katrina nodded. "I understand."

"Actually his brand was a 'LAZY-D DOUBLE-BAR.' There were two bars placed under the slanted letter in a particular way, and the combination of letter and bars made it harder for rustlers to alter the brand. Not an impossible task, you understand, but harder."

Karen looked at Delbert, her big brown eyes wide. "You mean rustlers actually changed brands?"

"Ya. It was a fairly common practice. Remember, Uncle Dave was living in the Old West, the Wild West, as they call it now. Of course, rustlers still alter brands today, given the opportunity."

"Sorry. I guess I don't know much about the Old West."

"That's okay. Tell ya how brand changing works: Given a simple letter-brand such as a 'T,' for example, a rustler could add a semi-circle under the letter making it a 'Rocking-T' brand and claim it was his own." Mitchum picked up a stick and illustrated a 'T' made into a 'Rocking-T' in the dirt. "He'd say his brand was the 'Rocking-T' brand. Rustlers did things like that all the time, especially on the open range. They'd catch a cow out on the range, re-brand it with their own marks, and drive it away. Nobody could argue with 'em."

"Wow! So that's how you determined the name for your silver mine?"

"Ya. Named it after my uncle's ranch in Oklahoma. He called his spread the 'Lazy-D Ranch,' kinda dropping the 'double-bar' part for everyday use. So, I called this mine the 'Lazy-D Mine.'"

"I see. Did your uncle ever search for the silver mine here? Or do any mining?"

"No. He never even saw this property. He inherited it from his uncle, but he was so busy making money ranching in Oklahoma that he never made it out to see the place." Mitchum turned his attention back to Askew, sensing the the lawman was anxious to get back to his murder investigation. "You see what you wanted to see, Clarence?"

"Yeah. I guess so. I've got a little better picture in mind of just how the murder probably went down."

"There is something else I did that you might find interesting."

Askew leaned forward. "What's that?"

"After the cops quit searching the area, I installed an electronic monitor down there near what I call the parking lot, where we think the killer parked." Mitchum pointed. "Hooked it to a hidden tape recorder," he continued. "Just wanted to hear what, if anything, was being said around there. Besides, that's not too far from where we think Meto is buried, and for awhile I wondered if there was a connection between Meto's grave being nearby and Carol's and Fred's murders."

"I take it you did pick up something of interest?" Askew asked. His eyes narrowed as he leaned toward Mitchum. His body tensed with attention as he focused on the mine owner's stoic face. What else did this man know?
CHAPTER 7

"Did I hear anything interesting? Something of interest?" Mitchum thought for a moment, reflecting on Askew's question, his intense blue eyes expressionless. "Well, ya, as a matter of fact, I did. Didn't know what it meant, though. Still don't. And I never had the opportunity to pursue what it might have meant. Anyway, it's yours now if you want it. Maybe it'll make sense to you."

Askew's eyes were hard. "What did you hear, Delbert?"

"I've got the tape, and you can listen to it later if you want—and I guess you do. That would be best, because I've likely forgotten something from it. After all, it's been over forty years now."

"Sure. I'll listen to the tape, but can you summarize what you overheard for me—right now? Maybe direct my thinking a little?"

"Ya. Well, I can try." Mitchum thought for a moment, and then continued. "There were at least two men, probably more, but two of 'em that talked. One of 'em had a deep, gruff voice. The other was more high-pitched and squeaky. Gruff voice asked something like 'It's buried around here, then?' Squeaky voice replied, 'That's what' —I couldn't quite make out the name—'told her.' Gruff voice asked, 'She find the spot?' He sounded agitated. Squeaky said, 'I don't think so,' then added in a kind of reassuring voice, 'Nobody can find it now 'cause they're all dead that buried it.' Gruff said, 'I hope you're right, pal, for your own health.' Silence, maybe thirty seconds, then Gruff says, 'Okay, pay 'em off, then.' Feet shuffled, car doors opened and closed, and two cars started up and drove away."

"What can you tell me about the speakers, other than the voices?"

"Nothing, really. Maybe you can make out something from the tape."

"You get any idea about the ages of the speakers?"

"Hard to tell, but I'd guess the gruff voice to have been middle aged and squeaky voice to be young, maybe 25 or so. You can see what you think."

"You do still have the tape, you said?"

"Ya."

"I definitely want to hear it. Want to make a copy for myself, too. If the name they used isn't clear, we can have the lab enhance it, probably get it. And if we ever get a suspect, we might could even match voice prints, see who was worried about somebody being buried out here."

"Sure, but I think it was some _thing_ rather than some _body_ buried out here they were talking about. Maybe you'll think differently. I'll get the tape out when we get back to the cabin. I've got a tape player. You can listen to it, and make a copy for yourself, too."

"Thanks. You think the 'she' they were talking about was Carol Holman?"

"Maybe, and if so, they might have been talking about Ivan Meto being buried out here, although I think they called whatever was buried an _it_ rather than a _person_. Might have been the guy she interviewed they were referring to, the one who told her where Meto was buried before he got silenced for good. Then again, there might be something or somebody else buried around here that somebody wants to keep buried. Hard to say, but maybe you'll have some better ideas when you listen to the tape."

* * * * *

Back at the cabin, Askew listened to Mitchum's tape. There was, unfortunately, little that he could gather from it that Mitchum hadn't told him. Anyway, he'd copy it and get it to someone who could enhance the voices and analyze the background sounds. After securing a copy of the tape for himself, Askew again checked his home voice-mail. There were two messages. The first was a repeat of the previous night's warning: "The women, Askew. The women. Think about the women." So, he knew that they knew that he hadn't dropped the case as they'd wanted him to do. The second was Stanley Abolence again asking how the investigation was progressing. Neither message provided information about the crime Askew was investigating.

"I'm going to drive over and check my Post Office box. Be back before dark," Askew said, once he'd checked the voice-mail.

Katrina clutched at his arm as he stood up. "Are you . . . Are you sure you . . . you should . . . should go . . . go by . . . by yourself?" she stammered, more than a hint of fear in her voice. "After all," she continued, "You did . . . You did hear that . . . that warning."

"I'll be okay. You and Karen stay here with Delbert."

"You want to take some back-up with you?' Mitchum inquired.

"Back-up?"

"Ya. Tommy could go with you."

"Tommy? Oh, the fellow at the gate."

"Ya. Being an ex-Army Ranger, he's pretty handy with a gun and he's sharp-eyed. He could watch your back."

Askew frowned, thought for a moment, then shook his head. "I'm not used to working with another person. I'll be okay," he said.

Katrina got up and threw her arms round Askew. "You be awful careful, Clarence," she admonished.

"I will." Askew turned to Mitchum. "You said you're going to stand guard again tonight, right?"

"Ya. Me and Johnny and maybe some others will be on guard tonight. Going to get a little shut-eye now and go out when it starts to get dark." He again showed the women how to alert him on the radio if they sensed trouble of any kind.

"Okay. I'll be back by dark," Askew promised.

"Call if anything comes up, okay. Wake me up. It's okay."

"Thanks. I'll do that." Askew waved his hand as he left the cabin and walked toward his truck.

Askew drove slowly and rethought the activities of the past few days until he reached the main highway leading into the city. Then he began to focus on the vehicles behind and around him, watching carefully for anyone tailing him as he drove to the Post Office.

Four cars, none apparently occupied, were parked in a corner of the Post Office parking lot in the area that appeared to be reserved for employees. They probably really were Postal employees' vehicles, too, Askew thought, because workers sorted mail at this facility at night. Around the clock, actually.

Askew circled the block around the building twice and then drove through the parking lot, looking for any trouble that might be waiting for him. None of the vehicles looked suspicious. Askew chose one of the parking spaces near the entrance to the building where he would be able to keep an eye on his truck while he checked his mail.

With yet another careful look around the parking lot, Askew walked quickly to the door. A fast glance over his shoulder assured him that he wasn't being observed as he entered the building—at least not by anyone who was obvious about it.

A large manila envelope, twice folded to fit in his mailbox, awaited him. Askew studied the handwriting on the envelope for a moment. Before he could open it, however, he sensed movement outside as a car pulled into the parking lot.

Askew hastily backed away from the row of boxes and shoved the unopened envelope into his pocket. His hand automatically dropped to the Beretta resting in its holster at the small of his back.

He was getting jumpy, he told himself. "Calm down, Askew," he murmured. It was probably just someone coming for his mail.

Askew studied the car for several moments. It was a maroon Ford, a four-door sedan. Its windows were deeply tinted so that he couldn't actually see into the interior, but he made out movements indicating there were at least two individuals inside. Both the driver's and passenger seats were occupied.

Hand resting on the Beretta, ready to draw the weapon should he think it necessary, Askew edged along the wall toward the door, watching cautiously for any suspicious activity around the car. There was none. Nobody got out of the car. If the occupants were interested in him, they elected to wait and watch.

Askew paused at the Post Office doorway for several minutes, Beretta in hand. Then, satisfied that he was not in immediate danger, he hurried directly to his pickup.

The maroon sedan sat there as Askew backed out of his parking place and drove across the parking lot toward the street, feigning no interest in it until he was near enough to cut behind it and read the license plate.

To Askew's consternation, however, that license plate was almost totally unreadable. Not only was it poorly illuminated, but it appeared to be covered with a thick layer of dust, as was the back of the car. He could just make out the first letter, a "G" or maybe it was an "O," but that was all!

Anyway, the vehicle's occupants didn't seem interested in him. Then, just as he was about to park on the outskirts of the parking lot and read his mail, he detected motion among the cars parked in what he assumed to be the employee's parking space. One of the cars—a black Ford sedan—in that row _was_ occupied.

The driver seemed to hesitate. Moved the car just a little. Waited. At least, whoever was driving didn't seem in a great hurry to leave, unlike one might expect of a Postal employee who had just finished his shift.

The windows of the black Ford were heavily tinted, and Askew couldn't tell how many people were in the vehicle. He could only detect slight movements within the car, suggesting that at least two people were inside, the driver and a passenger. Maybe more.

Were they waiting for him to leave? Askew wondered. Well, he'd oblige them. Laying the Beretta on the seat beside him and within easy reach, he drove directly out of the parking lot, angry at himself for not checking license plates on all the cars when he'd arrived.

There was no traffic coming from the left. Without hesitation, Askew pulled out into the street and turned right. Through his rear-view mirror, he watched the black sedan leave the parking lot and follow him at a distance, dropping back to between a block and two blocks behind him. The occupants of that car had been sitting there before he arrived at the Post Office, and they appeared to have had no business in the Post Office. Had it been a stakeout—someone watching for him? Were they now following _him_? He thought so, but maybe it was his paranoia kicking in. Askew wasn't convinced.

The black Ford dropped back, now staying a good two blocks behind him. There was little traffic, and Askew had no trouble keeping it in sight. Then the car simply wasn't there in Askew's rear-view mirror anymore. He hadn't seen it turn off, but even though he remained wary, he didn't see the black sedan again. Maybe it had been all his imagination?

Once he was fairly sure that he wasn't being followed, Askew pulled into a convenience store with a public telephone. Just as he lifted the receiver, however, he saw the black sedan drive by. Slowly and deliberately. There could be no mistaking its intent now. Somebody _was_ shadowing him, and that somebody didn't care if he knew.

It would be extremely difficult for him to shake two cars. One, maybe, because Askew had learned and mastered evasive driving techniques in the service, but two? Not likely. Not if they were being driven by skilled drivers, as he assumed they were. Turning back to the phone, he dialed Delbert Mitchum's number. When Katrina answered, he told her what was happening—and that he was going to go back to his apartment instead of leading the pursuers to Mitchum's cabin.

"I may be out later tonight if I can shake these guys," Askew told her, "but let Delbert and his security guys know what's happening."

Katrina said that she would and asked him to be careful. He assured her that he would.

Askew drove directly to his apartment. The two cars, for Askew was assuming that the black one following him was acting in concert with the maroon one, shadowed him until he turned into his parking garage.

The rental car was still there exactly where Askew had parked it. He checked to determine as best he could that the two cars shadowing him were out of sight and then made his way to that vehicle, keeping in the shadows to avoid detection should one of the cars pass by again. Moments later, he crawled under the rental car. Using a small flashlight, he checked for anything in the way of listening devices that someone might have placed under it. He also checked for bombs, because he couldn't rule out the thought that someone actually might try to kill him. After all, he had to assume that whoever was shadowing and threatening him knew he was driving that rental car—and they most likely were the people who wanted him off the Carol Holman and Fred Russell case.

There were no bugs—or bombs—attached to the car that he could find.

Satisfied that the rental car was safe for him to drive, perhaps even unknown as his vehicle by the persons shadowing him, Askew cautiously hurried to his apartment, keeping to the shadows as he did so. Once inside his apartment, he searched it carefully, room by room, using only his small flashlight, not turning on any lights. Nobody was waiting for him, and he could find no evidence that his apartment had been entered.

Askew turned on the small table lamp in his bedroom, and then took a careful look from each darkened window in his apartment, assuring himself that anyone watching his apartment was at the very least well hidden. The lamp was timed to turn itself off at midnight. That might assure anyone watching his apartment that he had remained inside and then went to bed when the light went out. It was a ploy that had worked before.

The little red light was blinking on Askew's telephone, indicating that he had voice-mail waiting. The two messages he was expecting were there. The first was one again warning him to drop his investigation of the Carol Holman and Fred Russell murders, describing the dire things that would happen to his sister and niece if he did not, and the second was from Stanley Abolence, the County Attorney, asking—more insistently this time, it seemed to Askew—how the investigation was progressing.

Well, he owed Stanley Abolence a progress report, Askew reasoned, but he didn't really want to talk to the man, not just yet. At this time of night, though, he could probably leave a message on Abolence's office phone. After identifying himself, Askew thanked Abolence for his interest and support, then noted that the investigation was progressing slowly but steadily. "There seems to be some public interest in the investigation, and I intend to keep at it even though it's slow going right now," Askew summarized. That should keep Abolence from hounding him about his progress in solving the murders, at least for a few days, and maybe he'd have more to report by then. He certainly hoped for some progress he could report, yet he had to accept the fact that the crimes had been committed over forty years ago. Even with Askew's best efforts, the murders of Carol Holman and Fred Russell just might remain unsolved—permanently.

Once he was off the telephone, Askew turned on his police scanner and listened to the radio traffic while he checked out each darkened window for signs of the cars. The maroon Ford now was just visible, parked down the street where its driver could observe the entrance to Askew's apartment parking lot. If that were the driver's intent. Askew assumed it was.

As he listened to the scanner, a thought crossed Askew's mind. Mitchum had said they'd better find another place for Katrina and Karen. Why hadn't he thought of it? Stanley Abolence had a safe-house where they should be able to stay for a while. The sheriff had one that was shared with the city police, too, but since the sheriff hadn't exactly been cooperative and the county attorney had, he'd go with Stanley Abolence's. With that in mind, Askew dialed the county attorney's number for the second time that night and left a message asking to talk with him the following morning.

To judge by the scanner traffic, things seemed relatively calm that evening. Askew was almost ready to turn off the radio and try to slip away from the apartment in the rental car when he heard a call for the fire department to respond to a familiar address. Statements of "The fire's got a big start!" and "Send a second ambulance, just in case!" prompted Askew to immediate action. Now he didn't care if the cars shadowing him were near by—he was on his way to the scene of that fire.

* * * * *

The voice on the telephone was harsh—with an attitude. "Whatcha wanta do 'bout Askew now?"

"Sit tight for a day or so," came the soft spoken, deliberate answer. "We'll let him think about Hoftman and the fire for a little while. Let him simmer a little. And we're not going to warn him again."

"One of the women'll disappear for real next time?" The arrogant voice seemed excited at this prospect. "Won't nobody find her. Never!" the harsh voice continued. "Am I readin' you right?"

"You're reading me right. Go ahead and lay the groundwork for one of 'em to disappear. Do you know where the women are right now?"

"Not for sure. They ain't at their apartments. We know that 'cause we've been keepin' a watch on them places. Our best guess is that they're out in the country at that old guy's mine. Probably at his cabin."

"The Lazy-D Mine?"

"Yeah. They're probably restin' cozy in his cabin, a-thinkin' they're safe. We can take 'em outta there. Ain't no problem with that. Maybe get that crazy ol' guy out there at the same time. Maybe he'll have an accident."

"No!" The soft voice was sharper. "Not now, anyway. You leave 'that crazy ol' guy' as you call Delbert Mitchum alone. You don't know him like I do."

"Thought you didn't like the guy." The harsh voice was taunting, daring the listener to do something about Mitchum.

"It's none of your business, but you're right." The voice remained soft.

"What'd he do to you?"

"That's none of your business." The soft voice now had an edge.

"Okay. Okay. I hear what you're saying."

"That's better. Just remember who it is calling the shots here. Paying the bills and calling the shots."

"Yes, sir. Sorry."

"That's all right _this time_." The soft voice was suddenly hard. Angry.

"I said I'm sorry."

The soft voice ignored the statement. "Now, about the women. Kidnapping women is something you can handle. If the women are there at Mitchum's cabin, they'll be outta there soon enough. He knows they can't stay there forever without somebody finding 'em. He and Askew will be movin' them somewhere—and anywhere they move 'em, they'll be less well protected. I can guarantee you that. You find out where they go. Then we'll take them away, one at a time."

"Take 'em _both_?" Surprise and delight registered in the harsh voice.

"Yes. One at a time, but we'll get them both eventually. Make Askew pay the price for not paying attention to me."

"Yeah, make him pay. This time we don't play games with Askew. We don't let him come get 'em. Stuff like that, right?"

"That's right. No more games. He's had his chance."
CHAPTER 8

Askew could smell smoke and see the brilliant flames shooting skyward from almost three blocks away. Police had the street blocked at the next corner, so Askew parked and ran toward the house that now was completely engulfed in flames.There would be nothing left of those gun shop records he wanted now. Someone had seen to that. Torched the place. He'd bet on it.

An ambulance was parked behind one of the fire trucks, its crew watching the firemen fight the flames. An EMT Askew had known for several years was standing beside the ambulance. Sweat glistened on his face, attesting to the heat of the nearby fire. After greeting the man, Askew asked, "Anybody get hurt here?"

"Yeah. There was an old man living here, and they already took him to the hospital. He was in bad shape. My guess is the house burned so fast the guy didn't have much of a chance to get out. Especially if he was asleep."

"Did you get a name?"

"Yeah, Hofman . . . Tim Hofman. I think that's right. Tim Hofman."

"Hofman? Could it have been 'Hoftman'?"

"Hoftman? Yeah, that's it. Tim Hoftman."

"So the house burned extra fast? Arson, you think?" Askew asked.

The EMT shuffled his feet. He wasn't eager to commit himself on a question like that. "Hard to tell, and it ain't for me to say. Have to let the investigators figure that one out."

"But you've seen a lot of fires, and you thought it burned real fast?"

"Yeah. By the time I got here, the whole house was going up. Flames were thirty, maybe forty feet into the air. Man, it was hot! You could feel the heat for half a block. The firemen couldn't do much except try to keep the houses on either side from going up with it."

"Anybody else in the house?"

"I don't know. The old man made it to the porch, but he was burned bad. Probably inhaled a bunch of smoke, too. If there was anybody else inside, they're dead now. Of course, the firemen haven't been inside the house, and to judge from the heat, they won't be for awhile. It's an awful hot fire, and they're trying to contain it."

"So you _are_ thinkin' arson, aren't you?"

"Okay. Yeah. This is the hottest, fastest-burning house fire I've ever seen, and I've seen a bunch of 'em."

Askew walked back to his rental car, all the time inspecting parked vehicles to see if he could spot one of the cars that had been shadowing him. Neither the black nor the maroon Ford was anywhere in sight, at least anywhere that he could spot. Maybe he'd eluded them, but he doubted it. Maybe temporarily, but not for long.

While sitting in his car and watching the flames slowly die down, Askew reflected on the fact that forty-some years ago Carol Holman had talked with someone about Ivan Meto, and the next day the guy she'd talked to was dead. Now, he'd talked with a retired gun shop owner who might have helped him find the man who'd killed Carol and Fred—and the guy's house had been torched, with him in it. Even if Tim Hoftman didn't die, his records for sure were gone—and he probably wouldn't be able to remember anything that would help without consulting those records. Coincidence? Askew laughed angrily, then started the car's engine. He didn't believe in coincidence. Not when people were involved. After circling the area several times to see if he was being followed, he parked again briefly to watch the flames before starting toward the Lazy-D Mine.

Minutes later, as he pulled away from the curb, Askew asked himself who else he might have placed in danger by asking for their help in solving the murders of Carol Holman and Fred Russell. Who, indeed! Joe Thompson? Delbert Mitchum? Stanley Abolence? Katrina? Karen? He'd better alert Joe Thompson as to what had happened, especially if someone out there knew that Thompson had the suspected murder bullet.

He'd talk with Stanley Abolence in the morning, and Delbert Mitchum already had an idea they were dealing with dangerous people. But Joe Thompson wouldn't. He'd better alert him to the possible danger—now.

There had been a service station with a public telephone a few blocks back. Retracing his route, Askew located the service station and called Joe Thompson. After apologizing for calling him at this late hour, Askew told his friend what had happened to Tim Hoftman and warned him to be careful. After promising that he would be careful, Thompson suggested a direction for Askew's investigation: "If somebody wiped out that gun shop owner, we just may be on to something important with that bullet you found—and they know it. See if you can locate any of the guys who were reloading cartridges back in the 1950s. Reloaders shared a lot of information back then, kind of hung out together as they tried various reloading components. Find some of them who can identify the guys who were loading the .30-'06 round." Askew promised he'd try, that he'd get on it the first thing in the morning.

After his conversation with Joe Thompson, Askew called Delbert Mitchum's number. When a very sleepy Katrina answered, he asked her to contact Delbert and advise him that he was quite concerned for the safety of the people there. "Tell him to be extra cautious tonight," Askew told her. Katrina said she would. He didn't tell her about the fire. That could come in the morning.

Who? Who or what group had organized so effectively against him on such short notice? Oh, Delbert had warned him that this investigation could rapidly turn deadly—but he'd attributed that to the old man's seemingly irrational fears. Obviously, Askew had been wrong. Someone or some group had the resources and the will to follow his every move, kidnap his niece as a warning to him, and burn Tim Hoftman's house—with the old man still inside! Who?

Who, indeed? Two or three names came to mind—men who reputedly controlled drug trafficking between South America and the United States. They'd have the resources to shadow him and destroy anyone who might be capable of helping him with this investigation. Still, it didn't make sense. What threat would Carol and Fred have posed to today's drug traffic? He'd make a couple of calls and see what he could find out.

Askew's first call was to Bobby Mahone. "I'll poke around," Mahone assured him.

His second call was to Sheron Streeter, a young woman with the Internal Affairs Division on the City Police Department. "Give me until tomorrow to do some thinking," Streeter replied, after Askew outlined his concern.

* * * * *

There wasn't any sign of the cars that shadowed him earlier in the evening so Askew drove slowly toward the Lazy-D Mine, thinking about the old warehouse at 1217 Makings Street where Karen had been held captive. He wasn't all that far from Makings Street now, perhaps a couple of miles. Maybe he'd just drive by and take another look at the neighborhood—and at that old warehouse.

Whoa! Things were different on Makings Street that night! While there hadn't been much activity when he'd been there searching for Karen, tonight Askew saw a variety of the human derelicts who normally frequented that area. Drunks appeared to be hunkered in every other doorway, and punks were loitering around the few lighted street corners. Askew could almost smell the drugs they were using.

As Askew neared the twelve-hundred block, he noticed two or three men loitering on each corner, keeping well into the shadows and only semi-visible to anyone passing by. They didn't look like the drunks or drug addicts typically found there, nor did they act like drug dealers. Then it hit him. These guys were sentries, there to keep people away from the immediate area. Something big was going down in that part of town that very night. He'd ask Streeter what she knew about this operation when he talked with her tomorrow.

At the corner of Twelfth and Makings, the corner where the 1217 Makings Street warehouse was located, Askew could make out two guys standing in the shadows. Their eyes never left the street. Even though the street light on that corner was broken, just as it had been the night he'd come for Karen, Askew could make out that one of the men was carrying a machine pistol. Out in the open! Beyond the sentries, two small trucks were backed up to the warehouse loading docks. Askew had been right about the tire tracks he'd seen; those loading docks _were_ being used.

Askew wished he could get a closer look at those trucks and their cargo, but that was completely out of the question. The street was a dead-end, so there was no way he could drive past them or circle the block past them. Besides, anyone who tried to get past those sentries would be turned back—or be found floating in the river on the following morning.

Armed sentries were posted at each corner for several blocks past the twelve-hundred block as well, no doubt tasked with keeping people away from whatever was going down at the warehouse. Askew continued driving until he thought it was safe to stop, then turned off his lights, pulled to the curb and waited—waited and watched his rear-view mirror for any signs of activity around 1217 Makings Street.

Half an hour later, taillights glowing in Askew's rear-view mirror indicated that one of the trucks had pulled out. Minutes later, the second truck's taillights appeared. Both trucks were going away from him. They were moving slowly, it seemed to Askew, probably so as not to attract undue attention to themselves.

Car headlights appeared in Askew's rear-view mirror. Sentries checking the streets? Probably. Askew slouched in the seat so as to be as invisible as possible yet see over the dash, and breathed a sigh of relief when the vehicle passed without stopping. He'd parked where the license plate on the rental car would be at least partially hidden from casual passersby. Yet he had to assume that someone in that passing car had seen his tag and would soon discover who was the driver.

"Odd," Askew said aloud to himself, as he pulled out into the street and continued toward the Lazy-D Mine, all the time keeping an eye on his rear-view mirror. "There wasn't a cop anywhere in sight of that warehouse during the time I watched the activities on that corner." And then, up ahead at the curb, Askew spotted the maroon Ford that had tailed him earlier that evening. Someone _was_ keeping an eye on him. Someone knew exactly where he was—and probably where he was going.
CHAPTER 9

Colorful banners strung between lamp posts and colorful signs posted in lawns across town announced Stanley Abolence's bid for election to the office of State's Attorney General. Askew saw them as he approached the courthouse. Abolence had indicated that his time was extremely limited, but that he certainly had time for anything Clarence Askew wanted to discuss about the murders he was investigating. Askew, cynic that he was, knew that his solving the case—with Abolence's implied cooperation, of course—would be an extremely bright feather in Abolence's re-election campaign cap. Still, he valued the County Attorney's cooperation in his endeavors, cooperation he'd expected but hadn't obtained from the County Sheriff.

The half-hour discussion with the County Attorney proved extremely fruitful for Askew. Not only did it help him sort through and organize the progress and frustrations of the investigation, but he secured Stanley Abolence's approval for his use of the safe-house. "I'll call and arrange for Katrina and Karen to stay there as long as you think it's necessary," he'd told Askew. "Bring them over this evening after dark, say around nine o'clock." Then the County Attorney added reassuringly, "They'll be safe there."

As Askew rose to leave the office, Abolence shook his head. "It sounds like you're on to something extremely important, maybe _beyond_ those two murders, Clarence," he said, "and I wish you well. Keep in touch, be careful, and let me know how I can help." Askew thanked him, then added, "Good luck with your campaign," but Abolence was already talking on the telephone with a local television talk show host recently hired to prep the County Attorney for his television appearances.

Before leaving the city, Askew again checked his Post Office box. It was empty. He also called the hospital where Tim Hoftman had been taken and inquired about the former gun shop owner—only to learn that the man had died on his way to the burn unit. Askew's next stop would be Sheron Streeter's office at Internal Affairs.

Sharon Streeter was probably the youngest officer, certainly the youngest female officer, ever to be assigned to Internal Affairs. The fact that she appeared to be in her teens belied her reputation, which was that of a tough, no-nonsense investigator, a street-smart cop who'd spent time as an undercover cop as well as a vice-squad detective. Askew had met her several years ago when he was working on a case that involved a corrupt cop—and Streeter had flinched not one bit when Askew laid out his case against the man. She was tough, all right. She'd backed him even though his investigation had created a terrible uproar in the City Police Department.

Streeter's office was located in the back corner of a building known informally as the Police Annex, a dingy brick building that the city had obtained when its owners filed bankruptcy and abandoned it several years past. Nevertheless, Streeter assured him that her office was a secure place to talk, and Askew took her at her word. She seemed interested in learning what she could about Askew's concerns and was totally focused. "Start at the beginning, and tell me what you're working on," she invited. Her big brown eyes seemed to glow with the prospect of being involved ever so tangentially in yet another investigation.

Askew explained how he'd come to be involved with the investigation into the forty-year-old deaths of Carol Holman and Fred Russell, how things were progressing, how Karen had been kidnapped in an apparent attempt to warn him away from the investigation, and how people he'd asked for information seemed to meet with violent deaths—as they apparently had when Carol asked questions about Ivan Meto many years ago. "I don't know who we're up against," he concluded, "but it has to be someone with enough resources to shadow me, and carry out kidnappings and murder. Furthermore, it has to be someone with something to gain from my dropping the investigation." He paused for a moment, not sure if he should voice yet another concern, then decided to go ahead and added, "It might involve cops."

Streeter nodded. "Yes. I understand that. So, how can I help?"

"You've got contacts all over, so I'm asking: What organization or individual has the kind of power I've been describing?" Askew asked the central question that had brought him to Streeter.

Streeter had been leaning forward over her desk, listening intently as Askew spoke. Now she leaned back in her chair and put her hands behind her head, thinking as she looked at the ceiling, not saying a word. Slowly her dark eyes again focused on Askew.

"I don't know that I can give you a definitive answer right now, but I'm going to talk around your question for a bit, okay?" she began.

"Yes."

"Let's go way back. You mentioned Ivan Meto and the possibility that Carol Holman's interest in him got her and Fred killed," she continued, then hesitated, again deep in thought.

"Yes."

"Ivan Meto, the diamond king," she mused. "That's what they called him. The diamond king."

"Yes, that's what they called him."

"As the story goes, Barney Blitz, a rival gangster, killed Ivan Meto and took over his business—or, maybe I should say, his organization."

"Yes."

"There are some things that most people don't know about that whole business with Ivan Meto. First of all, Meto wasn't your ordinary small-time gangster. He was top of the line, and he had an organization that was top of the line for its day. It would make any modern gangster proud to have an organization like Meto had. I mean, Meto was absolutely ruthless. If you didn't go along with his wishes, you'd end up floating in the river while your business burned to the ground. He controlled not only the city's underworld, but he controlled a good share of the feeder organizations as well. Do you know what I mean by feeder organizations?" Streeter was intense now.

"I think so."

"Okay. Now, the popular story is that Barney Blitz killed Meto and took over his organization. What isn't usually reported is that Blitz didn't get to enjoy his new status as crime-king because there was no way Meto's organization was going to work for Blitz."

"What happened?"

"This is my take on what happened and only my take, understand?"

"Yes."

"I think Blitz got an ultimatum: Move over and take your thugs with you—or you'll all die."

"He moved aside."

"Right. Actually, his thugs probably had the option to join Meto's thugs, and some of 'em did. It was the only way they were going to get paid."

"You think Meto's organization still exists?"

"Yes. You see, Meto had a son by a prostitute."

Askew nodded his understanding.

"It was a mixed-up mess in that the prostitute raised the kid, but the bottom line is that the kid was eased right into Meto's organization as soon as he was old enough. And later on, so the story goes, when the kid had a kid of his own, well, the organization kept going under that kid's leadership. Not only did the organizaion keep going, but it actually thrived."

"I see."

"Now, I'm not sure what all this has to do with your investigation, but Meto's original organization is indeed rumored to be active yet today. It's a shadow group that the cops haven't been able to infiltrate even after all these years, but I've got an idea or two about its current mission."

Askew leaned forward. "I'm interested."

"This stays between you and me, okay?"

"Yes."

"Some people think I'm crazy when I outline how I see things."

"I don't. Go ahead."

"This is how I reason things. The drug trade didn't exist back in Meto's day. There was plenty of crime, but not the drug trade like we know it today. What I think is that when the drug trade moved into the area, the old organization was strong enough to control it—control it and essentially tax it." Streeter eyed Askew for any reaction. When she didn't see any signs that Askew rejected or questioned her idea, she continued: "We know about the drug activity, but we've had lots of trouble infiltrating the gangs who bring it into the area and distribute it. I think," Streeter lowered her voice, "that's because whoever controls crime in the city and oversees the drug trade has cops and political figures on the payroll."

"So undercover cops who try to infiltrate the gangs are known and—"

"Known—and eliminated. We've lost some good cops that way over the past few years," Streeter interrupted, her voice cold.

"I know that. So, who's actually in charge of organized crime in the area?"

"I don't know, nor do I know if this group is the one giving you trouble, but I'd guess it has the capability and, unlike the drug gangs, it existed in the 1960s when Fred Russell and Carol Holman were killed. Likely it existed long before then, if it in fact has evolved from Ivan Meto's old group."

"Where do we go from here?"

"Two thoughts: I'd like to help you, but I'm not sure how I can do that. Will you keep in touch? Let me know how the investigation is going? See what I might be able to do that would help?"

"Yes. And your second thought?"

"I want you to talk to Judge Mildred Teel."

"Judge Mildred Teel," Askew repeated the name. "I know who she is, but you must have a particular reason for wanting me to talk to her."

"I do. She's quite concerned about organized crime in our city. In fact, we've talked abut her calling in a Federal Task Force to look into things. Get the FBI involved. Your information and experience with this investigation may be just the nudge she needs."

Askew stood up. "I'll talk to her, and I want you to know I appreciate your taking time to talk with me."

"You're welcome." Then, as Askew turned to leave, Streeter spoke up, suddenly warmer than she had been during the interview. "Oh, Clarence?"

Askew turned back. "Yes?"

"Watch your back."

"Right."

"One other thing. Tell your partner to watch his back, too."

"My partner? How'd you know I have a partner?"

Streeter smiled. "It's my business to know everything."

"You know Delbert Mitchum?"

"Oh, yes, I know Delbert. We worked together briefly a few years ago. I found him to be extremely competent and helpful, and he's got resources nobody even dreams of. In fact, I'll go so far as to say that I owe my life to knowing Delbert Mitchum."

* * * * *

Once his appointment with Sheron Streeter was over, Askew called the Bullseye Gun Shop to ask if the owner could put him in touch with any older men who had reloaded their own ammunition back in the 1960s. "You might try calling the River Bend Hunting Club," the gun shop owner suggested. "They've got a range where shooters can sight-in their rifles, and quite a few of the men there, well, I say 'men,' but I mean men and women because they've got several women who are avid shooters and hunters, make their own ammunition. My guess is that some of the older men could help you." He gave Askew the club's telephone number as well as the name of its president, a man named Forrester Dugan, and wished him well with his inquiries.

The gate to the River Bend Hunting Club club house and range was locked when Askew arrived. Forrester Dugan, however, answered his home telephone on the third ring. After hearing Askew's request, he suggested that the lawman contact Jack Topper, one of the older members of the Hunting Club and a man who'd been reloading his own ammunition all of his life.

Askew thanked Dugan. Then, as he began to dial Jack Topper's number, he hesitated. He'd indirectly brought about Tim Hoftman's death by asking the same questions he was about to ask Topper. At least, that was the reason he suspected for the arson fire that had killed Hoftman and destroyed his records. He'd do his best to keep Hoftman's killers away from Topper, he told himself, as he lifted the receiver for the second time and dialed the number. Exactly _how_ he'd keep Hoftman's killers away from Topper, he wasn't sure.

Topper perked right up when he found out who was calling. "I saw your notice in the paper. You're the cop who's looking into that old double murder, aren't you?" he asked. Askew assured him that he was, and Topper immediately asked him to come to his house. "I'll start doing some thinking and we'll see if I can help," he said, "but you've got to remember that I'm going on a hundred years old and my memory isn't all that sharp." The old man chuckled, then continued, "Of course, I remember things that went on years ago some better than I remember what went on yesterday."

Askew said he'd drive directly to Topper's house. "See you then," the old man told him.

Before getting back into his car Askew visually checked the parking area and the street to see if anyone was shadowing him. He could never be completely sure, of course, but he didn't want to bring unnecessary trouble to Jack Topper by leading "them" to his place. Finally, convinced that everything was okay, that he wasn't being watched, he got into his car and drove an evasive route to Topper's residence.

Jack Topper welcomed Askew at his front door and invited him into his study, then called for his wife to bring them coffee. "I always have coffee around this time in the afternoon, and it's mighty nice to have someone to share it with," he explained.

The top of Topper's roll-top desk held a number of shiny trophies. Askew recognized them as shooting-sports trophies, and asked Topper about them. Topper was quick to oblige. "That one to the right, the tall one?" he pointed.

"Yes."

"I won our hunting club's bench-rest target shoot three years in a row," he began. He pointed to three trophies, then continued. "They're in the order that I won them, and that big one, the third one, is outsized because I won three years in a row." Topper laughed. "Of course, they had a rule that you couldn't win more than three years in a row without skipping a year."

"You load your own ammo?" Askew got into the reason for his visit with Jack Topper.

"Sure. All the bench-rest competitors did. You work up the best load for your particular rifle, and then use it in the matches. If you know what you're doing, hand-made ammo will outshoot most factory ammo any day." The old man paused for a few moments, then changed the subject. "But my bench-rest shooting isn't what you wanted to talk about. You want to know who I remember hand-loading the .30-'06 Springfield, 220 grain, hunting ammo."

"Right."

"I've been thinking about that ever since you called, and I've got a question or two for you."

"Okay."

"How do you know this killer you're looking for was a local boy? He might have been imported for the job, say from Chicago or Atlanta or New York or wherever."

"You're right about that. We don't know for sure he was a local boy, but we're going to pursue that possibility until we dead-end. If the killer was from Chicago or Atlanta or wherever, we'll probably never trace him—unless somebody who knew him talks."

"I see. What shooting position did he use when he shot those kids? I know you can't know for sure, but maybe you have an idea."

"As near as we can tell, he had his choice of two or three rock outcroppings. He could have steadied his rifle against a rock, and from looking over the crime scene, my guess is that he used a telescopic sight."

"Shooting uphill?"

"Yes. He had to have some experience in shooting uphill in order to place his first, probably only, shot so perfectly as to kill both of them at once."

"Okay. So we're looking for an experienced shooter, maybe one with military experience, not just a casual hunter who loaded .30-'06 rounds to save money and maybe went hunting once every two or three years."

"That's the way I see it."

"Let me think a little." The old man closed his eyes. "Back in the 1950s, there were three or four young guys who reloaded that .30-'06 round. Guys I knew, that is. There was Clyde Morgan. He was fresh out of the service and liked to come out to the club to shoot. Didn't have the discipline it takes to be a great competitive bench-rest shooter, but he was a good enough shot. Liked to hunt deer and some of the other larger animals. Went hunting out west in the mountains once or twice a year. Almost always got a deer."

"You think he could have killed somebody?"

"I wouldn't have thought it but then he'd just come out of the military—so he had the skills."

"What became of him, do you know?" Askew wrote notes as he asked the question.

The old man closed his eyes in thought. "I think he moved on, maybe in the late 1950s or 1960s sometime, got a job in another city maybe, I don't know."

"Anyone else you remember?"

"Let me think. I can see these guys in my mind's eye, but remembering their names is something else. There was a guy we called "Tubby'—for obvious reasons. Can't think of his real name or his last name right now. He was just 'Tubby.' Wait. Maybe it was Renan. Tubby Renan. Something like that, anyway."

"'Tubby' Renan. Okay." Askew wrote the name in his notebook. "What do you remember about him?"

Topper leaned back and closed his eyes as if visualizing Tubby Renan. "Tubby was a big guy. Oh, he was fat, all right, but more than that, he was just big. Well over six feet tall, maybe 260 pounds. But for all his bulk, he was agile, and carried himself well. And like Clyde Morgan, Tubby was a veteran." The old man paused.

"How old was he?"

"How old was Tubby Renan? That's a good question. I'd say he was round 30 when I knew him the the mid-1950s. Maybe a little older. Hadn't been out of the service very long."

Askew wrote the information in his notebook. "What else do you remember about him?"

"He loved a good joke, and he kept us laughing. Told a lot of jokes that began with 'Have you heard the one about' whatever, you know what I mean."

"Yes."

"Now, could he have killed those kids? I doubt it. You never know, of course, but he wasn't a mean kind of guy. I don't think he ever hunted much because he didn't like killing animals. Wasn't an activist, you know what I mean, but he didn't much like hunting. Liked to target shoot, but didn't hunt."

Askew looked up from his notebook. "You're doing right well. Can you remember the other guys?"

"A little. The other two I didn't know all that well. One of them was named Jimmy Schuler. Don't quite remember how he spelled his last name, but I think it was 'S-c-h-u-l-e-r.' He was a quiet guy. Didn't talk much. Good shooter, though." Topper thought for a few moments. "The other one I remember was Cliff Redway. Just like it sounds: 'Redway.'" I didn't know him very well either. He never had much to say."

"Anything you especially remember about Jimmy Schuler or Cliff Redway?"

"Anything that might indicate either one was a killer? Not really. And I think Jimmy moved away. Can't remember where he went, but maybe it was in the 1950s."

"He moved away in the 1950s?"

"I think so. Can't say for sure, but I don't remember him being at the range in the 1960s. You'll have to ask some of the other guys. Maybe they know. Cliff might have moved away, too. I just can't remember." The old man shook his head. "I just can't remember much anymore."

It was obvious to Askew that Jack Topper was getting tired. It was time for Askew to be going. He closed his notebook and stood up, then sat back down as another—seemingly unrelated—question crossed his mind: "Did you ever know of a man by the name of Ivan Meto?"

Jack Topper may have been tired, but at the mention of Ivan Meto's name he sat upright and eyed Askew. "Did I know Ivan Meto? I sure did!" he exclaimed.

"You actually _knew_ him? What do you remember about him?"

"Ivan was about my age, well, maybe a few years older. I went to school with him. He was in high school when I was in the middle grades. Used to pal around with him some after I graduated, too. Of course, by then, he was into all sorts of illegal activities. He was trying to keep his activities quiet, but we all knew what was going on. It was a funny thing, his being killed by that rival mobster, Barney Blitz."

"A funny thing? How's that?"

"Well, see, Meto was always the one people thought had the cops in his pocket. Not to offend you as a cop, but that was the rumor."

"I've heard that."

"Well, it may have been true. You see, Ivan Meto had a son who was a cop, only the kid changed his name so nobody would know he was related to Ivan. That's the story anyway. 'Course there were a lot of stories."

"Ivan Meto had a son who was a cop, you say. That's very interesting."

"That's not all. Ivan Meto supported a bunch of candidates for public office, supported them big time with cash. Rumor had it that he even had some of his bodyguards interfere with rival candidates—rough 'em up, burn their offices, threaten their families, stuff like that."

"What was Ivan's son's name?"

Topper shook his head. "I don't know. Like I say, that was a rumor. Story was, Ivan had the son with a prostitute. Once the baby was on its way, Ivan set her up with an apartment and provided the money she needed to raise his son, and she raised the baby. Maybe the boy took her last name. I don't know. It was real 'hush-hush.'

"Oh, and here's another part to the story. Seems as if Ivan set up a large bank account for the baby. The boy eventually married and had children of his own, one of whom became a lawyer and later went into politics—financed by grandpa's money. This is all hearsay, mind you.

"Now, we started this story because I said Ivan Meto supposedly had the cops in his pocket. There could be a lot of truth to that. His son who was a cop was reputed to have recruited other cops to help him shield Meto's good name, got 'em on his own payroll, and paid 'em well."

"What about the grandson, the lawyer?"

Meto was long dead by the time his grandson became a lawyer, but the story was that by then the lawyer's father, the cop, was deep into all sorts of illegal activities himself and needed a sharp attorney. Picked up where his daddy left off and ran with daddy's business. Did right well, too. Financed his son, the attorney, as well as other so-called business associates."

"Wasn't Meto the one who liked diamonds?"

"Oh, yes, Meto loved diamonds. You've probably heard the stories about how he carried a pocketful of them with him all the time and showed them off whenever he got the chance."

"Yes, I have."

"Well, those stories are pretty much true. I saw Meto lay out those diamonds a time or two myself."

"I've heard that those diamonds never were found after Meto was killed."

"I've heard that, but I doubt it. My guess is that Blitz or his men found the diamonds and kept them for themselves. Or maybe Meto's gang members got the diamonds."

"You said there was something funny about Meto being killed by Blitz?"

"Yes, I did. Questions about Meto's death were floating all over the place. I was rather active in our gun club back then, and I heard all sorts of stories about what happened. Stories and questions."

"Questions? What kind of questions?"

"For openers, how could Blitz have killed Meto if Meto really had the cops in his pocket? Or, on a related note, did the cops okay the killing? Or, to take things a little further, did Blitz have cops in his pocket, too? Maybe more powerful ones than Meto? Questions like those.

"Somethin' else you gotta remember. Nobody ever found Meto's body. Nobody. Some said it was buried one place, some said another. But . . . But . . . nobody . . . nobody . . . ever . . . ever . . . found it!"

Topper appeared to be getting quite agitated. He was bouncing around in his chair as he talked, and his face was flushed. Askew wasn't sure why the old man was so agitated, but he hoped he didn't have a heart attack or something because of his being there.

It was time for Askew to leave. "Well, Mr. Topper," he said, standing, "I certainly appreciate your help."

"Glad to help," the old man replied, calming a bit, "and I sure hope you catch whoever killed those kids." Topper got to his feet with some difficulty and walked to the door with Askew. "You come back," he called as Askew walked toward his car.

Askew turned, smiled, and waved. "I sure will," he said. And I just bet you've got more you could tell me about Ivan Meto, and maybe some of the other people you knew back in the 1950s, Askew thought—but didn't say.

Clyde Morgan. Tubby Renan. Jimmy Schuler. Cliff Redway. Four men who actively reloaded the .30-'06 rifle cartridge back in the 1950s—if Jack Topper's memory was correct. Askew knew he'd check them out, but somehow he doubted that one of them was the killer. Still, you go on what leads you have, and Topper had given him some leads.

And if none of those four men was the killer, one of them just might be able to lead him to the man who squeezed the trigger up on that mountain trail on April 27, 1964.

Askew ate a late lunch at a convenience store, then called Stanley Abolence. "I need someone to run four names through the FBI computers," he told the County Attorney.

"Done," Abolence responded, apparently pleased that Askew was making progress on the investigation. He transferred Askew to a young man on his staff, and Askew gave him the names Jack Topper had provided.

"I'm swamped right now. It'll take awhile, maybe a couple of days," the young man told Askew.

* * * * *

On his way back out toward the Lazy-D Mine, Askew kept an eagle eye on his rear-view mirror. No vehicles appeared to be shadowing him.

* * * * *

It was nine o'clock that night when Askew drove Katrina and Karen to the County Attorney's safe-house located at 723 Chestnut Street.

Before they left Mitchum's cabin, both women expressed their thanks to Delbert for his hospitality and the concern he'd shown for their well-being. "We didn't really have a chance to get acquainted, but I'm going to miss seeing you," Katrina told him. Taking his rough hand in both of hers, she smiled up at him and added, "Maybe once this investigation is over the four of us could get together, have dinner together or something? Do you think?"

Karen spoke up before Mitchum could answer. "Yes. And I didn't get to play the guitar for you, either, but I'd like to. I really would. Maybe we could do that after things calm down, too." She, too, was smiling as she took his other hand "Could we?"

Mitchum knew there was little likelihood of his ever seeing either Katrina or Karen again, but he also knew that these were the polite things for them to say. Even though they'd forget all about him once they were away from the Lazy-D Mine and safe at home after Askew's investigation was over, he'd go along with their well-intended sentiments. "I've enjoyed having you here, and I hope we can get together sometime," he replied.

Perhaps it was as well that Karen hadn't had a chance to play Lori's guitar for him. She reminded him of Lori as it was, and thinking about her playing Lori's guitar made him a little sad. Besides, for him, Lori would be the only girl who could really play that guitar for him. Play the songs he loved to hear. Maybe she'd come visit him again some night soon. Maybe before too long he'd go join her, wherever she was. No way would Mitchum express those thoughts to Karen or Katrina, however. They'd been nice enough to him, and he could return the favor.

Mitchum had never been what some people would call a 'ladies man.' In fact, except for Lori and Carol, he'd never been very comfortable around women. Oh, there was one other woman he'd liked—a girl really. At least she seemed so very young to Mitchum. Her name was Sheron Streeter, and she was a cop, an Internal Affairs cop. One of the few cops Mitchum had ever trusted.

But before she went to Internal Affairs, Streeter was an undercover cop, just like he'd been. Mitchum and some of his friends had rescued her once when a drug deal went bad, rescued her and sheltered her with friends until things blew over. Saved her life and kept her safe.

Sometimes Mitchum and Streeter visited on the telephone, and sometimes when they talked he wished he were much younger or she were older. No. No, he'd not wish that she were older. She'd be old soon enough. In fact, Mitchum worried about her because of her being an honest cop in a work setting he perceived to be mostly dishonest. He'd indicated to her several times that if she ever wanted to leave the police force, he'd help her find employment elsewhere. He meant it, too.

When Askew and the women were ready to drive away, Mitchum studied Askew as he sat in the driver's seat. "Come back when you've taken Katrina and Karen to the safe-house," he invited. "Since you've seen things going on around the warehouse at 1217 Makings Street and have even been inside it to rescue Karen, I think it's time we had a talk. Wantta tell you what I know about the activities around—and inside—that old warehouse."

Askew nodded his agreement. "I want to do that, Delbert, and I will, but it'll have to be tomorrow morning before I can get back here. Can we talk then?"

"Ya. That'll be fine. Come on back up here when you can." He eyed Askew. "You gonna stand watch over that safe-house tonight?"

"Yes."

Mitchum nodded. "Smart thinking," he murmured.

* * * * *

Once Askew and the women were safely through the main gate and driving away from the Lazy-D Mine, Johnny walked up the road to Mitchum's cabin. The two men sat on the porch where they could watch the road, enjoying the coolness of the night. Watching the stars come out.

"Did you get a look at that safe-house where Clarence is taking Katrina and Karen?" Mitchum asked.

"I did," Johnny replied. "Went over that way this afternoon, right after you got the address from Clarence. Not only did I look over the neighborhood and the house from the street, but I concocted a story that actually got me inside the house for a quick look-around."

"Good job. What did you think of the security?"

Johnny shook his head and frowned. "Not much," he said.
CHAPTER 10

"I don't know how this will help you find the people who killed Fred Russell and Carol Holman," Mitchum began slowly, once Askew arrived at his cabin the following morning and slept for three hours on the sofa, at least partially making up for his all-night surveillance at the County Attorney's safe-house, "but you've seen major activity around that warehouse at 1217 Makings Street, and that's where Karen was taken when she was abducted—so I thought maybe I should fill you in on what I know about that place."

"Right. I want to hear what you know about that place, but before you tell me about that, I have a question for you."

"Ya? A question about something else first? Well, go ahead."

"How did you come to know Sheron Streeter?"

"Sheron Streeter?" A smile flickered on Mitchum's weathered face. "She must have mentioned my name when you talked to her yesterday?"

"Yes. Yes, she did. Spoke very highly of you, as a matter of fact. Told me to warn you to watch your back."

Mitchum sat looking at Askew for several moments. "I don't know if I should answer your question about how I know Sheron. It'd be better if she told you."

"Well, you don't have to, of course. It's just that you seem to know an awful lot of people—or maybe it's that a lot of people know you!—and—"

Mitchum sighed. "It's okay. If I didn't have faith in you so that I trusted you to keep this under your hat, I wouldn't be working with you."

"Thanks."

"Okay. Now what I'm gonna tell you happened back a few years when Sheron was a young undercover cop." Mitchum paused, perhaps wondering if he should continue.

"I understand."

"What you may or may not know," Mitchum continued, "is that at that time, and maybe today as well, for all I know, the FBI and DEA thought so little of the top-cops on the police force here that they wouldn't share sensitive information with them. Oh, they knew there were honest cops around, but they knew there were more than enough that weren't.

"Sheron Streeter was known and well liked by some of the Feds, and one of them passed along information to a friend of mine about what he thought was going down—a drug deal where Sheron was getting set up to make the buy—and what he was afraid might happen. You can read between the lines, can't you?"

Askew was leaning forward in his chair, listening intently. "Yes. I hear you."

"This friend passed on the information to me, and I got a few of the boys together. We were waiting in the shadows when that drug deal started going south. To make a long story short, when the drug dealers drew guns and started to get nasty, our team went into action. Johnny told 'em to throw down their guns, but they wanted to shoot it out—and we obliged 'em. I dove at Sheron and knocked her out of the line of fire. Took a bullet in my leg, but that was our only damage. Eight of 'em went down for good, but we didn't lose anybody. Anyway, that's how I met Sheron Streeter, and we've kept in touch over the years."

"I heard something abut a shootout like that," Askew responded. "People said it looked like a massacre when the cops finally got to the scene. Nobody currently in law enforcement knows exactly what happened that night, do they?"

"Na. Nobody except Sheron. And you and me and the guys who were involved are gonna keep it real quiet, like she does." Mitchum didn't raise his voice, but Askew understood that this was an ultimatum.

"You've got my word on it. Now, Delbert, tell me what you know about the old warehouse at 1217 Makings Street."

"Before I begin, have you had any luck in finding out exactly who owns that warehouse?"

"No. Dave Winters is working on that project, and I should hear something from him within a few days, that is, as soon as he's able to determine ownership. Or maybe he won't be able to. Anyway, I plan to call him later today, just to see how things are going."

"Ya, and maybe you ought to warn him that he's working on an extremely dangerous assignment."

"You think so?"

Mitchum frowned. "I don't _think_ so, I _know_ so. Let me tell you my story. Then you decide."

"Okay."

"You know I was an undercover cop before I discovered this mine?"

"Right, we talked about that, and I hope you won't mind my telling you this, but I checked out your story. Of course, everything you told me checked out."

Mitchum laughed and slapped his leg. "Smart man!" he exclaimed, then added, "Clarence, I like you better all the time!" He paused for a few moments as if organizing his thoughts, then continued, his tone serious now: "One of my first assignments involved a sting operation. We, and by _we_ I mean the cops, knew that someone was making cocaine deliveries to that 1217 Makings Street warehouse, and back then cocaine was big—king of the street drugs, around here, anyway. We knew that warehouse served as a major distribution center. Somebody made the deliveries in a big truck and left the cocaine. This wasn't a small operation, either, because after the truck left, a bunch of people came in cars and vans and small trucks to haul the cocaine away. Took it all over the state. Maybe _beyond_ the state lines, I don't know.

"You also have to remember that illegal drugs weren't nearly as common then as they are now. Nobody dreamed they'd bring in drugs in such huge volumes, and maybe as cops we weren't as organized or skilled as we should have been. Anyway, we finally managed to get an undercover cop inside the operation. He was able to let us know when a shipment would arrive. He also lined up some undercover cops to make the pickups, including one on the same night the delivery arrived—something nobody had ever done before."

"The drug dealers, the distributors, that is, didn't pick up the cocaine right when it was delivered?" Askew questioned.

"Not usually. They'd wait a few days. That told us that they had no fears about the cops discovering what was going on, or fears about anyone ripping off the drugs. You can read into that whatever you wish."

"Okay. Go on."

"Well, to make a long story short—that sting operation went sour. Somebody tipped off the organization bringing the cocaine."

"What happened?"

"Oh, they brought the shipment, all right, but there was a standoff and a shootout, and the cops didn't have a chance. Our undercover man inside the organization got killed, and I almost did. Bullets whizzed by me right and left."

"So you figure some corrupt cop tipped them off?"

"Had to be the corrupt cops that tipped 'em off. Had to be. Tipped 'em off and gave up the undercover cops—me included. Didn't care that they were gonna be killed. But that's just the beginning of what I wanted to tell you."

"Go ahead."

"While I was in on that undercover operation, I heard a lot of stories about stuff being smuggled into and distributed nationwide from that warehouse."

"Stuff? What kinds of stuff?"

"Different kinds of stuff. Diamonds, said to have been bought on the black markets in South Africa or Europe, brought over here and sold nationwide to jewelers who didn't ask too many questions. Then there were the stories about Nazi loot from World War II—Nazi loot from when they overran the smaller countries in Europe—being imported from South America where the Nazis stored it, and distributed through that warehouse at 1217 Makings Street. Did a little checking around on my own when I heard those stories—and I believe 'em."

"Even the ones about Nazi loot? You're sure?"

"Ya. See, I knew a guy who oversaw art collections in one of the big museums in Chicago. He told me he'd been contacted by someone wanting to sell some art that he knew had to have been stolen by the Nazis. He wouldn't touch the stuff, said that reputable museums couldn't display anything like that—but you can bet that private collectors snapped it up. And here's the clincher. My friend learned that the stuff was being distributed from our part of the country."

Askew shook his head. "I never heard about that," he said.

"Ya. And then there were the stories about high-quality counterfeit currency coming into the country and being distributed from somewhere around here. It seemed to me as if some crime organization had the distribution system built up and the system didn't care what it handled. Cocaine, Nazi loot, counterfeit currency—didn't make any difference."

"Did you talk to any officers on the police force about these stories?"

"Oh, I tried, but they said those stories were all hearsay. Said nobody could prove those things were going on, and they mostly were right, of course. And after that shootout, there wasn't much interest from the local cops to continue looking into the cocaine trade—or anything else that might be going on at 1217 Makings Street."

"So that ended that."

"Officially, maybe, but no, it didn't. Clarence, I'm just getting started."

Askew grinned. "Okay, Delbert."

"Maybe you'll say this was stupid, but I kept an eye on that warehouse, sometimes while I was on duty, sometimes on my own time. One day I figured out how I could get inside without being detected. Didn't know if I could get out or not, but I had a place figured out to hide inside."

"Good heavens! You actually got inside that warehouse?"

"Ya. Holed up in a little hiding place with some food and water—and just waited. Sure enough, along came a delivery truck—and somebody left several small packages." Mitchum got up from his chair. "Sit tight, Clarence," he said. "I want to get something to show you."

Askew didn't have long to wait. A few minutes later, Mitchum came out of his bedroom and held out something. "Take a look," he invited.

"A diamond!" Askew breathed, then examined it carefully with the magnifying glass Mitchum gave him, and then added, "A really nice one, too!"

"Highest quality around. I checked it with three jewelers. Ya know where that came from?" Without waiting for Askew's answer, Mitchum answered his own question. "It came outta one of those packages I told you I saw delivered to that warehouse."

"You got this from one of the packages left in the warehouse?"

"Ya. The paper around one of the packages was a little bit ripped. I ripped it some more, and this diamond tumbled out, right into my hand." Mitchum smiled. "Just like that!"

"Were you still there when somebody picked up the packages?" Askew asked.

"No way. I got right out of there. But later, I went back inside and got to see a truck leave some extremely heavy wooden boxes on pallets. Those boxes were so heavy they had to be moved with a fork-lift. You know what I mean by a fork-lift?"

"Yes. Any idea of what was in those boxes?"

"No. They were heavy enough to be metals, though."

"Metals? Gold? Silver?"

"Could have been either, or both. Or maybe something else. The boxes weren't marked in any way, and I never had the chance to get one open. Every time I got close to 'em and started to break one open, I got scared off."

"You're lucky nobody caught you in that warehouse."

"I reckon so. See, to my way of thinking, that warehouse was a secured place, 'cause whenever there was activity around it, there were guards posted outside, just like you described as having seen around there the other night. Now, who owned it and protected it, I don't know. I tried to find out, but I got told to forget about that warehouse and mind my own business. My best guess was it had to be somebody with enough money to buy off the cops.

"Of course, about this time I got my silver mine going and left the police force. That didn't end my involvement with the cops, though."

"How's that?"

"I'll explain what I mean in a minute. First, though, I want to tell you what else I learned about that warehouse. Well, two or three things. First of all, there's probably more below ground in that warehouse than meets the eye. You got into the basement when you went in to get Karen, but there's also rumored to be a small sub-basement, complete with living quarters—and maybe tunnels leading to surrounding buildings or wherever. Exactly where to, I'm not sure."

"Did somebody actually live there at one time?"

"Story I got was it was a gangster's hideout. A guy could enter a tunnel maybe half a block away and walk right into that sub-basement room. Nobody could ever find him there. Now, that's all hearsay, and it might not be true.

"Second thing I want you to know is that Carol Holman thought that Ivan Meto had something to do with that warehouse. She thought maybe that's where he stashed his hoard of diamonds before somebody killed him—if indeed somebody did kill him."

"Whoa! Wait a minute. Did Carol question Meto's death? His being killed?"

"Ya. It's a crazy thing, but Meto was reputed to have a double, a guy who looked enough like him to fool most people, even some of his bodyguards. Don't know if that was so, but it was a possibility."

"Okay. So Carol thought Meto might have stashed his diamonds somewhere in that warehouse?"

"Ya. She thought he might actually have used the sub-basement as a hideout. Wanted me to go with her and Fred and explore the place."

"Did you?"

"No way. I put the end to that idea right fast. Told her what I knew about the place—and told her to keep a long ways away from 1217 Makings Street."

"Any chance she went there on her own? Or with Fred?"

"I doubt it, but I can't say for sure."

"And getting close to that warehouse might be what got her murdered?"

"Ya, but before we pursue that idea, let me tell you something else."

"Okay."

"I told you that two guys showed up out here to jump me. They would have surprised me for sure if it hadn't been for the perimeter alarm system Fred helped me set up. I told you about that, didn't I."

"Yes. I remember."

"I told you they had baseball bats and one of 'em had a shotgun."

"Yes, a sawed-off shotgun, I think you said."

Mitchum got up again. "Actually, it wasn't a sawed-off shotgun. It was a factory-made riot gun. A short-barreled riot gun. Wait. I want to show you something. Be right back."

Askew studied the diamond in his hand while he waited for Mitchum to return. He knew something about diamonds, and it indeed looked to be of very high quality.

"Take a look at this," Mitchum said. He handed a shotgun he'd retrieved from his bedroom to Askew.

"It's a Remington 870 with a short barrel, and you're right. They call 'em riot guns," Askew responded, as he took the shotgun.

"Ya. Take a look at the armorer's mark."

Askew studied the mark for a moment. "WPD," he said.

"Wimark Police Department," Mitchum replied.

"You're telling me that the guys who came out here after you were carrying a police department shotgun?" Askew seemed incredulous.

"That's what it looks like to me," Mitchum replied.

"Oh, boy-y-y," Askew sighed. He handed the shotgun back to Mitchum. "Those guys didn't leave here alive, did they." It wasn't a question.

"No, but here's the final thing I wanted to tell you about that warehouse operation. Those guys stayed here all right, but before they died, they told me that somebody—they didn't seem to know exactly who—thought that I knew enough to blow the criminal operation wide open. In fact, the organization quit using the warehouse as a distribution point for several years because of what they thought I knew. Now, of course, you've told me that it's in use again. Can't say I'm surprised."

Askew thought for several moments, reflecting on what he'd learned from Mitchum. "So we really don't know who we're dealing with, do we?" he finally said.

Mitchum shook his head. "It could be that Sheron Streeter's right and it's Meto's old gang evolved into modern mobsters. That seems to go along with different activities at that warehouse. Tell ya something, though, Clarence. Regardless of who's fighting you, I think this thing you're investigating is bigger than an unsolved double murder. I couldn't blame you if you decided to withdraw from the case—but I'm certain you won't."

"No, I won't. I want to continue with the investigation," Askew replied, "and we've—let me emphasize _we've_ —got to do some serious thinking as to how we want to proceed." Askew clasped his hands behind his head and closed his eyes.

"You're right, and yes, I'll help if you want me to. Now, let me ask you something," Mitchum broke into Askew's thoughts.

"What's that?"

"What did you get at the Post Office?"
CHAPTER 11

"The Post Office? Oh, yeah! Thanks for reminding me. I'd almost forgotten that I went there—and I did get a letter." Askew withdrew a badly crumpled envelope from his pocket and handed it to Mitchum.

Mitchum unfolded and examined the large manila envelope. It had been folded twice in order to fit into Askew's Post Office box. There was no return address. The cancellation indicated that it had been mailed from Chicago. "The envelope doesn't tell us much," he said.

"Feel anything suspicious inside?" Askew asked.

Mitchum shook his head, and then handed the envelope back to Askew.

Askew studied the envelope and squeezed it to see if he could feel anything other than paper inside. "Guess I might as well open it," he said. Moments later, he slit the top of the envelope with his pocket knife, then dumped the contents—one folded sheet of paper—onto the table.

Cautiously holding the envelope open, Askew looked inside. There was nothing else to be seen—no white powder or anything. Then both Mitchum and Askew studied the sheet of paper lying there on the table for a moment. "Looks okay," Mitchum finally said.

"Yes, I guess so." Askew used his pocket knife blade to lift the top part of the folded paper and spread the paper out full-size. Both men read the message scrawled on the paper in capital letters formed with heavy black ink:

THE KILLER YOU SEEK WILL NEVER BE FOUND.

HE CAME FROM CHICAGO TO DO THE JOB AND

HE DIED THREE YEARS AGO. YOUR SEARCH IS

OVER. SORRY.

"If that message can be believed, it narrows our search," Askew mused. "We wouldn't have to focus on finding the man who reloaded the .30-'06 cartridges or the rifle that fired that bullet we found."

"Ya, _if_ the message is correct, all that's so. You believe it?"

"I don't know what to think. How about you?"

"It sounds as if somebody out there knows who did the killing and maybe even who hired him. But the message may be a hoax, or it may have been designed to throw you off the trail and make you give up looking for the killer."

"Yes, it might be a hoax or designed to mislead us. I'm for going ahead with the investigation on all fronts, regardless. We'll keep looking for the killer—and for the man who hired him. Either one will do just fine, but if both of 'em are still alive and we can get 'em, so much the better."

"Ya. Let's get the rascals. By the way, who from this area has been in Chicago lately—like within the past two or three days?"

Askew thought for a moment. "What do you say we try to find out?" He studied the postmark on the envelope. "This was mailed two days ago." He picked up Mitchum's telephone. "I know a guy who works at the airport. Let's see if he could get us the passenger lists of Chicago-bound flights from three and two days ago."

Mitchum nodded. "Go for it." He settled back in his chair and watched Askew punch in the number.

"He says there were two direct flights to Chicago on both days," Askew reported a few minutes later, "and he'll get us the passenger lists for the four flights. However, there also were ten flights that went elsewhere each day yet eventually ended up in Chicago, and he'll get those passenger lists, too. Trouble is, he says that a private plane could have made the trip, and he wouldn't have any records of those passengers."

"Ya, but having a look at the available lists just might help. We'll see if we know any of the listed passengers. Or maybe Sheron Streeter could help us identify likely possibilities."

"Right."

"Now, have you got any results from the guy who's checking the backgrounds of those reloaders Jack Topper told you about?"

"Not yet. He said it might take a day or two."

"Mmmm. There was a Clyde Morgan, Tubby Renan, Jimmy Schuler, and Cliff Redway, right?"

"Yes."

"Did you add Jack Topper to that list?"

"Jack Topper? No, I didn't. You don't think . . . ?

"Can't be certain of anything when you're lookin' into murder."

"You're right. I should have—and I will right now." Askew immediately dialed the fellow on the County Attorney's staff who was doing the background checks and added Jack Topper's name to the list.

"Now, what about the ownership of that warehouse at 1217 Makings Street? You making any progress on that?"

"No. I haven't heard from David Winters, and my guess is that he'll have a tough time determining ownership of that building. If it's being used by organized crime, it's probably registered to several off-shore paper organizations. I'll give him another day or two, and if I haven't heard from him by then, I'll check with him."

"Ya. That's the best you can do, I guess. By the way, are you gonna stay out here with me tonight?"

"I . . . I . . . ," Askew hesitated, "I guess so."

"You feel better watching that safe-house?"

"Yes, but I can't spend all my time over there, either. I've got to trust Stan's people to protect Karen and Katrina. So, yes, if it's okay, I'll stay with you."

"Fine. I think we'll be okay here. Johnny and Tommy will be keeping an eye on things, and we'll sleep with one eye open."

"Right. Now one more thing I need to do is check my home telephone voice-mail." Askew dialed the number, then turned to Mitchum. "One message."

"One last time, Askew," the metallic voice spat out. "Drop the investigation—and do it now. I said NOW!" Askew checked the time of the message. It had been left that morning.

Just as he hung up the telephone receiver, Askew's cell phone rang. The caller ID registered Katrina's cell-phone number. "Hello, Katrina?"

"Clarence? Oh . . . Oh!" Askew heard Katrina's muffled sob.

"What's going on, sis?" he asked.

"It's . . . It's Karen." Katrina was sobbing now.

"What about Karen? What's happening?"

"She's . . . She's missing!"

"Karen's missing?"

"Y . . . Yes. She . . . She isn't . . . She isn't in the house, and . . . and she's . . . she's not . . . she's not out . . . out back . . . on the patio . . . and . . . and nobody . . . nobody knows . . . nobody knows where she is!" Katrina blurted out.

"Have you had any messages like you did before?"

"No. Nothing. That's . . . That's what . . . what . . . what scares me, Clarence."

"Okay. Katrina, I want you to get your things together. We're getting you out of there right now. I'll . . . _We'll_ be by as soon as we can to pick you up. Lock your door, and call me if you hear anything about Karen or if anyone tries to get into your room."

"I . . . I will." Katrina sobbed as she hung up the phone.

Askew turned to Mitchum: "Karen is missing. We've got to get Katrina out of that safe-house."

"Okay. I was afraid something like that might happen. Here's what I want you to do." Mitchum spelled out his plan, and Askew quickly agreed. Mitchum called Johnny, and moments later, Askew was on his way to pick up Katrina. Johnny was following him in his own car, keeping a careful watch for anyone who might try to follow Askew.

Mitchum next dialed Tommy's secure number. "We've got a job to do," he told the former Army Ranger.

Tommy didn't hesitate. "Where shall I meet you and when?" he asked.

"Meet me here at the cabin. We'll be on our way just as soon as Johnny lets us know that Katrina is safe." Mitchum outlined his plan.

"I'll be right there," Tommy replied.
CHAPTER 12

"Follow me," Johnny instructed Askew, once Katrina was safely in Askew's car. "We'll go directly to our own safe-house. Follow me close, and keep an eye out for shadows," Johnny directed as he scanned the surroundings, his hand resting on the butt of the pistol he carried in a cross-draw holster under his jacket. Askew saw that Johnny was talking into the tactical radio microphone clipped to his shirt collar as he returned to his car, reporting their progress. Twenty uneventful minutes later, both cars were pulling into the employees' parking lot behind a large downtown bank building.

Johnny emerged from his car and looked around. Seeing no immediate problems, he briefly spoke into his radio, and then beckoned for Askew and Katrina to get out of Askew's car and follow him.

A sheltered door at the rear of the bank opened quietly as the three approached. A husky young man stood there, and after a moment during which he eyed Askew and Katrina carefully, wordlessly beckoned them inside. Once the three were inside a small entrance hall and the door secured, the young man silently motioned for them to follow him upstairs. Inside the neatly furnished apartment above the bank, a young woman welcomed them with a subdued yet cherry, "Welcome."

"This is Rebecca and this is John," Johnny began introductions with the couple for whom the apartment obviously was home. Askew and Katrina shook hands with both of them.

Askew noted that both of the apartment's occupants wore 9mm Berettas similar to his, only they wore them in cross-draw holsters. John was apparently right-handed and wore his pistol on his left side while Rebecca wore hers on her right. She apparently was left-handed, a fact that interested him because he'd never known a south-paw who carried a gun as she did. Six video monitors displaying color images lined a shelf in the living room. Below those monitors were little electronic sensors of some sort with flashing green lights. Askew figured that the monitors and sensors were a part of the bank's security system. He was right.

"Let me tell you just a little about these two people, your host and hostess, Katrina," Johnny continued, indicating Rebecca and John with a nod of his head while addressing his remarks to Katrina. "Both are former military police officers. John doesn't speak, but he hears perfectly," he said, by way of explaining why John hadn't spoken. "They provide," Johnny resumed, matter-of-factly, "excellent security to the bank here, which, incidentally is owned by Delbert, and they will provide top-notch safe-keeping for you, and Karen, too, once we get her back."

"Thank you." It was all Askew could think of to say. Katrina echoed his response.

"You're both welcome, Clarence and Katrina, if I may be so forward as to use your first names." Rebecca paused, and when Askew and Katrina nodded their agreement, continued. "We've been following your investigation through Delbert's and Johnny's daily reports," Rebecca informed Askew, "so we know what's been going on, and we certainly wish you well." She picked up Katrina's overnight bag. "Come with me, Katrina," she invited. "We'll get you situated, and then, well, if you're hungry, I've got an early meal on the stove."

"Thanks, Rebecca. Thanks, John." Johnny turned to Askew. "You and me, Clarence, we've got to go. Delbert and Tommy are going to see what they can find out about Karen's whereabouts, and they're gonna likely need our help, if not early on then for sure later in the evening." John walked downstairs with the two men, checked the remote cameras that kept an eye on the parking lot, and let the men out the same door they'd entered. Both Askew and Johnny waved, and John gave them a thumbs-up as they walked to their respective cars.

* * * * *

The scrawny old man haltingly making his way down the deserted street was obviously drunk. He shuffled his feet as he wobbled, and should anyone be close enough to him on that darkened street to tell, he literally reeked of cheap alcohol. To a casual observer, nothing set him apart from the countless bums who roamed the inner-city, not his tattered and disheveled clothing, likely obtained from a dumpster or a thrift shop's discard bin, nor his unwashed and unkempt grey hair. From time to time, the old man paused to take a drink from the bottle he carried in a rumpled brown paper bag. Every so often, he took advantage of the steps leading to a doorway to sit and rest for a moment, his head nodding awkwardly as if he might at any moment fall asleep under the influence of his drink.

As darkness fell, the human derelict made his way to Makings Street—and then along toward the twelve-hundred block. Behind him, another form dressed in dark gray urban camouflage clothing followed silently. While the old man kept to the middle of the broken sidewalk and was quite visible to anyone who might be watching the streets, the second figure kept to and blended into the darkening shadows. Only the most astute observer would have known the second man was back there in those shadows. These two men were the hunters that night.

There were as yet no sentries, as Askew had referred to them, posted along Makings Street. They would only be in evidence if there were nighttime activities planned for the old warehouse, and probably would be posted later in the night if that were the case. Regardless, it seemed likely to the hunters that somebody would be keeping a constant and watchful eye on the warehouse at 1217 Makings Street.

The hunters were proved quite correct in this assumption. As the drunken derelict approached that warehouse building, his self-appointed destination, a shadowy figure, obviously a much younger man to judge from the way he moved, emerged from a building across the street and stood silently watching the drunk. Both hunters observed the movement, and noted where the figure came from—an old office building almost directly across the street from the 1217 Makings Street warehouse office door.

The derelict shuffled past the warehouse, feigning absolutely no interest in the building as the man watched, then abruptly turned on his heel and lurched inside the door that once opened into the warehouse office. Once inside the old office, he collapsed onto the concrete floor. Booze and broken glass flew everywhere as he dropped the bottle he'd pulled from the brown paper bag.

"Ya gotta get outta there, old man!" the young man who came on the run from across the street growled as he reached the doorway and beamed his flashlight directly on the derelict.

The old man on the floor attempted with seemingly great difficulty to haul himself into a sitting position while using one hand to shield his eyes from the bright light. "Wa . . . Wat . . . Watcha . . . Watcha want . . . Sonny?" he slurred the words, feigning drunkenness.

"I said, ya gotta get outta there, old man, and I mean now. _Right now_!" The husky young man reached down for the derelict's jacket collar, prepared to drag him to his feet and send him out the door and on down the street, then suddenly found himself staring directly into the muzzle of Delbert Mitchum's silenced Colt.

Before the young man could cry out or respond in any way, Tommy grabbed him from behind. Tommy had had just enough time to slip unnoticed into the old office while the man's attention was focused on Mitchum.

With one well-practiced move, Tommy had the man's arms pinned behind his back. Moments later, plastic ties bound the prisoner's wrists and ankles. With a quick search, Tommy found the man's pistol, removed it from his pocket, and tucked it into his own waistband. "Don't make a sound," he cautioned.

Another quick but thorough search and Tommy had the man's wallet. After a brief examination of its contents with a tiny flashlight, however, he whispered, "Fake identification. High quality, but still fake."

"Figures," Mitchum whispered back.

While Tommy kept an eye out the door to make sure no one else was around, Mitchum dragged their captive into a corner of the old office and rolled him over onto his back. "Gonna ask you some questions," he whispered. The man shook his head defiantly, his eyes cold as ice.

Mitchum placed the muzzle of his Colt against the man's left eye, pointed it across his face. "I'm gonna ask you some questions," he repeated. "If you don't answer before my count of five, I'm gonna blast out your eyes. The doctors will probably keep you alive, but you won't see again or look so good—so be quick about it."

Defiant eyes looked back at him.

"Where's the girl?" Mitchum asked.

"She's dead." It was a quick response. Too quick.

"Where's her body?"

"Floatin' in the river." Again, the response was too quick, too studied to be honest.

Before he could ask another question or pursue the answers he'd received, from the corner of his eye, Mitchum saw Tommy's hand signal: "Someone's coming. Big guy."

Mitchum grabbed a small roll of duct tape from his pocket and quickly taped the prisoner's mouth, then hurriedly dragged him into the room that once served as a rest room. "That one's probably lying. Let's get a second opinion," he whispered to Tommy.

Once again, Mitchum sprawled against the wall as if he were just another drunken bum. Lori had taught him some basics of acting, and that training had served him well. He wished she were there to see his performance. Maybe she was.

The big man's form was suddenly framed in the doorway, darkening the room still further. "Bill? Bill? Where are ya? What's goin' on?" he barked into the darkness. Getting no response, he beamed his flashlight around the room and finally down at Mitchum. "You, old man! Get up and get out of here! Now!" he growled, as he motioned toward the street.

Mitchum opened an eye just enough to follow the big guy's movements. He noted that he had a gun n his hand. He probably knew how to use it, too. All right. He'd let the guy come to him.

As the man approached, Mitchum suddenly twisted to one side, groaned, lurched to his knees, hacked once, and threw up, spewing watery vomit over the big guy's shoes. The man swore under his breath and jumped back, right against Tommy—who immediately knocked the gun from his hand and pressed the sharp point of his combat knife against his throat. "Don't make a sound," he whispered.

Moments later, the big man's wrists and ankles were securely tied. "I've got some questions to ask you," Mitchum told him.
CHAPTER 13

With his questions answered to his satisfaction, Delbert Mitchum stood watch at the door while Tommy gagged the big guy with duct tape and dragged him into the rest room with Bill, if indeed that was the first man's name. Pushing the big guy into a corner, Tommy wrapped duct tape around his neck and then around a pipe that once brought water to the bathroom sink. A duct tape blindfold and gag insured that he'd remain vulnerable. Depending upon who found him, his life might not be worth much. Not after botching this kind of a job. Not after answering Mitchum's questions.

Shards of glass from a long-ago shattered mirror were on the floor. Taking several of the larger pieces, Tommy pressed and rolled them against both men's thumbs and fingertips. He and Delbert wouldn't have to rely on fake identification papers now. They'd have fingerprints, and it wouldn't be long before they'd know who these men actually were, assuming their fingerprints were on file somewhere, and Tommy would bet that they were.

Once Tommy was certain that the big guy was securely bound, gagged, and blindfolded, he untied the younger man's ankles and lifted him to his feet. "You're coming with us, Bill," he said.

"I've been watchin' that door where these two guys came from," Mitchum told Tommy, once he'd finished fingerprinting the two men.

"See anything?"

"Not a thing. No lights. No movement. Nothing. What do you think?"

"It's early yet. Maybe they were the only ones there. Let's go have a look for ourselves, and then get out of here before the others show up."

There was almost no light outside now, what with the nearby street lights broken. Nor was there any traffic in the street. Tommy sprinted across the street and made his way to the doorway. The address printed in faded numbers above the door was "1220." 1220 Makings Street.

No lights glowed from within the office, nor could Tommy see any movement. Knowing that Mitchum was watching his back, Tommy tried the door, and finding it unlocked, nudged it open. He motioned for Mitchum to join him once he was sure there was no sign of human presence within that office. There was no reason for Mitchum to act like a drunken bum now and he quickly joined Tommy at the office door, forcing their reluctant captive to keep pace with them.

Gun in hand, Tommy slipped inside the door. He switched on his tiny flashlight and looked around. Once convinced that no one else was inside, he beckoned Mitchum and his captive inside.

They were inside what once had served as a reception room. Maybe it still did. A wooden desk was pushed up against a wall and several chairs lined the area. In contrast to the office across the street at the warehouse, this room was in good repair. In fact, it appeared freshly cleaned, as if someone had recently dusted the furniture and vacuumed the carpet here.

Tommy motioned for Mitchum to keep a lookout at the door, then set about exploring the adjoining rooms. It was in the third room that he found two briefcases, one stuffed with United States currency and the other containing what appeared to be maps and timetables—along with what appeared to be several sets of forged identification papers. Two small radios were also found there as well, both sitting on top of the briefcase containing the currency. Although Tommy checked the area as carefully as possible without using the overhead lights, there was nothing else of interest to be found.

"We gotta get outta here, 'cause we don't wantta be here when the big boys move into the area later tonight. It's time to call for our ride, okay, Tommy?" Mitchum whispered. It was more a statement than a question.

"Yeah, we've gotta get out of here. Have Johnny bring along a directional microphone and night-vision binoculars. We're gonna need one or the other, maybe both." Tommy paused, then turned back to Mitchum: "You figure something's going down around here tonight, don't you?"

"Likely so. That's the reason those two guys were down here early, keeping an eye on things and guarding the cash. Besides, if something important wasn't going down later tonight, they wouldn't have cared if a bum spent the night in that old warehouse office. After all, it looks like plenty of bums do get in there at one time or another, probably to get out of the cold or the rain."

"Seems right thinking to me. Let's get moving."

While Mitchum dialed Johnny's number, Tommy slipped the radios into his pockets. Once they'd arranged to be picked up, the men carefully locked the office door behind them and then carried the briefcases down the street to where they could wait in the secure shelter of an arched doorway of another abandoned building. Their captive went with them. He had no choice.

* * * * *

"Who's this guy?" Askew asked when he saw the man with Mitchum and Tommy.

"His pal called him 'Bill.' We don't know his real name yet, though, 'cause he ain't talking," Mitchum replied, "but we got his fingerprints, and I'm bettin' he's got a rap sheet somewhere, so we'll find out."

"He's coming along with us," Tommy answered the unspoken question, "'cause he flat-out lied to us. Said Karen was dead and floatin' in the river. Thing is, he ain't a very good liar, so the river's where _he's_ gonna be soon. He won't be floatin' neither. Gonna tie this briefcase and a concrete block to his foot and throw him over the bridge when we cross the river."

Upon hearing this, the young captive began to twist and thrash against his bonds—to no avail. "You want to say something? Mitchum asked.

The captive nodded.

"Who cares?" Tommy responded. "It'll just be another lie."

The captive shook his head.

"We got more important things to do first. Then we'll see what you've got to say," Mitchum decided. He motioned for Johnny to unlock the trunk, then helped Tommy pick up the captive and place him in the trunk.

Once their captive was safely locked in the car trunk, Mitchum turned to Askew: "Two-hundred-thirteen Asherville Road. Does that address mean anything to you?" he asked.
CHAPTER 14

"Two-hundred-thirteen Asherville Road?" Askew thought for a moment. "Yeah, that address means something, all right. That's the McQueen mansion."

"McQueen? As in 'organized crime-boss McQueen'?" Johnny asked, as he drove the four men and their captive toward Asherville Road.

"Yeah. That's what people call him—behind his back. He's probably not the actual boss, more like a lieutenant, maybe, but a powerful lieutenant all the same."

"Makes sense, doesn't it. Extortion is his game. Maybe he's into importing and distributing drugs or whatever makes him money as well as extortion. At any rate, he'd sure have the resources to kidnap somebody or kill 'em, or whatever. The motivation, too, or maybe somebody directed him to kidnap Karen. Let's go have a look at the place."

"Right."

Johnny drove by the McQueen mansion, located just off Asherville Road, and the four men looked it over carefully. It was an imposing, two-story brick structure, nestled in a heavily wooded area behind a heavy iron gate—something like the one that guarded the Lazy-D Mine property entrance—across the wide asphalt circle drive.

"Bars on the windows!" Tommy commented. He'd studied the house through the night-vision binoculars, and was wearing earphones attached to the directional microphone aimed at the house.

"See any human or animal activity around the place?" Johnny asked.

"Not much. There's a guard at the gate house, but that's all the activity I see, human or otherwise. And I don't see or hear any dogs." Then, just as Johnny drove past the house for the second and likely last time so they wouldn't arouse suspicion by their procedure, Tommy whispered excitedly, "That sound! Wait! Let me be sure. Yes! That's a garage door opener. They'll be opening the gate soon to let somebody drive out. What an opportunity!" He hurriedly handed the night-vision binoculars and the directional microphone to Mitchum. "Pull over to the curb. Slow down, but don't stop the car," Tommy instructed Johnny. "I'm gonna roll outta the car, and when that gate opens, I'm going inside."

"Okay."

"Park the car in some out-of-the-way place. You guys join me as soon as whoever leaves that drive is outta sight." Moments later, Tommy rolled out of the car door and into the shadows of a hedge along the sidewalk about a block from the McQueen mansion.

So far, so good. Johnny circled the block and parked where the men could watch the entrance to the McQueen property. As they watched, headlights appeared along the drive, and the sturdy iron gate swung slowly open to let the vehicle through. Once in the street, the car headed in the opposite direction—away from the watching eyes.

When the tail lights were moving out of sight, Johnny, Mitchum, and Askew made their way quietly through the shadows to the gate. Mitchum carried the night-vision binoculars. Each of the men carried a tactical radio in case they needed to coordinate activities.

The gate was unlocked when the three men reached it. They pushed it slightly open and stepped inside, scanning cautiously to be sure there wasn't an armed guard or a vicious dog waiting for them. Once inside the gate, they made for the gatekeeper's guardhouse.

Tommy had done his job well. The gatekeeper was securely bound and gagged on the guardhouse floor.

With a quick motion, Tommy activated the locking system on the gate. It wouldn't open now from the outside, but they could open it from the inside if they wanted to leave that way.

The four men quietly huddled together in the guardhouse. "According to him," Tommy began, motioning toward the bound gatekeeper as the source of his information, "Karen is in the basement of the house. Steps leading to the basement are at the back, close to the back door. He says there are only two other people in the house, Terri, that's McQueen's live-in girlfriend, and Ellen, the cook."

"You trust him?" Johnny asked.

"Not quite completely, but he was pretty cooperative when I outlined what he'd get if he wasn't honest with me. Anyway, from what he didn't say, I wouldn't be surprised if there was an armed guard of some sort around, maybe in the basement keeping an eye on Karen—so we're gonna be on our guard."

"Alarm system?" Mitchum asked.

"Not activated yet tonight, according to our friend here." Johnny again motioned toward the gatekeeper. Motioning for the other men to step outside the guardhouse with him, he then whispered, "I have a plan to get inside the house if the door is locked. First, though, we'll need the McQueen telephone number."

"I can get that," Askew whispered, reaching for his cell phone.

The overhead door on the garage was still open. Moments later, the four men assembled in the garage. They tried the door that led to the main part of the house, but it was locked. "Okay, let's see if this'll work," Johnny whispered, as he withdrew the cell phone on his belt and punched in the McQueen number Askew had provided.

"Hello-o!" The voice that answered was feminine—and giggly. Maybe a little tipsy.

Johnny disguised his voice. "Terri, honey, is that you?"

"Oh! Oh! Yes! It's me! Where are you?"

"You'll never guess what I've got for you," Johnny teased, not answering her directly.

"Something for me? You've got something for me? For little ol' me?"

"Yes, indeed, honey. Something r-e-a-l-l-y nice for you. Can you guess what it is?"

"Oh, my! Oh, no! I just couldn't guess. Give me a clue. Please. Pretty please!"

"It's r-e-d. Bright r-e-d."

"Red? Bright red? Oh, that's the color? Red? Hmmmm. Oh, I still can't guess. Give me another clue."

"Another clue? Hmmm. Okay, here's a good clue. It's got four tires."

"Four tires! Oh! It's a red car? For me? A red _convertible_?"

"Yes, it is, honey. A red convertible just for you."

"Oh! Oh, my! I've always wanted a red convertible. Where is it? Can I see it?"

"Sure. Its right here in the garage."

"Oh-h! I'll be right out."

Moments later, Tommy caught the girl as she came tearing through the door and clamped his hand over her mouth to prevent her from screaming. Johnny caught the door before it closed and wedged it open. With Terri tied up, blindfolded, securely gagged, and wedged into a small broom closet at the end of the garage, the men now had unobstructed access to the main part of the house.

Mitchum was assigned to stay in the garage and alert the rest of the men if the car that left earlier should arrive back at the gate. If anyone arrived at the main gate, the rescue party could leave by the rear door and find another way off the McQueen property.

Once inside the McQueen mansion, the other men stopped and listened intently. They could hear activity toward what would be the rear of the house—likely the kitchen area. Tommy led the way down a hall toward that activity, paused at a doorway and listened intently, then signaled his intent to enter.

Tommy had an arm around the woman who'd been working in the kitchen and clamped his hand over her mouth before she knew anyone was in the room. "Keep quiet and you won't get hurt," he whispered. When she'd calmed down a little, he eased the pressure on her mouth. "I'm going to ask you some questions," he told her. She nodded.

"What's your name?" He withdrew his hand from her mouth and placed one finger in front of his lips in the universal signal for her to keep quiet—to keep her voice low.

"Ellen." Her voice was a whimpering whisper.

"You're the cook?"

"Yes. Yes, sir."

"Do you know where they're keeping the girl?"

"The girl named Karen?"

"Yes."

"In . . . In the basement."

"How do we get there?"

"Beyond that door, to your right, you'll see another door. It opens on the stair landing."

"Is anyone guarding her?"

"Yes. He's . . . He's awful. And . . . And he's armed. Be careful of him. He'll kill you if he gets the chance."

"Okay. Is Karen locked in a room?"

"Maybe. I . . . I don't . . . I don't know." The woman hesitated as if thinking about what she'd said, then added "I think they drugged her earlier tonight."

"Drugged her?"

"Yes. I saw them sprinkle something on the food I sent down with them for her. I . . . I've seen them drug peoples food before."

"Okay. Thanks. I'm going to tie you up, but not very tight, and we're not going to hurt you. It's for your own protection when the others get back. They won't have to know you helped us."

The woman nodded her understanding.

Johnny instructed the woman to sit on the floor. He quickly tied the woman's wrists and ankles with a length of rope, then gagged her with duct tape.

Tommy led the men in the direction the cook had pointed out to them. Once they came to the stairs, he motioned for them to follow quietly but at a little distance in case the stairs creaked. He'd go down and confront the guard himself—and he preferred to be totally unannounced.

Karen wasn't in sight, but there was a guard, all right, a big hulking brute of a man wearing jeans and a blue denim shirt. He appeared to be well over six feet tall and must have weighed in at 230 pounds, maybe more. That night he was seated in a chair facing the stairs, and was holding a sawed-off shotgun across his lap. As Tommy watched, he got up from his chair and paced nervously around the basement, his eyes darting back and forth as he moved. Maybe he'd heard something.

Tommy waited in silence for a few moments while the big man paced around. While he waited, Tommy looked for doors to rooms where Karen might be hidden. There were three doors visible. As far as he could tell, it could be any one of them.

As the guard turned his back on the stairs, Tommy made his move. "Put the gun on the floor— _now_!" he commanded.

The hulking guard was surprisingly fast on his feet. He spun around, a scowl on his face, bringing the shotgun up as he did so, but he wasn't fast enough. THWACK! Tommy's silenced Colt bucked in his hand and the brute went down, crumpling to the floor without getting off a single shot, the shotgun clattering on the concrete beside him.

Tommy waved Johnny and Askew down the steps. While they went to check on the whereabouts of Karen, he checked the guards pulse. There was none.

Two of the doors were unlocked. The rooms beyond them were empty. Karen had to be in the third room, the one with the sturdy hasp and padlock, if she indeed was here.

Tommy found a heavy crowbar and attacked that third door with a vengeance. Moments later, the wood frame splintered and the door was quickly ripped open.

Karen was in that room, all right, seated in a recliner, seemingly sleeping. She'd been drugged all right, just like the cook thought.

Johnny helped Askew lift Karen from the chair. Together they half-carried, half-walked her up the stairs, following Tommy's cautious leading. In addition to his Colt, Tommy now carried the guard's shotgun.

While his partners were searching for Karen, Mitchum had kept a close watch on the front gate. He'd also taken time to look around for a possible secondary route of escape in case those who had left in the car came back. Property to the back of the house was forested. With the night-vision binoculars, he could just make out the rugged stone fence that formed the property boundary line. With a little luck, they could melt into the woods and escape over that fence. Apparently McQueen didn't feel vulnerable to intruders—or did he have some sort of sophisticated surveillance system out back? Mitchum wondered.

As the men who had rescued Karen from her basement cell approached the door to the garage, Tommy called to Mitchum on his radio: "We're coming, Delbert. We've got her."

"All's clear," Mitchum responded

When they reached the gatehouse, Tommy triggered the mechanism to open the gate. Johnny went for the car, and the rest of the group made their way slowly down the street, keeping to the shadows—aided in their bid for concealment by a shrub-lined walk. By this time, the forced exercise and the fresh air had at least partially revived Karen, and she did not require extra care or slow the group as she had when they'd first found her in that locked basement room.

Johnny brought the car to where the group was waiting. "Do you want to take Karen over to the bank?" he asked Mitchum, once everyone was aboard.

"Ya. Keep an eye out for a tail, though."

Johnny circled the block and drove an evasive pattern for several blocks until he was sure that they were not being followed, then drove straight to the parking lot behind the bank where Katrina was staying.

"What about him?" Johnny asked, once Karen was safely in the bank "safe house." He motioned toward the trunk of the car.

"Let's take him to the river bridge," Mitchum replied.

* * * * *

The voice on the phone was soft—yet markedly harsh and unforgiving: "I'm sorry about your problems of the night, but I warned you to keep away from Delbert Mitchum, did I not?"

"Well, yes. But . . . But I didn't know Mitchum was helping this Askew character. And . . . And it was _you_ who suggested kidnapping Askew's niece to begin with," the caller retorted. After a moment's silence, the caller continued: "Well, you said we've got to get Askew off this investigation one way or another. What do you want us to do now?"

There was a brief silence, and then the voice responded: "Let well enough alone. By this time tomorrow, I believe his investigation will have hit a brick wall—and he'll know it."
CHAPTER 15

The men left Bill, their warehouse captive, still bound, gagged, and blindfolded, seated on the rocky ground, well out of sight under the river bridge. He was securely tied to a concrete bridge piling. To Mitchum's deep disappointment, Bill had absolutely nothing useful to tell them about the organization he worked for, probably because he was one of the newer hires, and while Mitchum opted for getting rid of one more undesirable hoodlum by tossing the man into the river with a concrete block tied to his ankle, Askew insisted that they let him go instead. "Ten to one his boss won't like what happened tonight. Let _him_ toss the kid into the river," Askew argued.

"He still may be useful to us," Mitchum responded. "If you're determined to keep him out of the river, get a phone number from him, and we'll see if somebody cares enough to pick him up."

Askew nodded his agreement, then loosened the captive's gag. "Okay, one more question," he began. "This is one you'd better get right unless you want to stay out here for a long, long time. We're going to call someone to come and get you. Who do you want us to call, and what is the number?"

"Gonna let you make that call," Mitchum told Askew, once they'd obtained the number. "Then we're gonna talk over the strategy for our next move."

While Askew made the call, Mitchum, Tommy, and Johnny quickly devised a plan for keeping the area under tight surveillance and carefully checked out the surrounding area with that thought in mind.

Askew was grinning when he returned from making the call. "The guy who answered isn't very happy about having to pick him up," he reported, "but he says to tell Bill somebody will be here to get him as soon as they can. Who knows? Maybe 'Bill' is his real name?"

Mitchum outlined the next step: "Tommy's gonna drive the car up the way," he said, pointing. "The rest of us are gonna try to see who picks up our boy, Bill, and maybe get the tag number of their vehicle. Tommy'll pick us up later. Where do you want us, Johnny?"

Johnny pointed out nearby places where the three men could watch anyone who came to untie and pick up Bill. Each person would have a different perspective on the operation, and they'd be well hidden. If anything went wrong, as well it might, they had tactical radios with which to keep in touch—and they were armed. With no further discussion, the men took their surveillance positions.

They didn't have long to wait. Well within half an hour, a black Ford sedan slowed where Tommy had parked earlier, then drove on by. They were being cautious, scouting the area as best they could, trying to see what they were getting into, making sure it wasn't an ambush. Ten minutes later, the Ford returned. This time it stopped.

Askew recognized the Ford, all right. It was the one—or a very similar model—that had tailed him several nights before. He couldn't be one-hundred percent certain since he hadn't been able to get the complete license plate number at that time—but he could see it plainly tonight. They'd check that number later. Find out who owned that car, or at least how it was registered.

The one man who got out of the Ford was the one who'd followed Bill into the little trap Mitchum had set for them in the office of that old warehouse. Somebody obviously had found him, removed the duct tape, and put him back to work. Now, it would be his turn to release Bill from his duct tape bonds. Actually, Mitchum was a little surprised to see that the man was still alive, having lost a briefcase of currency as well as having given up the location of Karen earlier that night. Maybe he was a key player after all.

A driver remained inside the car, hidden behind deeply tinted windows, keeping the engine running. He didn't have long to wait for his passengers. Less than ten minutes passed before Bill and his rescuer emerged from under the bridge and clamored into the car.

* * * * *

There was voice-mail waiting on Askew's phone when he checked in from Mitchum's cabin later that night. The young man on the County Attorney's staff had run the names of Clyde Morgan, Tubby Renan, Jimmy Schuler, and Cliff Redway, as well as that of Jack Topper, through his computer. "Jimmy Schuler is the only one with a rap sheet, and not much of one at that," he reported. "He had three insignificant convictions of one kind or another. Lived in Chicago since the late 1950s. Died about three years ago."

"Jimmy Schuler lived in Chicago and died about three years ago." Askew repeated the information he'd obtained, then turned to Mitchum. "That last piece of mail indicated that our shooter lived in Chicago and died three years ago. Do you think we might have found our man? Or, not?"

Mitchum leaned back in his chair, put his hands behind his head, and closed his eyes. After a few moments of thought, he asked: "Do you believe in coincidence?"

Askew shook his head. "No, I don't. You think these messages are too much alike, don't you?"

"Don't know what to make of it. Maybe someone figures you'll drop the investigation if you think the shooter's dead. Who do you know in Chicago who might check out this Jimmy Schuler character for us? Or at least confirm his rap sheet and his death three years ago?"

Askew thought for a moment. "I know of a private detective there, a guy named Max Rodella."

"You trust him?"

"Yeah. Well, as much as anybody. The sheriff's investigators have used him regularly over the past several years for information on people from the Chicago area."

"Well, then, let's ask him to dig up some information on Jimmy Schuler. See what he can find out that might help us."

"Can't hurt to ask." Askew reached for the telephone, lifted the receiver, and then replaced it after checking his watch. "It's too late. I'll call him first thing in the morning."

"Good idea," agreed Mitchum. "What do you say we get some shut-eye and get back onto this case in the morning?" He glanced at his watch. "That ain't very long from now." Mitchum smiled. "Maybe we'll get back on the case tomorrow afternoon."

Askew frowned. He didn't respond to Mitchum's attempted humor. "Maybe I'm a little spooked. Are you . . . is _somebody_ standing guard around here tonight?"

"Tommy and Johnny will take care of us. They'll probably call in some friends to help 'em out if they're sleepy or feel a need for additional staff."

"What about Katrina and Karen? Are they going to be safe?"

"Safe as can be. Rebecca and John are two of the best security guards I know of, or I sure wouldn't trust 'em with my bank."

"Just the two of them handle security there?"

Mitchum laughed. "The two of 'em would be enough for almost anything, but they've also got other people on the payroll they can call on to help 'em out if they need 'em—all either former military cops or special forces operatives. So, hey, Clarence, relax and rest easy tonight, okay. Katrina and Karen are as safe as we can make 'em. And with Tommy and Johnny overseeing our security, you know you and me are gonna be okay."

* * * * *

Askew slept fairly well, then woke earlier than he intended the following morning and placed a call to Max Rodella. Once that call was made, he went back to sleep. In fact, it was almost noon when he smelled coffee perking and knew that Mitchum was preparing a late breakfast. It was time to be back at work.

"We've gotta step back and take a look at where we're at with this investigation," Askew began, after the two of them had eaten and Mitchum had cleared away the table.

"Ya. You go ahead, and I'll listen."

Askew went over each step he'd taken in investigating the forty-year-old murders of Fred Russell and Carol Holman. Mitchum listened carefully, interrupting only twice to clarify things he wasn't sure about, then asked, "So what do you have in process?"

"I've got Max Rodella checking on a Jimmy Schuler in Chicago. I've got David Winters checking out the ownership of that warehouse at 1217 Makings Street. Now, with regard to whatever's going on at that warehouse these days, we've got a briefcase full of cash and another briefcase full of papers. We've also got fingerprints of the two guys who tried to run you and Tommy out of that warehouse office. We'll get those processed as soon as we can."

"Tommy'll get 'em processed," Mitchum interjected.

"Oh, have you got somebody who can—?"

"Ya," Mitchum interrupted. "We won't use the police labs." He hesitated a moment. "It's a long shot, but it seems to me as if those two cold-case murders are tied in some way with that warehouse and the current activity there. Don't know how I connect 'em, but I've got this feeling."

"I agree."

"Got anything else perkin'?"

"Yes. I've got a contact at the airport checking the passengers who went to Chicago on the flights immediately before I got that letter from Chicago."

"Okay. Have you checked your voice-mail lately?"

"No. I'm going to do that right away, and I'll also check my mail box this afternoon." Askew thought a moment. "Now, back to that warehouse," he continued, "what do you say we have a look at that briefcase and the papers you and Tommy picked up across the street from it?"

Mitchum retrieved the briefcase and placed it on the table in front of Askew. "Go ahead and open it," he suggested.

The contents of that briefcase were to be, frankly, a keen disappointment to both Mitchum and Askew. There were maps of the city that were marked to show routes to the warehouse located at 1217 Makings Street. Also, there were what appeared to be timetables, but these were coded and might or might not be useful even if they could be decoded. And the sets of identification papers were obviously fake. They were near-excellent fakes, but Askew was an expert at detecting forged documents.

Askew turned to Mitchum. "You see anything else of interest here?" he asked.

"Don't know. Let me take a look at the briefcase."

Askew handed the empty briefcase to Mitchum. He examined it carefully for hidden pockets but found nothing amiss. "I don't see anything out of the ordinary," he told Askew, "but let's let Tommy and Johnny take a look at it. Sometimes they find things that my eyes miss. And they may have an idea of who could produce such good fake identification papers."

Mitchum placed the briefcase on the table, and Askew placed the maps, timetables, and papers back inside of it. Once that was done and the briefcase stashed in Mitchum's office safe, the two men opened the other briefcase and counted the cash they found there—almost $100,000 in United States currency.

"Is this stuff counterfeit?" Mitchum asked.

Askew studied the currency. "If it is, it's an extremely good job of counterfeiting."

"Have the drug dealers got that capacity now?"

"Probably," Askew replied, "but I think this is the real stuff. We need to get it over to your bank."

"Ya, I reckon so. What do you wantta bet that whoever lost this briefcase ain't too happy right now?"

* * * * *

There was nothing waiting for Askew in his mailbox, and he had no voice-mail messages. As he drove back to Mitchum's cabin, the distracting thought crossed his mind that Case #64-16/17 might remain a cold-case forever. It was the same feeling of discouragement that had dogged him on some of the other cases he'd investigated, and the only way he knew to combat it was to keep busy following every lead, no matter how minor. And that was exactly what he was going to do.

* * * * *

Max Rodella returned Askew's call late that evening. "This ain't gonna help ya much," he began, once pleasantries were exchanged, "but I can't find any record of the Jimmy Schuler you're lookin' for here in Chicago."

"No Jimmy Schuler in Chicago? I can't believe it!" Askew exclaimed.

"Oh, there are a bunch of Jimmy Schulers living in Chicago," the private detective replied. "Only trouble is, none of 'em match the general description you gave me, an' none of 'em have a rap sheet like you figure the guy should have."

"Any of them die about three years ago?" Askew asked.

"Oh, yeah, a couple of 'em died around three years ago, but neither of 'em was the one you're describing to me. They weren't the right age, and they'd lived here all their lives. Like I said, neither of 'em had a rap sheet. Hadn't had so much as a parking ticket, at least that I can determine."

"Can you send me their obituaries?"

"Yeah, I'll do that. In fact I've got 'em copied and ready to mail now, but I'm tellin' ya, these guys who died three years ago don't match the profiles you gave me in any way—except that they were named Jimmy Schuler. I did a little checking. Neither of those guys was a likely killer. Oh, I know, anybody can kill if the motivation's right. But you were talking about a professional killer, and these guys were family men."

Askew thought for a moment. "I was so sure that we had a solid lead. Could you take another look, maybe in the suburbs?"

"Sure, I'll look around some more and let you know if I find anything else, but my sources cover the suburbs, and the police files should list anyone with a Chicago area address. My guess is that you've got a bad lead." Rodella sensed the defeat in Askew's voice. "Sorry. I'll keep looking—and you'll give me some other names if I can help."

"Right. Thanks."

Askew hung up the phone and squinted across the table at Mitchum. "You know what I think?" Without waiting for Mitchum to answer, Askew continued. "Somebody's trying to derail us, Delbert. To counter that, we've got to do some serious thinking, maybe go over what we've got so far again, and see where we want to go from here," he said, then added, "Maybe _we_ can do the derailing."

Mitchum nodded. "Ya. I agree."

Askew leaned back in his chair, put his arms behind his head, and fell silent, thinking, then suddenly sat bolt upright. "I'll tell you what I want to do next!" he exclaimed.

"What's that?"

"Let's you and me go take a look inside that old warehouse."
CHAPTER 16

Mitchum grimaced—or was it a suppressed grin? Askew wasn't quite sure. "Let me get this straight, Clarence," Mitchum spoke very precisely. "You want _us_ to go take a look inside that old warehouse?"

"Yep."

"They'll be guarding that place. After last night, it'll be surrounded with armed guards, and those guys play for keeps. You know that. Have you got a plan for getting us inside and back out of it without ending up in the river?"

"Yep."

Mitchum raised his eyebrows. "Ya? Mind telling me what you've got in mind?"

Askew grinned "Nope."

"Okay. Let's have it."

"You'll get us inside."

"I will? _I'll_ get us inside?"

"Yep. You told me you did it back when you were a cop."

"That's right. I did, didn't I."

Okay. So you're the leader."

Mitchum rocked back on his chair and thought for a moment before replying. "I might be able to get us inside that warehouse, and I might not, but let's back up for a moment. Assuming we can get inside, what do you hope to find there?"

"I don't know."

"Fair enough. I didn't know what I might find when I went in either."

"I think somebody who owns or does business out of that warehouse connects with the murders of Carol Holman and Fred Russell—and maybe some of the other stuff that's been going on. That's the best I can answer your question."

"Okay. I'll go with that."

"Do you think . . . . No, let me rephrase that. What do we need to do to set up some surveillance cameras inside that place, maybe focused on the overhead doors where the trucks park and unload? And maybe one focused on the walk-in door? Get some pictures of the people doing business around in there?"

"Shouldn't be any problem. Let's give Rebecca, the gal you met over at the bank, a call. What she doesn't know about surveillance, John knows."

"They'd need to be miniature cameras so they wouldn't be discovered right away."

"No problem there. We'd just have to find some creative ways to hide 'em when we mounted 'em. We can do that. Let me give her a call."

"Okay."

Mitchum talked with Rebecca for several minutes and explained what they needed by way of miniature surveillance cameras. She promised to have two of them ready for him anytime he wanted them, and they agreed upon a time on the following day when he would pick them up as well as get her recommendations about installing them. As he hung up the receiver and turned to Askew with a nod, Askew smiled. "Now, Delbert tell me: Exactly how are we going to get inside that warehouse?"

"We're going to come up into it from underground."

"From underground?"

"Ya. Through the storm sewer system."

"That's the way you went in?"

"Ya. When do you want to go?"

"Tomorrow night?"

"Tomorrow night it is."

* * * * *

Johnny drove Mitchum and Askew to within two miles of the warehouse and let them off near a large manhole cover. It was the same secluded spot where Delbert Mitchum had entered the storm sewer system many years ago on his first quest to explore the warehouse. Moments later, Johnny was on his way to a monitoring post half a mile away, and Mitchum and Askew were climbing down steel ladder-steps into one of the city's oldest major storm sewers. Once they'd pulled the manhole cover back in place, there would be no indication of their entry.

Both men were dressed in dark grey outfits, the better to blend in with the shadows if anyone was around. It wasn't that they actually expected to encounter anyone in the sewer system or in the warehouse, but Mitchum urged caution nonetheless. They'd brought the gear they thought they'd need: night-vision devices, flashlights, listening devices, tools, tactical radios, and camera, and the two miniature surveillance cameras they hoped to install in the warehouse. In addition, both men carried their ever-present firearms.

The men would have to hike about two miles through the storm sewer to reach the warehouse. It would not be an easy hike because the once smooth concrete was now crumbling and in general disrepair, and there was accumulated trash that had snagged on the uneven concrete floor. Even so, Mitchum felt that it was best to enter the sewer system some distance from the warehouse to avoid any watchful eyes.

"I didn't think storm sewers were this big!" Askew whispered, as he studied the underground concrete structure.

"Ya. It's pretty big here, but it'll get smaller the farther we go," Mitchum replied.

The sewer did indeed seem cavernous. Askew judged the height of the concrete passageway to be about five feet and the width about the same. While neither Mitchum nor Askew were able to stand upright in the opening, they were able to walk with shoulders hunched.

"We need to keep a sharp lookout for trip-wires and booby traps," Mitchum warned, gesturing as he did so to several places where potential traps might be set.

"Trip-wires? Booby traps? You think someone might have set trip-wires and booby traps for us here in the sewer?" Askew questioned.

"Ya. I sure do. They may actually date from the time I went in this way years ago, but they might still be dangerous. Can't be too cautious."

"They knew you went in this way?"

"We have to assume they did. They knew I got inside the warehouse somehow, and topside it was watched night and day back then—probably even more than it is now." The two men walked in silence for a while then, Mitchum sweeping the passageway with his flashlight as they proceeded.

Askew knew that sewers like this one existed, of course, but he'd never had occasion to be in them. Nor did he have any idea that they were so huge. "Anybody other than city workers and maybe a few of the city's homeless people ever come down here?" he wondered aloud.

Mitchum nodded. "Ya. A few years ago it was fun for some of the high school and college kids to explore what they called 'the underground.' They searched all through the sewer system and found that they could get inside some of the old abandoned buildings around town by going in through the drains. The fun thing to do on Halloween for several years back then was to get inside the old insane asylum, you know, the one up on the hill west of town."

"Yeah."

"It was scary for 'em just getting to that old asylum through the sewers, especially when their leader played tricks like suddenly turning off the lantern and screaming or pretending to be a ghost—things like that. And once the kids were in the old asylum, what a thrill for Halloween! An 'urban adventure' they called it. Scared some of 'em silly, but they loved every minute of it."

"Okay. Now I remember what you're talking about. That was about the time the historical foundation was working on restoring those shops that existed underground back around the late 1800s. They'd been sealed off in the 1920s and 1930s if I remember correctly. The kids had a great time getting in there once they were publicized, right?"

"Ya. And the kids liked going over there and poking around. The workmen built a chain-link fence above ground and around the place to keep 'em out, but they went right on in underground, through the sewer system. It was good fun for them. Scary but fun."

"Back to our reality, is it likely anyone would have installed motion sensors or things like that in here that we ought to be concerned about?" Askew asked.

"Can't be sure, but I doubt it. The thing we most likely need to watch out for are trip-wires stretched across the passageway an inch or so above the floor. Of course," he added, "they may have stretched a wire about neck high, and that would be especially easy to run into as a person walks with his head down, what with the lower ceiling here. And it'll get lower."

"What would the trip-wires be connected to?"

"Explosives of some sort, most likely, or a shotgun." Mitchum's voice was flat, casual, as if he wasn't especially concerned. "Watch for a shadow on the floor, a shadow that seems out of place and moves with the light," he continued, sweeping the floor with his flashlight beam as he spoke. "That'll indicate a trip-wire."

Both men scanned the passageway from ceiling to floor as Mitchum continued to sweep it with his light. Up ahead they could see that the sewer changed direction and Mitchum explained that they were coming to a "Y" connection. "That way," Mitchum motioned with his hand to the left, "the sewer leads over toward then and under Makings Street and then on west across town. This way," he again motioned, "we stay parallel to Makings and eventually pass within a few feet under the warehouse."

"That would be on the side a block over from Makings Street? Where there isn't a through street? Am I right?"

"Right. You remember the dead-end street on the south side, the loading dock side of the warehouse, slopes downhill. Well, we'll be right under the end of that street. There's a kind of turn-around there. Remember?"

"Right. I'm getting oriented."

At the "Y" connection, both passageways became smaller. Askew estimated that the opening still would measure perhaps five feet wide but only three to four feet high. "Watch your head in here. There are some concrete beams that drop down maybe an additional foot or so," Mitchum cautioned.

"Right." Askew acknowledged.

Going along was getting more difficult. Not only was there relatively little headroom and the occasional beam to watch for, but the concrete was breaking up badly in places, deteriorating from age, leaving piles of loose rubble that shifted underfoot and made walking difficult. As well as a little noisy.

One step at a time, the men slowly made their way down the narrowing passageway. Half an hour later, Mitchum called a halt and motioned for Askew to be seated. "We'll rest a bit here," he whispered.

"How much farther do we have to go?"

"Not far. We're almost there. Let's keep real quiet now and listen carefully for any sounds that might indicate we're not alone down here."

They sat in silence on a pile of rubble, quieting their breathing and listening intently. Nothing was making a sound. Just to be sure, they positioned their directional microphones to listen both ways in the sewer. Again, they heard no sounds whatsoever. With their flashlights turned off, they could see no source of additional light anywhere. From all appearances they were alone. After an energy bar and a drink of water from their canteens, the men were ready to move on.

Once they were ready to proceed and get on their feet, Mitchum explained their tasks. "We're about five hundred feet from where we'll go into the warehouse," he said. "Here's what we're going to do." He outlined the procedures they'd follow to climb through a connecting passageway and a floor-drain into the basement of the building.

They reached what Mitchum called the connecting passageway. It was actually a large drain pipe that connected the floor drain in the building to the storm sewer. Askew could see that it went parallel with the sewer for several feet and then curved upward. He also could determine that it was barely large enough for a man to crawl through, certainly not large enough to go forward around the upward bend. "How are we going to do this?" he whispered, as he examined the passageway.

"I'll go first and you keep watch," Mitchum replied. "I'll go through on my back, head first, with the tools I'll need on my stomach. When I reach the grillwork over the drain, I'll have to loosen it and push it up and off to the side. That'll take a little time 'cause it'll be rusted in place and it's heavy. Once that's done, I'll be able to pull myself up and into the warehouse. Watch me. You'll see how it's done. When I'm inside, I'll signal you and you follow me. Come in just like I did, on your back with your gear on your stomach. When you reach the opening, hand me your gear. Then I'll help you come on up."

"Okay."

"First, though, I'm going to set one of our motion detectors down here in the sewer. If anybody comes along while we're up in that warehouse, we want to be the first to know about it." With that, Mitchum removed a small sensor from his tool kit and placed it in a crack on the wall of the sewer, then turned to Askew and explained: "If that detects anything coming or going within a few hundred feet in either direction, the sensor here on my belt will vibrate.

"Now I'm going to be slow moving," Mitchum continued, once he'd set the motion detector, "'cause I want to check real carefully as I go to make sure somebody hasn't set a trap for people like you and me coming in through that drain. It wouldn't be hard to fix a shotgun and wire the trigger so it'd blast anyone in that opening. Also, I'm going in in the dark—or near dark—because I don't want to broadcast our presence in case somebody is around up there." With that final word, Mitchum lay on his back in the drain pipe and positioned the tools he'd need to remove he grillwork on his stomach. Moments later he began to push himself into the narrow passageway using his elbows and feet to propel himself.

Askew watched as Mitchum seemed to slowly disappear into that drain pipe. He could detect the faint sounds of a pry-bar loosening the grillwork over the drain and then the scratching sound as the grill was being pushed aside. Finally, he saw Mitchum's twisting left foot giving him the signal to follow; Mitchum was ready for them to go inside the warehouse.

Mitchum hadn't discovered any trip-wires or booby traps. He'd beamed his flashlight around the area above him as he entered it and had found it empty, except for a few old boxes stashed in one corner.

Suddenly, however, he realized that something was very different. This wasn't the same space he'd entered many years ago. Oh, no! His flashlight beam revealed relatively new construction, concrete-block work, before him. Enclosing the area. Enclosing him in a small cubicle.
CHAPTER 17

Something was very different that night, all right. Instead of standing in the relatively open area of the warehouse basement that he remembered, Mitchum now found himself in a smaller, closed, rectangular space—surrounded by four close-in concrete walls. "We'll just have to see what's been going on in here," he muttered to himself, "but first we've got to get Clarence up here."

Having checked carefully and determined that he was alone in the now-unfamiliar territory, Mitchum set up the battery-powered lantern they'd carried and turned the illumination on to its lowest setting. That would give Askew plenty of illumination as he entered the room. Moments later, Askew pulled himself through the storm sewer connector and joined Mitchum inside the warehouse.

The room in which the men found themselves appeared to measure approximately twenty by ten or twelve feet in size. The new third and fourth walls appeared to be of solid concrete-block construction, and there was a heavy wooden door set into a sturdy steel frame in the corner.

"This is where you came in years ago?" Askew whispered the question.

"Ya. I came in through that sewer drain, but not into this enclosed room. This is different."

"Different? How so?"

"Ya, it's different, all right. Me thinks we've been sealed out of the main part of the warehouse."

"Sealed out? What do you mean?"

"Look at those far walls and that door." Mitchum pointed to the north and east walls, and the door.

"Yeah, what about it?"

"Looks different than the others, don't they?"

Askew studied the four walls. The north and east walls were constructed of concrete blocks instead of reinforced concrete. "Those two walls are newer, right?"

"Ya. They weren't there when I came in before. You see, this area used to be an open space where they could wash equipment, and the waste water would drain right into the sewer through that outlet we came through, but somebody added those walls, built 'em out of concrete blocks—and I'll bet that door is locked or barred from the other side." Mitchum shrugged his shoulders. "Anyway, let's take a look around while we're here. See what's here to be seen—if anything."

Mitchum and Askew examined the door set into the newer wall. They tried pushing on it, but it wouldn't budge. It appeared to be very sturdy, and was secured from the opposite side so that there were no visible locks or hinge pins they could work on to open the door.

"Think we could force it?" Askew asked.

"Probably could, but I wouldn't recommend it."

"Why not?"

"Ten to one it's booby-trapped. There's probably a double-barreled shotgun aimed at the opening with a wire to the trigger—just a waitin' for us."

Mitchum continued to examine the door, testing it with his fingers to see if there were any weaknesses in it or in the frame. Then he became aware that Askew wasn't at his side. Turning quickly, he saw his partner examining one of the cardboard boxes stashed in one corner of the room "Look at this!" Askew exclaimed in a hushed but excited whisper.

"What have you there?" Mitchum asked, as Askew hastily backed away from the boxes.

Mitchum hurried over. "Look there, but don't get too close," Askew cautioned as he played his flashlight near the floor between the two boxes. "See it?"

"Ya, I see it."

The two men warily circled the boxes. They appeared to be of sturdy cardboard, now slightly weathered and yellowish, obviously aged. They'd apparently been there, undisturbed, for quite some time. Suddenly Askew whispered excitedly, "I see another wire!"

"Where?"

Askew pointed with his flashlight, the wire casting a slender shadow in its beam.

"You're right." Askew had indeed discovered a second wire that ran near the floor between two of the boxes.

"You think it's a booby trap?" Askew asked.

"Ya. It's probably set to blow up if anybody moves one of those boxes."

"You think somebody set that trap for you—or for us?"

"For me or whoever else might come into the warehouse this way. Most people wouldn't give those boxes another thought before they tried to take a look and see what was in them. Try to set the one box upright, and that'll probably pull both trip wires and trigger whatever they're connected to."

"So we're not going to be able to accomplish our objective tonight." Askew sounded discouraged.

"No, we won't get to explore the warehouse. Not tonight. But there'll be a next time."

Askew brightened. "You think we might be able to cut through one of these concrete walls or the ceiling—or maybe through that door?"

"Ya, cut or blast through, but we'll have to find a time when nobody else is in the warehouse or near by. Otherwise, they'll hear us. But maybe we can create a diversion. I'm thinking how that might be done. It'll take a little time to arrange it, but we just might be able to pull it off. Be better if we didn't have to go that way, though. No, let's not even think about blasting our way in. Let's sit back and consider our other options."

"Is there any other way of getting into the warehouse from the sewer system?"

"I don't know, but we'll have a look on our way out," Mitchum replied. "Now, though, I want to take another look around. Sketch what we have here."

After examining the cubicle further, Mitchum sketched a diagram of the room, the door, and the boxes. He made some notes about the trip-wires Askew had discovered running between them. He knew several men who'd been trained in disarming explosive devices. He'd show his diagram to one of them, and he could tell him what he and Askew likely were up against and what to do about it. For now, though, they'd leave those boxes alone.

Once Mitchum finished sketching, the two men prepared to leave the room. "You want to go first?" he asked Askew.

"Sure."

"Okay, then I'll follow you, and I'll replace the grillwork," Mitchum said. He paused a moment, listening intently. "We haven't heard any indication from our motion sensor that anyone is in the sewer near where we exited. Even so, Clarence, you've gotta approach the main sewer with extreme caution. Enter it in the dark, be as quiet as possible, and keep your ears tuned."

"I hear you," Askew whispered.

Once the two men were back in the main sewer line, they began a systematic search to see if there were any additional connections to the warehouse. First, they continued through the passageway along the length that passed by and under the warehouse. There were no other connections to be found except a small roof drain that was much too small for either of them to navigate.

"Let's go on further," Mitchum suggested. "There might be a connection to the building that's just to the north of—that's just behind or beside, whichever way you look at it—the 1217 warehouse. We might be able to get into that building and make an entrance through it."

"You think the two warehouses are interconnected? Through a common wall, maybe?"

"I don't know, but I doubt they're interconnected. Each of 'em covers half a city block, so they probably were independently owned. Still, ya never know. They do share a common wall. Even if there isn't a door between the two buildings, we might be able to knock out some concrete and make one."

Seeing the roof drain gave Askew another idea. "Before we go on, what's the possibility that we might get onto the warehouse roof from the adjoining building?" he asked.

"Good thinking! That just might work," Mitchum replied. "Let's check it out. If necessary, we should be able to get an aerial photo of the buildings. If we can't, we can get a view from one of the taller buildings in the area. Of course, they might have all the roof entrances blocked off like they do the sewer entrance. Sure be worth a try, though."

The two men continued to work their way up the sewer, although it was much more treacherous than the path they'd come by, because debris was strewn about and the size was somewhat constricted. At first, it didn't appear that there had ever been a drain connection to the second warehouse—and then Mitchum found it. "Take a look here," he whispered.

There in the side of the concrete sewer was the outline of a connection similar in size to the one they'd crawled through to enter the 1217 Makings Street warehouse. Mud and debris had all but obscured the opening, and the connecting tube appeared to have been plastered over. "Let's see what we have here," Mitchum said. He motioned for Askew to move back, then picked up a large rock and smashed it hard against the plaster.

SMACK!

Even though there wasn't much actual noise, the impact was startling in the confines of the sewer. "Sorry about the noise," Mitchum mumbled, "but we've found the entrance." In Mitchum's flashlight beam, both men could see that he'd knocked a chunk of plaster out of the opening.

Looking closely through the hole in the plaster, the men determined that they'd indeed found a concrete tube similar to the one they crawled through earlier that night. This one, however, had been deliberately filled with rubble and sealed over with plaster. Maybe it had been sealed in an effort to keep anyone from entering that warehouse by way of the storm sewer. Mitchum and Askew could only speculate on the reason it had been sealed.

"Here's our project for tomorrow night," Askew declared excitedly. "What say we clear this passageway, and then see where it goes?"

"Agreed. It _should_ get us inside the adjoining warehouse. For now, though, we've got to get out of here."

Mitchum glanced at his watch as he and Askew retraced their steps down the sewer system. It was four o'clock in the morning. They'd spent almost the entire night and were exhausted. They'd made their way inside the first warehouse, only to be frustrated by the discovery of concrete walls designed to keep anyone from entering the major portion of the warehouse from the storm sewer. Still, they'd discovered a way to enter the adjoining warehouse from the sewer system, a project they'd undertake on the following night. It was something intriguing to look forward to, and that seemed to rejuvenate both men.

Johnny met Mitchum and Askew at the manhole where they'd entered the sewer. On the drive back to the Lazy-D Mine, the three men talked over the activities of the night and their plans for entering the adjoining warehouse on the next night. All had been quiet above ground, at least from Johnny's vantage point. No one had ventured near the manhole.

"Get some sleep," Mitchum counseled Askew, as the two of them settled down for the night at Mitchum's cabin. Then Mitchum chuckled silently because the sounds of Askew's deep breathing indicated that he was already sound asleep.

There was absolutely no doubt in Mitchum's mind that they'd encounter obstacles and enemies in their exploration of those warehouses. When and from whom danger would come, he couldn't predict. But it would come, and it would come with a vengeance.
CHAPTER 18

Both Mitchum and Askew slept soundly much of the following day. By evening, they were ready to work their way into that second warehouse. Before they left, however, Askew placed a call he'd meant to place much earlier. Sheron Streeter was at home, and she answered on the second ring.

"I've got a license plate number I'd like you to trace for me," Askew began, once they'd exchanged greetings. He briefly described the adventures of the past few days and how he'd obtained the number of the black Ford that had been shadowing him, leaving out some of the details in case someone was listening in on the conversation.

"Okay. What's the number?"

Askew gave her the number—and for a long moment Streeter didn't say a word.

"Are you still there?" Askew finally asked.

"Yeah, I'm still here." Streeter's voice was strained.

"Well, what's up? Is something wrong?"

"Yes. Something is very, very wrong."

"What's wrong?"

"I don't have to have anyone run this license plate number for me. This is the license plate number of one of the unmarked police cars—and from what you've told me, this is very serious."

"Yes. Yes, it is. I assume there are records of who signs out each car. Can you find out who was driving it that night?"

"I'm on my way to do that right now—and I'll let you know what I find out. Good bye."

"Sheron? . . . Sheron?" Askew had wanted to tell her to be careful, that her interest in who was driving that car might get her killed, but he was too late. Streeter had already hung up.

* * * * *

Johnny drove Mitchum and Askew to a manhole some distance away from the one where they'd entered the sewer system the previous night. A careful survey of the area suggested that they were alone. "Good luck," Johnny whispered, giving the men a 'thumbs up' as they climbed into the sewer and then pulled the manhole cover back into place above them.

The going was a little harder this time because the concrete in this older part of the sewer was crumbling in places, and the men had to pick their way over debris left over from concrete work that had been done a long time ago. Nevertheless, they made good time and finally came to the spot where they'd discovered an entry into the warehouse next to the one at 1217 Makings Street.

They'd brought along a few additional tools that they hoped would make their work easier, and after a brief rest, the two men went to work. First, they broke away the thick plaster that had almost concealed the drain. It was, of course, impossible to do that work in silence, but they kept the noise to an absolute minimum, pausing regularly to see if they could detect any sounds that would indicate the presence of anyone else in their vicinity. No one seemed to be paying any attention to them.

Once the plaster was completely broken away, they started to clear the passageway, removing rock after rock that had been piled inside. "Let's go slowly and keep our eyes open," Mitchum advised, "'cause we don't know just why somebody went to the trouble to fill in this drain—and we might just be lucky enough to find something of interest."

"Right."

Mitchum's admonition proved prophetic. Moments later, Askew's flashlight beam picked up the glimmer of metal and then the sparkle of a precious stone. Mitchum cleared the debris away from the object, brushed the excess dirt from it, and handed it to Askew, who polished it on his pants leg before examining it closely under his light. "Look at this, Delbert!" he exclaimed.

The sparkling object in Askew's hand was instantly recognizable as a man's diamond ring of a style popular in the 1930s and 1940s. The heavy gold band was slightly dented and the stone was dull with years of accumulated dirt, but it obviously was a 'find.' "Good show, Clarence" Mitchum acknowledged. "Hang on to it, and we'll see what stories it may have to tell us."

Finding the ring brought renewed enthusiasm for the laborious task of clearing the debris from the drain, and before long the rocks had been removed and laid aside in the sewer. "I'll go in and take a look," Mitchum said. He gathered his lantern and a few tools, then lay on his back and propelled himself into the narrow passageway. Soon he was able to look upward at the underside of the heavy iron grillwork set in the concrete floor of the warehouse above.

Mitchum turned off his lights and lay there in the pitch darkness, listening. He didn't expect to hear any sounds, but then he had to be sure. When he was sure that no one was directly above him in the warehouse, he looked the grillwork over carefully, checking not only on how it was positioned and secured, but whether or not there were any trip-wires attached to it.

Removing this grill was going to be considerably more work than the one he'd removed the night before, but then he'd had that one out once before, many years ago. By contrast, this one was extremely rusty. It actually appeared to be rusted securely in place.

"Well," he sighed, "there's only one way to get it outta there." With that, he began to use his pry bar to loosen the grill, working around the edges, lifting and prying as he went completely around the rusty metal. He was used to hard work, and years of working his mine had toughened him. Still, using that pry bar overhead as he had to do now was extremely tiring. He was just thankful that he'd worn his boonie hat so that the rust and concrete debris fell on it rather than on his head and into his eyes.

Even though his muscles were aching, before long Mitchum had worked the grill loose from the concrete. "Gotta rest for a few minutes before I push that rascal outta our way," he told himself, then pushed himself back down the drain to where Askew was waiting.

"How are you coming?" Askew asked.

"All right, but I'm gonna rest a few minutes. Is everything quiet here in the sewer?" Mitchum asked, as he stretched out on the sewer floor, carefully avoiding the rocks and debris, and then cradled his head on a smooth rock.

"Yeah, I think so."

"Haven't heard anything?"

"No. Everything's been quiet so far."

"Good."

The men rested for perhaps fifteen minutes before Askew broke the silence. "Delbert?"

"Ya?"

"Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure."

"You've got quite a few employees and friends who were military police or special forces operatives."

"Ya."

"Not meaning to pry into your affairs, but where'd you get acquainted with those guys?"

"Okay, it's a bit of a story, but you asked."

"Yeah, I'd like to know."

"A few years ago," Mitchum began, "Uncle Sam came around and said he needed somebody with skills I had, so I agreed to help him for a few months. I was teamed up with several guys, and we were sent on, let's call it a treasure hunt. We had several layers of tight security, partly provided by military policemen and women and partly provided by special forces units. That's where I met 'em. Worked closely with 'em. Made some good friends among them, too. Once I got back home, some of those people were retiring from the military and were looking for jobs. I needed security people for the bank and for my business, so I hired people I knew and trusted. When I needed specialists, these guys knew where to find 'em. It worked out real well.

"Now, as you've noticed," Mitchum continued, "I hired some of 'em who were shot up or injured pretty bad. Take Johnny, for example. He lost an arm and a leg, but he's perfectly capable of doing what I need, and he's mighty loyal.

"Knowing some of those guys has been an experience, though." Mitchum chuckled. "There's never a dull moment—not with the vets."

"How's that?"

"Oh, different things. One day one of 'em came to me and asked if I'd be interested in sponsoring a veterans' motorcycle club. They knew I once rode a bike, that I even raced 'em. I said I would sponsor them, and I did. Still do. They call themselves 'The Warriors MC'—The Warriors Motorcycle Club." Mitchum chuckled. "If you ever need a small but wild and wooly army, all ya gotta do is call 'em. That answer your question?"

"Yep. You actually raced motorcycles?"

"Ya, on weekends mostly, for a couple of years while I was a cop. Got to be pretty good at it, too. The top cops didn't like it much, though. Said it was too dangerous. Ha! Me, I'd a lot rather taken my chances racing motorcycles than with some of the assignments I undertook as a cop."

You said you went on a treasure hunt for Uncle Sam. Can you tell me about it?"

"No. Not much, anyway. You said you checked my background, but I bet that little adventure didn't show up."

"No, it didn't."

"It shouldn't have. We all had top secret security clearance—and once the hunt was over, my records were wiped clean. Everybody's were. Nobody knows where we were or what we were doing. They shouldn't, anyway."

Mitchum sat up and looked carefully into the darkness of the storm sewer. "You stand guard here, Clarence. Let me get back to work," he said, easing himself back into the passageway as he spoke.

With a minimum of additional work with his pry bar, Mitchum was able to shift the heavy grill back and forth and from side to side. It now was loose enough for him to shove it up and out of its position. Before he did that, however, he beamed his flashlight through and around the metal grill, trying to make absolutely sure that there was no trip-wire attached. There didn't appear to be any, so with one tremendous shove, Mitchum pushed the grill up and out of the way. Another careful look around with the flashlight to assure himself that no one was in the area above the floor drain, and Mitchum pulled himself through the opening. "Activate the motion sensor and come on up," he whispered to Askew, as he adjusted the intensity of the battery-powered lantern.

Askew activated the motion sensor they'd placed just outside the entrance to the drain pipe, and Mitchum tested the reception of its potential signal. Once they were sure that the motion sensor was working properly, Mitchum helped Askew through the passageway and into the old warehouse.

They appeared to be in the basement of this building, one level below street level. The light from Mitchum's lantern softly illuminated an area around them, but did not penetrate to the walls of the warehouse. It did allow excellent vision through their night-vision equipment, however, and they quickly determined that this part of the building was empty except for some trash left over from the days when the warehouse had been used as a part of some on-going business.

"Kinda spooky, isn't it," Askew commented, "what with all those columns making shadows and the cobwebs and such."

"Ya. It'd make a good setting for a horror movie."

Having determined to the best of their ability that they were alone in the building, Askew and Mitchum inspected the walls, paying articular attention to the wall this building shared with the 1217 Makings Street warehouse. "We could cut through here," Mitchum indicated, "but we'd have to do it when we wouldn't be heard. We won't risk it unless we absolutely have to."

Askew agreed and sketched the layout of the building in his notebook, then made some notes about what tools they'd need if they decided to cut through the wall. Once finished, he asked, "How about we go upstairs now?"

"Ya. Let's go clear up to the roof." Mitchum turned to Askew. "Here." He handed Askew a pair of gloves. "We don't want to leave fingerprints on the stairs. Put these on." Both Askew and Mitchum put on the thin gloves before proceeding to the sturdy steel stairway that led to the main floor.

Mitchum tested the stairway every step of the way, partly for trip-wires and partly to be sure it was solid and didn't creak under their weight. To his way of thinking, it would be best if they made no sound at all as they climbed the stairway. After all, who could know what or who might be up above. Watchin and waiting—for them.

If the main floor had appeared spooky, the upper floor was even more so. Wires dangled from the ceiling, and broken glass from ruined light fixtures was scattered across the floor. Moreover, because of the trash and litter around, it appeared that homeless people had discovered a way into the building. There even was a place where someone had set fire to some trash, no doubt trying to keep warm on a cold night. Probably people had lived here, or at least slept here out of the elements for a number of years. Years ago, if not recently.

Using their night-vision binoculars, the men had determined that there was a walk-in door in the west wall of the main floor, probably leading to what once was an office, just up the street from where the office of the warehouse at 1217 Makings Street was located. Overhead doors were to the north and maybe, just maybe, there in the near-total darkness was the outline of a door connecting the two warehouses.

"Wanta look around here or try to go on up and onto the roof?" Askew asked, once the men reached the second floor.

"Let's see if we can get out onto the roof," Mitchum replied. "We'll check out this floor later."

Once again, the two men climbed the sturdy steel stairs, this time to the top floor, checking for alarms or trip-wires as they climbed. Mitchum noted that, like the main floor, the top floor was littered here and there with papers and trash. Homeless people had been there, but they weren't there now.

The top floor had likely been a storage area when the warehouse was in use. There were a number of wooden pallets stacked near the old freight elevator that had operated near the overhead doors on the north side of the building. Also on that top floor, there were two or three small rooms that probably served as storage or work areas in the past. Nothing existed in those rooms now.

This warehouse, like other buildings in this part of town, had been built before air conditioning became commonplace. There would be no air conditioning units on the roof, but Mitchum and Askew were sure there would be a way to reach the roof for general maintenance as well as for maintaining the exhaust fans that almost certainly would have been installed to help cool the building during the hot summers.

The main stairway ended at the top floor, but near the east wall the men noted a stairway to the roof. The floor was solid under their feet, so they could walk fairly normally and not make undue noise as they made their way toward that east wall.

Mitchum led the way up the stairway, again cautiously checking for trip-wires as he went. It wasn't that he really expected to find anything like that, but experience had taught him that you can't be too sure, that it's better to be safe than sorry—and dead.

Askew soon joined Mitchum at the top of the stairs. They faced a sturdy steel door that opened onto the roof, and they listened intently for any sign of activity on the other side of that door. Hearing no activity, yet knowing that someone well might be posted as a sentry on the roof of the warehouse just to the south of them or on buildings across the street, Mitchum unlatched the door and cautiously pushed it open a few inches.

Both Askew and Mitchum surveyed the area rooftops using their night-vision binoculars. They could see no activity. Moments later, Askew cautiously followed Mitchum out and onto the roof. There they took positions behind one of the large ventilator fans. Again, a visual search of the area revealed no one else nearby.

Across the rooftops, they could make out similar ventilator fans on the warehouse at 1217 Makings Street, as well as an access door similar to the one they'd opened to gain access to the roof they were on. Mitchum and Askew looked at each other and nodded. They'd found their way into that warehouse; They'd go in through the roof.

"Do you think we could position one of those miniature surveillance cameras on the roof?" Askew questioned. "It would be a little risky getting across the rooftops and to the edge, but we might get a view of activity in the street below."

Before Mitchum could answer, street noise picked up on Makings Street to the west of the buildings. Several vehicles were prowling the area, and at least two of them finally stopped at the curb on Makings Street. "Let's get back inside," Mitchum urged.

"Yeah, we'd better," Askew agreed. "They'll have sentries on the rooftops soon."

Mitchum and Askew started carefully toward the stairs that would take them from the roof down to the interior of the warehouse. Just as they closed the door to the roof behind them, however, the silence in the building below them suddenly was broken by a slightly bizarre scraping sound that pierced the darkness as if a heavy and seldom used door, perhaps one of the overhead doors, was being pushed open. Both men froze in their tracks, shrinking back against the stairway, listening intently as Mitchum quickly turned off their lantern.

Just the hint of air movement suggested that a door to the building had indeed been opened somewhere below them. When there wasn't any further sound from below, Mitchum and Askew cautiously continued down the stairs, one step at a time. Once they were on the second floor, they made their way as silently as possible to pause behind one of the massive concrete pillars that supported the building. Now waiting and listening intently, both men had their guns in their hands.

There was a metallic squeal indicating that the same door below them must have been closed. The eerie sounds of the door opening and closing was followed by footsteps—and then hushed voices.

The old building was quite solid. Sounds in it did not carry well, and it was impossible for Askew and Mitchum to determine exactly how many people might be directly below them.

The hushed voices became louder. Arguing. Aggressive. Suddenly a woman screamed, "Look out!"

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

Eight quick gunshots, four each from two large-caliber handguns, Mitchum estimated, reverberated briefly through the cavernous warehouse and were quickly followed by muffled groans—and then a deathly silence. The door squealed again, and then clanged shut against its frame, hurried this time as if was being forcibly pushed shut. Somewhere in the distance a vehicle started—and roared away.

"Want to go see what happened?" Askew asked, once they were relatively sure that no one was coming back into the building.

"Might as well, I guess, but . . . ." Mitchum checked his watch. "It's gettin' to be time we got out of here, got back to our world before daybreak."

"Yeah, but I'd feel better if we check things out before we go."

"Ya. Now, ain'tcha glad we're wearing these gloves," Mitchum whispered, "'cause we don't wantta leave prints for anybody to find. Not with whatever's been going on below us."

"That's for sure."

Moving quickly and as silently as possible, Mitchum and Askew made their way to the stairway that led down to the main floor. After a few moments spent listening intently for human sounds and hearing none, they continued their cautious climb down those stairs.

Flashlight beams revealed three bodies, two men and a woman, lying close together in a common pool of blood. While Mitchum moved to the overhead door through which the people had entered and then listened intently to be sure no one was returning, Askew checked the bodies for signs of life—and found none. All three were dead, each shot at least twice—by professionals from the looks of things. "Let's get outta here fast," he hissed.

"You recognize any of 'em?" Mitchum asked, as the two men hastily made their way down the stairs, across to the floor drain where they'd entered, and out into the storm sewer.

"Yeah. I'm afraid so. I'm fairly certain that the woman was an undercover cop. Don't know about the others. They might have been undercover cops, too."

* * * * *

Johnny met the men at the manhole where they'd entered the sewer. "I've got some new and interesting information for you guys," he said, after listening to a brief account of Mitchum's and Askew's night-long activities.

Mitchum stretched out in the back seat of the Buick, his head settled into the cushions. "I'm bone tired. Don't know if I'm ready for anything new," he said.

"It's been quite a night already, Johnny," Askew added, "but I guess you'd better lay it on us anyway. What's been goin' on?"
CHAPTER 19

Johnny chuckled. "You'll like this, both of you guys will. We got fingerprint identification back on those two guys who tried to run Delbert and Tommy out of that warehouse the other night when the two of you were lookin' for Karen's kidnappers."

Mitchum opened his eyes and grinned. "Ya? Fingerprint ID, you say? On both of 'em?"

"Yep, and they're gonna be real familiar names to you," Johnny continued. "One of 'em, the older one, is named Jimmy Schuler, _Junior_." He emphasized the 'Junior.'

"Jimmy Schuler, Junior!" Askew exclaimed. "Isn't that interesting!"

"Yep, it sure is. Oh, the guy uses several aliases and he carried fake papers the other night, but that appears to be his real name. Now, the other one, the one he referred to as 'Bill' that night, is in fact named William Schuler. As near as we can tell, they're brothers. Oh, and there's more. You'll really like this."

"Still more?"

"Yeah. They're from Chicago. Maybe, just maybe, things are beginning to fit together."

"Great job, Johnny." Mitchum turned to Askew. "We've got to get back with your contact, Max Rodella, as soon as possible. We'll get him to find all he can about Jimmy Schuler, Senior. Well I guess we want him to find out what he can about these other two guys, too."

"Why would you want to contact Max Rodella?" Johnny asked. "He had his chance to find your man, and he couldn't—or didn't. Whatever. Maybe he got paid off not to find our Jimmy Schuler, Senior."

"You're right. You got somebody else in mind?" Mitchum responded.

"Yep. I figured you'd want to get right on this lead, and I've already called one of Bradford's contacts in Chicago," Johnny told them. "I gave him all the names, Jimmy Schuler, Junior, and William—or Bill—Schuler, and asked him to see if he could locate their dad, Jimmy Schuler, Senior. I also told him to be careful because we didn't know exactly who we were dealing with. Told him about the guys you'd ben in touch with who had accidents of one type or another, how somebody had kidnapped Karen, things like that. He said he'd be extra careful."

"Great! Thanks, Johnny."

"He said he'd get right to work on that assignment and see what he could find. Said he'd get back with you guys just as soon as he had anything."

"Either of these younger Schulers have a rap sheet, Johnny?"

"Haven't got that information yet, but it's in the works. Should have that information sometime tomorrow morning. Incidentally, I gave our man in Chicago the five names Clarence gave that guy in the County Attorney's office—Clyde Morgan, Tubby Renan, Jimmy Schuler, Cliff Redway, and Jack Topper—and asked him to run 'em again." Johnny turned to Askew. "Hope you're not offended, but my own experience has been that a cop has to check and double-check, and then maybe triple-check everything—especially when he's getting mixed signals like you guys are."

"Ya," Mitchum responded without waiting for Askew to reply. "I reckon you and I are pretty much in agreement on that one. Ya have to check and double-check and sometimes triple-check anything like that. We shoulda done that right away, Clarence. Shoulda had our own people check for rap sheets on all those guys. Well, now we're finally gettin' it done right."

Maybe Askew shouldn't have been surprised at anything Mitchum and his cohorts had going, but he was. "You guys actually have the resources to run rap sheets?" he asked, controlled surprise in his voice.

"Ya." Mitchum's voice was flat, unassuming. After a moment, he added, "We've got contacts who can do that for us."

"By the way," Johnny broke in before Askew had a chance to pursue the subject further, "there's something I've been wanting to ask you, Clarence."

"Okay. What's that?"

"Have you ever talked with the cops who first investigated the murders of Carol Holman and Fred Russell back in the 1960s?"

"Wish I could." Askew's voice was grim.

"They're not around?"

"No. They're long gone."

"You're absolutely certain?"

"Yes. I checked. Both of 'em retired from the force in the late 1960s, not all that long after the murders. One of 'em moved to Florida, and the other one moved to Mexico. At least, that was the story I got. I couldn't trace either one of 'em, at least not with conventional methods, so I don't know if they're alive or dead."

"Doesn't that seem rather strange, both of 'em moving far away from here right after they retire?"

"Strange?"

"Yeah. How many cops do you know who retire and immediately move clear outta the area—to Florida or Mexico or some such faraway place?"

"Not very many."

"Right, and that's my point. Delbert and I have wondered why it was that the cops didn't solve those murders the first time around. Any chance that somebody didn't want those murders solved and somehow encouraged those two cops to get out of here when they retired? Make sure nobody could ask 'em questions?"

"That's worth checking out, I suppose, but you have to realize that if they were 60 or 65 when they retired and that was 40 years ago, they'd be right old by now. Probably dead."

"Maybe so, but are you certain they didn't retire early?"

"I'm fairly sure, but not absolutely certain."

"Suppose they are dead. Did those cops have families, anybody who might yet today have any papers they left behind?"

"Good question, and one I can't answer. I don't know."

"The reason I'm asking is that some cops I've known kept private notebooks on their investigations that aren't turned in as part of their official reports. Sometimes the information in those notebooks goes a whole lot further than what's written up for the department files. Sometimes cops note things they know or are fairly certain of but can't prove. Leads to check out. Things like that that might be useful to us."

"You're right, of course."

"I'd recommend taking a look to see if those guys or their families could be located."

"Have you got the resources to do that?"

Johnny grinned. "Yeah, sure. We can do that. Let me take a look at the files you got on the case, and I'll get the names out to a guy we know who likes to do that kind of work."

"He likes to trace people?"

"Yeah, among other things. Calls himself Bradford, that's all, Bradford, and he's a former military intelligence officer who got shot up over in the Middle East a few years ago and retired. He now runs a private intelligence service. His clients mostly are major corporations, but he also does some contract work for the CIA and some foreign governments as well. He's confined to a wheelchair and can't get around very well, but he's an expert at what he does, and he's got four associates who can do the legwork. One of 'em is an expert at finding people and bringing 'em home, so to speak, a kind of bounty hunter, the kind of guy you don't want looking for you if you're trying to stay lost.

"Then, too, Bradford's got contacts all over. That's why I checked with him and then with his best contact in Chicago about the Schulers."

"Okay. That answers my question about this Bradford you referred to, and it's fine with me if you give him the names of the cops who investigated those murders. I'll get you the files with their names and last known addresses when we get back to Delbert's cabin."

Johnny continued to drive for a few minutes, then turned to his passengers. "Either of you want to stop anywhere on our way back to the Lazy-D Mine?"

"Yes," Askew responded. "Let's swing by the Post Office, and I'll check my mailbox."

"Okay."

Askew came back from the Post Office carrying two envelopes. One contained a colorful political announcement from Stanley Abolence's staff promoting the County Attorney for the position of State's Attorney General. Attached to the announcement was a note to Askew: "Thought you'd appreciate this statement Clarence." A scrawled arrow directed attention to a listing of the County Attorney's achievements in which he'd included the fact that he'd appointed "Special Investigators" to look into unsolved crimes. At the bottom of the announcement, Abolence had scrawled, "Good luck!" and "Keep in touch."

The second envelope carried a single tri-folded sheet of yellow notebook paper with the scrawled words in bold black capital letters: "YOU'RE A DEAD MAN, ASKEW."

Mitchum chuckled when he saw that message. "Ain't we all," he murmured, as he sank back into the seat cushions. In fact, he was almost asleep when he was alerted by the ringing of Johnny's phone."

Anyone calling Johnny at that late hour had to have something important. Moments later, Mitchum heard Johnny say, "Thanks, Tex. I'll pass the word along. Do you want us to come over?"

Mitchum sat up. "Where we goin' now, Johnny?"

"Nowhere for now, but this is getting to be quite a night," Johnny replied. "Let me tell you what that phone call was all about. That was Tex Moser. Seems as if he was listening to the 911 calls on his scanner when he heard an address that seemed familiar. It was. Sheron Streeter's house was on fire."

"Oh!" Askew gasped. "Is she . . . ?"

"Yeah, she's gonna be okay, and she's in good hands right now." Johnny answered Askew's question, then continued, "After Tex heard the call, he hightailed it over to Sheron's place and got there just as the ambulance was leaving—so he tailed it to the hospital. He says she's going to be all right. She inhaled some smoke, but he doesn't think she was actually burned. What he was concerned about was that this may have been arson, like that fire a few nights ago, so he figured Sheron might oughta have someone keeping an eye on her. Right now, he's parked himself outside her room along with another guy, and they've got a couple of other guys lined up to spell them later."

"Tex Moser? He another one of your guys?" Askew asked Mitchum.

"Ya. He helped us get Sheron out of that scrape a few years ago. The one I told you about. Ain't nobody I'd rather have standing guard over me if I were in her place either." Mitchum tuned to Johnny: "Take this tired old man home, kid," he said. "We've got another day coming tomorrow—and we'd better be ready for it."
CHAPTER 20

It took Bradford's staff exactly twenty-two minutes to locate information on Mike Masters, one of the detectives who'd investigated the Fred Russell and Carol Holman murders. He'd moved to Florida within days after he retired from the force in 1966, and as far as anybody knew, had never returned to the area, not even for a brief visit. Although he'd passed away about two years ago, his daughter was still living in Florida.

Seventeen minutes later, Bradford's staff located Tom Weatherbee, the second detective who'd investigated the Russell and Holman murders back in 1964. He had retired in 1967 and moved to Mexico, where he still lived in a nursing home at the advanced age of 101. Like his partner Mike Masters, Tom Weatherbee had never been known to return to the area, even for a brief visit.

Within an hour after they'd received the information about the retired detectives, Askew had tickets to fly to Mexico and Johnny had tickets to Florida. They'd try to coordinate their visits to Tom Weatherbee and Mike Masters's daughter, hopefully keeping one from notifying the other about the current investigation.

* * * * *

"He's . . . He's been here." The voice on the telephone sounded feeble and frail.

"Who's been there, Tom?"

"A cop. A cop named Askew. Clarence Askew. He . . . He was . . . was askin' questions 'bout those . . . 'bout those old murders. Clarence Askew. That was his name. I . . . I've got . . . I've got his card right here. Right here on my table beside me. He . . . He said . . . He said I should call him if I . . . if I thought of anything."

"You didn't tell him anything, did you Tom?" The voice was soothing but direct. Hard.

"No. I . . . didn't . . . I didn't tell him . . . tell him anything. I . . . I stuck to our story, but . . . ." The feeble voice trailed off.

"But what, Tom?"

"He . . . He didn't believe me."

"He didn't believe you? How do you know that, Tom?"

"I . . . I could tell. I . . . I could see it in his face. In his eyes. I . . . I was a cop once, you know. I could tell . . . tell when . . .when a person wasn't . . . wasn't telling the . . . telling the whole truth."

"But you didn't give him anything?"

"Oh, no. No. Not a thing. You . . . You know I wouldn't . . . wouldn't . . . ."

"Then don't worry about him, Tom. Everything's okay. I'll take care of him. I'll make sure he doesn't come see you again."

"Oh, thank you. Thank you! What . . . What about . . . What about my partner?"

"Your partner? Mike Masters?"

"Yeah, Mike. Mike Masters. What about Mike? Did Askew go see him, too?"

"No, Tom. Askew didn't go see Mike Masters. Now, don't you worry about a thing. You leave everything to me. Everything's cool."
CHAPTER 21

"The old man's not telling the truth," Askew concluded, "but I managed to get a bit of information that might help us."

"What's that?" Mitchum asked. He and Tommy had met Askew at the airport and were now listening to the story of his visit with Tom Weatherbee, the long-retired detective who'd investigated the murders of Fred Russell and Carol Holman in the 1960s.

"I checked out the old man's bank account."

Mitchum chuckled. "Okay, Clarence! I won't ask you how you managed that. What'd you learn?"

"Oh, how I did it isn't a great secret. I concocted a cop-in-need story, greased a few palms, and . . . !"

"Ya. That figures. A little cash'll get you almost anything. Now, what'd you learn?"

"Well, seems as if the good ol' detective had pretty good retirement benefits—well beyond what the typical cop has."

"You mean he was being paid off?"

"Yeah. He was being paid off, all right, to the tune of several thousands of dollars a month—for the last thirty-five years or so. Paid his nursing home expenses in a posh retirement complex and plenty more."

"Any clues as to who's been paying him?"

"Not yet. I'm wondering if Bradford could help with that."

"Let's find out."

nstead of going back to the Lazy-D Mine and Mitchum's cabin, Tommy drove them straight to Bradford's house.

After providing Bradford with the information Askew had gathered about Tom Weatherbee and his bank account in Mexico, the three, Tommy, Mitchum, and Askew, were once again driving toward the Lazy-D Mine when Mitchum's cell phone rang. Very few people had his number, and he answered it immediately: "Mitchum here."

"Delbert, it's Johnny."

"What's up?"

"Just wanted to let you know that I'll be arriving later tonight, actually in the early morning, at the airport—about two o'clock. Can somebody pick me up?"

"Sure. Ya have a good trip?"

"Yep. I saw some of the nicest pink flamingos I've ever seen."

"Okay. Well, I'll want to hear all about your trip. See ya when you're back."

The moment Mitchum ended the conversation, Askew turned to him. "What's with the pink flamingos?"

"It's a code we use. It means he's got something important and wants protection." Mitchum checked his watch. "We've got time to go back to my cabin and get a little rest before we pick him up."

"Do you want the three of us to meet Johnny?" Tommy asked.

"Ya."

"Okay, then we'd all better get some rest if we've maybe got to be on our toes."

"Right. Johnny wouldn't ask for protection if he didn't think he might need it. Don't know what he's bringing, but it just might be important enough to get him in trouble. Especially if somebody knows where he's been."

Mitchum settled back in the passenger seat—just as his cell phone jangled for the second time that evening. "Mitchum here."

"Delbert, it's Joe. I'm out here at the mine and thought you should know: I just found a prowler up near the area where Fred Russell and Carol Holman were murdered—between there and where we think Meto is buried. He had a map and night-vision equipment, and he was studying the trail and the mountainside right intently. I've got him, though, and by the time you get back here, he'll probably be ready to talk. Well, maybe I should say he may be _able_ to talk. We'll have to see about the ready part."

Mitchum chuckled "Thanks, Joe. He give you big trouble?"

"Yeah. Well, not really. He tried to pull a gun on me." Joe paused for a moment. "That didn't work."

"I'm sure it didn't. You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Don't know who the guy is, but I've taken his fingerprints, so even if he ain't talkin' yet we may know who he is by the time you get back. That is, we will if his prints are on file anywhere, an' I'm bettin' they are."

"Right. Good work. See you in a few minutes, Joe—and thanks, again."

Askew shifted his position. "Joe?" he asked, "That's another new name to me. Who's Joe?"

"Ya. Joe. Joe Patterson. 'Big Joe' they call him. Big Joe Patterson. You haven't met him yet, but you'll see why they call him Big Joe when you meet him. He's one of my security people. Keeps an eye on the Lazy-D Mine when Johnny and Tommy and I are off doing something—like we were tonight."

"This prowler gave him trouble, did he say?"

"Ya. Well, I guess you could say that. The guy drew a gun on him, or tried to. Don't know how far he got with it."

"You don't sound too worried."

"Na, it couldn't have been much of a scare for Joe. Ya see, he's a former hand-to-hand combat instructor for Uncle Sam's Army. Taught a whole bunch of guys how to go up bare-handed against a man with a gun and take it away from him. Guns, knives, stuff like that. If he had to knock the guy out in the process, well, so be it."

* * * * *

Tommy activated the security gate and drove Mitchum and Askew to Mitchum's cabin where Joe Patterson was waiting on the darkened porch in one of the chairs, night-vision binoculars in his hand. As Patterson stood to welcome them, it was easy for Askew to see what Mitchum meant about the monicker 'Big Joe.' The muscular man, who appeared to be in his late 40s, stood at least six feet and six inches tall and surely weighed at least 240 pounds. In spite of his size, it was obvious from the way he moved that he was exceedingly light on his feet, reminding Askew of a professional wrestler. Askew noticed that Patterson, like Mitchum, carried a Colt .45 pistol in a cross-draw holster.

At Patterson's feet on the porch lay a blonde-haired man, his hands cuffed behind him and his feet shackled. "You're right on time. He's just waking up," Patterson chuckled as he informed the group.

The four men eyed the husky fellow. He was dressed in a dark gray outfit and hiking boots. Askew noted the empty leather holster snuggled in the small of his back.

"He tell you anything so far?" Mitchum asked Patterson, motioning toward the man on the porch floor.

"Nope. He's awake now, though, but he's trying very hard to play it cool. Even so, I can tell you quite a bit about him." Patterson paused. "Maybe we'd better go inside. Tim's keeping an eye on the place."

"Ya. Let's go inside."

'Big Joe' Patterson stooped down and lifted the shackled man on the porch floor, picked him up like a roll of limp carpet, and easily carried him inside.

"You get his prints run?" Mitchum asked, as Patterson placed the figure on the floor once more.

"Yep, and for openers, he's a genuine private detective named Darth Harris."

Mitchum raised an eyebrow. "Well, well! A private detective. You know him, Clarence?"

"Darth Harris? No, I don't think I ever heard that name. Do you know him?"

"Na."

Mitchum looked at Tommy, the question of the man's identity in his eyes, but Tommy shook his head. "No. I don't know him, either."

"You said he had a map?" Mitchum asked.

"Yep. Here's a copy. I enlarged and darkened it a bit with the photocopier so we could read it more easily." Patterson removed a folded piece of paper from his shirt pocket and handed it to Mitchum.

Mitchum unfolded the map and studied it while Askew and Tommy looked at it over his shoulder. "It's the hiking trail along where Fred Russell and Carol Holman were murdered, isn't it." It wasn't really a question because Mitchum recognized the landmarks.

"Yep," Patterson replied. "See how the caves are marked? And the spot where we think Meto's buried?" He pointed out the features on the map as he spoke.

"Ya, and I know exactly who made this map."

"You know who made this map?" Askew questioned, surprise in his voice.

"Ya. Carol Holman made this map."

Askew's eyes were wide. Questioning. "Are you sure?"

Absolutely certain. Look here. See these little symbols?" Mitchum pointed to several hand-drawn stars and moons pictured along the trail shown on the map.

"I see the little symbols, all right. What about 'em? What do they represent?"

Mitchum smiled. "Carol and Fred used to find things along that trail that may have been related to Harper or his treasure—or maybe somethin' else. I taught Carol how to mark where they found these things using a kind of code rather than listing the actual findings. That way, if she misplaced the map and somebody else found it, they couldn't determine exactly what she'd found. Guess we all were a little paranoid about that happening. Anyway, the little stars stand for one thing, the moons for another. I can still interpret some of it, although nobody knows what became of the stuff she found. Parts of it I can't interpret, of course. For now, though, my point is that Carol made this map. I recognize her way of writing, too." He turned to Patterson. "Have you got the original?"

"Well, I've got what our detective here was carrying, but it's not the original. Looks more like a photocopy." Patterson retrieved the map Harris was carrying from another room and handed it to Mitchum.

"Ya. This would have been copied directly from Carol's notebook. It's the right size." Mitchum turned to Askew. "You remember I told you how Carol kept a small notebook—a kind of journal. Kept it with her, and noted things she found or observed."

"Yes."

"Well, this map was copied from her notebook. Even after all these years, I'd swear to it."

"We need that notebook."

"Ya." Mitchum stood up and walked over to where Harris was lying on the floor. "Where did you get his map?" he asked.

Harris's eyes were defiant. "That's privileged information," he spat out. "I got it from my client."

Mitchum returned Harris's stare, his eyes icy cold. "I asked you nicely once. I'm going to ask you nicely one more time."

"Wait a minute, Delbert," Patterson murmured.

"What's up?"

"Take it easy. No need to interrogate Harris just yet."

"Why's that?"

Patterson smiled. "After we determined just who this guy was, I sent Phil and Tracy over to look through his office. I'd guess they'll be back any minute now with whatever records this guy kept there. And, if Phil and Tracy don't find what they want there, they're going to pay a visit to Harris's home."

"My office! You . . . You sent somebody to break into my office?" Harris yelped, struggling into a near-sitting position as he did so.

"Yep."

"I'll have you arrested. I'll—!"

"Oh, shut up," Patterson retorted calmly, cutting short Harris's outburst. "You'll be lucky if you leave here alive, let alone have an office to go back to, if you don't start cooperating with us. When you pull a gun on a guy while you're trespassing on his property, don't expect much sympathy."

Harris dropped his head back to the floor and twisted around as much as his handcuffs and leg shackles would allow, his eyes dark and brooding as they focused on the individuals around him, but he kept quiet. Mitchum didn't expect much cooperation from the man. Maybe they wouldn't need much.

"Did he have anything else of significance with him besides the map?" Mitchum asked.

"Yep. He was carrying this sophisticated ground probe here, and he had another one in his car." Patterson retrieved a long, slender, well-pointed ground probe from the adjoining room and handed it to Mitchum. "Incidentally," Patterson continued, "we hid his car in one of the sheds. Figured it'd be best if it was out of sight. Don't know what the eye in the sky can see."

Mitchum smiled. "Good. I'm not surprised to find him carrying a probe, and a sophisticated one at that, and I think I know what—"

"You take a good look at that probe?" Patterson broke in.

"Ya. Quite a gadget, ain't it?"

Askew leaned over to study the probe. "I never saw anything like that. How's that thing work, anyway?" he asked.

"Apparently it detects what they call disturbed earth. Is that what it does, Joe?"

"I think so. We'll have to learn how to use it."

"Disturbed earth?" Askew asked, puzzled.

"Ya. Like when you dig a hole and then fill it up. Even if you tamp the fill dirt down into the hole, it still is a little different in texture and composition from the undisturbed earth."

"And this probe can tell when it goes through a hole that's been refilled?"

"Ya, with fair accuracy, depending on several variables. Even though it's not perfect, it gives you some clues, and it'll act like a regular probe to hit solid objects or cavities within the soil."

"I see. And, Delbert, I interrupted you. You were about to say you thought you knew what Harris was looking for with this probe."

"Ya. Of course, I don't know if he had the chance to use the probe or not. We'll have to retrace his steps to see."

"What do you think he's looking for? Or, perhaps, I should say, what's his client looking for?" Askew asked.

"Can't be sure, of course, but this map Carol drew has some interesting notations and symbols. Without seeing her notebook, I'm not sure what some of them represent, but the three of us—Carol, Fred, and me—were interested in some of the depressions along or near the trail they hiked. She'd have made notes about them in her notebook."

"Depressions? Depressions along the trail?"

"Ya. You know how when you bury somebody, or some thing, over time the soil you disturb compacts and sinks just a little to form a depression. That's why they pile the dirt up over a grave when they bury someone."

"You think somebody is buried up there along that tail?"

"Maybe. Or maybe some _thing_. Carol always wondered if Meto was actually buried over where everybody seemed to think he was. His grave just might be along that trail, but we though there might be other possibilities."

"Like what?"

"Well, we've never found Harper's treasure, nor have we found Meto's diamonds. Harris or his employer might be looking for any of these—or maybe something we don't even know anything about. Back in the 1960s, we didn't have sophisticated ground probe rods like the one Harris had, or access to ground radar, or anything like that to use.

"Like we were talkin' a few days ago, maybe Fred could have developed something that would have helped us. Anyway, he and Carol were killed before they could tackle those kinds of projects."

"Something else you should know regarding this guy," Patterson grinned as he broke into the conversation, motioning toward Harris as he did so.

"What's that?" Both Askew and Mitchum spoke at once.

"He was carrying a cell phone."

"Ya? Complete with a built-in address book, I'll bet."

Patterson grinned. "Yep. We checked the addresses listed in his phone."

"Ya?"

"Several of those numbers are very interesting," Patterson said. "One is that of a cop who serves as an intermediary between the County Attorney and the Sheriff's Department. Also, he's got the numbers for a couple of the local crime-kings. Maybe his having those numbers isn't so surprising, considering he's a private investigator. We'll see if Phil and Tracy can help us discover just what Harris and the cops and the local mobsters have to talk about."
CHAPTER 22

It was after breakfast the following morning when Johnny opened the backpack he'd brought back from his visit with Mike Masters's daughter, Dora, who lived in Florida. Mitchum, Askew, and Tommy watched as he removed six well-worn pocket notebooks and placed them on the table. "Let me tell you how I got these," he began.

"Ya, Johnny. Fill us in on what you have here, and how you got 'em."

"Okay. Here goes. Mike Masters lived with his daughter, Dora, for the last five years of his life. Oh, he lived his last few months in a nursing home after he got so sick that she couldn't take care of him, but for all practical purposes she took care of him until he died. Now, when he moved to Florida, he took all of his personal notebooks with him. Those notebooks were still there at Dora's house, all of six fair-sized boxes full. She didn't want to throw them out, but she wasn't happy about keeping them any longer, either, because of the space they took up in her house—so I made a deal with her. Said I'd pay for her to ship them up here to me. Told her I'd take good care of them. Told her they might help us with other unsolved cases. She agreed to the deal, so I helped her package them, and then we took them to the UPS pickup point. They're on their way here—addressed to the bank."

"Good show, Johnny!" Askew exclaimed.

"Thanks. Anyway," Johnny continued, "the six notebooks here are the ones that pertain to the investigation of the Fred Russell and Carol Holman murders. Now, I know you're anxious to look at them, but I'm recommending that we photocopy them first. They've faded some over time, so maybe if we enlarge 'em and darken the text a little we can read 'em easier. Whatdaya think?"

"Ya. Good idea. Go ahead and do that, Johnny."

"Okay." Johnny gathered the notebooks and left the room.

"Whoa! You have a photocopy machine?" Askew asked, surprise evident in his voice.

"Ya."

Askew thought a moment. "I guess I should have known that," he said. "Your friends have photocopied things for us before. Like that map we looked at, the one Carol made."

"Ya."

A few minutes later, Johnny brought two copies of the first notebook, the pages enlarged and the writing darkened for easier reading. "Go ahead and start with this one," he said, "and I'll work at copying the others."

Askew brought out the police file he'd copied pertaining to the earlier Fred Russell and Carol Holman murder investigation and opened it. "We can compare what's in the official file with what Masters wrote in his notebook," he explained.

"Ya" Mitchum reached for the copy of the notebook Johnny had acquired, but before he could begin to examine it, his telephone rang.

"Mitchum here."

"It's Phil, Delbert. Tracy's with me. We're sorry to take so long, but we had a small delay in searching Harris's office. Took us all night and into the morning, but we got it done, and we'll be along in half an hour or so."

"Okay. Find anything interesting?"

"Yes, but it's a little too hot to discuss on the telephone, even though we assume we've got a secure message system."

"Okay guys. See you when you get here."

Even though Darth Harris was locked away in another room where he probably couldn't hear anything that was being said, Mitchum motioned for the others to step outside with him. There he told them what Phil had said.

Back in the house, the men resumed the study of Mike Masters's notebook, comparing the notes he took while beginning the investigation into the murders with the reports he'd placed in the official case file.

Before they'd completed looking at the first notebook, Mitchum's phone rang again. "Mitchum here," he answered.

It was Bradford's contact in Chicago. "Got some good news and some bad news about the Schuler you're looking for," he began.

"Ya? Whatcha got?"

"Given the information about the two boys, Jimmy Schuler, Junior, and William or Bill Schuler, I was able to find information about Jimmy Schuler, Senior, without too much trouble. The good news is that he well may be the guy you're looking for. He was suspected of being a professional hit man, although he was clever enough that the cops never pinned anything on him. Nothing that stuck, that is. Story is that he was good enough that he commanded exceptional pay, and by good enough, I mean that he never led the cops to any of his employers."

"You located him. That's the good news. What's the bad news?"

"The bad news is that he's dead, died about five years ago. Not three years like your informants said, but five."

"Suspicious circumstances?"

"No. I don't think so. He had a heart attack. Died in the hospital."

"Did you check out the cause of death to see if we can trust it being natural?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I did. Talked to a couple of cops who would have loved to pin something on Schuler or someone who did him in, and also talked to his personal physician. They all say they think he died a natural death. If it was murder, it was darned slick."

"Okay. Can you give us anything else?"

"Maybe. Those sons of his probably work for organized crime or drug smugglers. The cops here tell me the one they call Junior is especially nasty, the kind of guy who'll kill you and then laugh while he watches you die. Bill, they say he's more of a follower, ready to kill you, all right, but somebody will probably have to tell him to do it, and how."

"Thanks."

"One more thing, may be of interest, maybe not."

"Ya?"

"The cops here in Chicago think the young Schulers have a protector who's highly placed within the organized crime circles, sort of like an old-time crime-boss having bought off a bunch of cops and politicians so he knows what's going on. Seems as if the Chicago cops have had a lead or two on either Jimmy or Bill or both of 'em over the past few years, and somehow whatever they've had has been leaked so that the boys weren't where they were expected to be."

"Dirty cop or cops, huh. They got 'em up there, too."

"That's how I read it."

"Can you send us copies of the information you got?"

"Yeah, it's already on its way. Should reach you within a day or two via snail mail."

Mitchum relayed the information from Bradford's contact to Askew, Tommy, and Johnny. "Looks as if we're a little late in tracking down Jimmy Schuler, the Senior," he concluded, "if, in fact, he was the trigger man."

"So now we've got to find the guy who hired him," Askew growled as he turned his attention back to the notebooks before him.

Mitchum's telephone that linked him with the main gate sounded. "Mitchum here," he responded.

Joe Patterson was keeping an eye on the gate: "Phil and Tracy are on their way up."

Someone else would be patrolling the borders of the Lazy-D Mine. Mitchum wasn't sure who was working that assignment, but Patterson would—and Mitchum trusted Patterson explicitly.

"Thanks, Joe."

Mitchum stood up. "We're going to talk with Phil and Tracy about their visit to Harris's office, so we'd better remove Harris to where he can't hear anything."

Tommy grinned. "I'll take care of him," he said.

Mitchum nodded. "Ya," he replied.

By the time Tommy returned, Phil and Tracy were seated around Mitchum's living room. "So, give us your impressions of Darth Harris, and tell us what you found in his office," Mitchum invited.

Phil spoke first. "Darth Harris has quite a set-up. His office is in a good-sized office building in a somewhat run-down part of town, not all that far from that Makings Street warehouse where you guys found Clarence's niece."

"Interesting location," Askew interjected.

"Yes it is. Now before we go on," Phil continued, "you guys need to know that nobody is expecting Harris to be back at work for a few days. We recorded a new message on his answering machine to the effect that he'd be working out of town for several days, maybe as much as a week, and that he'd get back with anyone who leaves a message."

Mitchum grinned. "Ya. Good thinking, boys. Go ahead, Phil."

"Okay. We had a little trouble getting into the building. When we drove around the block late last night, just checking things out, there were a couple of what we figured were unmarked police cars in the area. So, once we knew they'd seen our vehicle, we decided it would be better to come in another way."

"Good thinking."

"Once we were sure we weren't being followed, we parked several blocks away and called a taxi. The cabbie took us right into the parking garage and we went right into the building, undetected—we think. Anyway, just in case those cops were keeping an eye on Harris's office, one of us had to stand guard while the other worked. I'm telling you all of this so you'll appreciate why it took us so long.

"Now, getting into Harris's office was easy enough, although we went awfully slow just in case he had a trip-wire or something rigged up to call the cops—or somebody else—if someone entered his office. Didn't want to leave any clues, either."

Mitchum nodded his approval. These guys were professionals.

"Harris isn't your typical private eye of detective fiction. He doesn't have very many clients, but to judge by the information we found on his computer, the ones he has are wealthy and relatively powerful."

"Wealthy and powerful—and mean!" Tracy interjected.

"He's right there," Phil began, "and—"

"How do you mean Harris's clients are _mean_?" Askew interrupted.

"Oh, he's got some nasty clients, all right. One guy he works for is a reputed drug runner called Orsch."

"Okay! I hear you. The name 'Orsch' rings bells!" Askew exclaimed.

Mitchum turned to Askew. "I gather you know this Orsch chracter, or at least you know of him?"

"I sure do. Most of the cops think he's a king-pin drug importer, but nobody's been able to pin anything on him. That's because he simply kills off the competition, and he seems to have eyes and ears in police headquarters because he knows the undercover cops when they try to infiltrate his organization." Askew turned to Mitchum. "You remember those three people we saw who were shot to death in that warehouse?" Mitchum nodded. "Well, I'd guess that was the work of Orsch."

"His style?"

"Yeah. It was his style, all right. Kill 'em and leave 'em. You watch. Nobody'll ever find out who killed those three people."

"Is Harris cozy with the cops?" Mitchum asked.

"Yep. Well, maybe he is, much as we can tell, anyway," Phil replied. "We'll get to that connection in a moment."

Askew was sitting up straight. "Wait a minute," he interrupted, "What kind of work does Harris do for Orsch?"

Tracy spoke up. "We can't answer that. All we know is that Orsch pays Harris a hefty retainer fee once a month."

"You didn't find any files on Orsch?"

"No. Not so far anyway. We've still got some work to do with his computer's hard drive, though. We brought it with us. Figured Harris wouldn't need it for a few days."

"Any other scum that Harris works for?"

"Sure. In addition to Orsch, there's a guy called 'Slammer.' You know of him?"

"'Slammer'?" Is he the one they sometimes call 'the Enforcer'?"

"The 'Slammer' and the 'Enforcer' are one and the same, near as anyone knows. In Harris's files, though, he uses the moniker 'Slammer.' What do you know about him, Clarence?"

"Most of the honest cops think he's the king-pin of extortion in this area, but it's the same as with Orsch, nobody can pin anything on him. At least they haven't been able to, anyway."

"The 'Slammer,'" Mitchum mused. "What'd he do to earn that moniker?"

Askew grimaced "He's a big, tough, guy, and he slams people up against brick walls hard enough to break enough bones, so that they pay off fast—or the next time they don't get the chance to pay off their debts," he replied. "Everybody knows he does it, but there never are any witnesses. And his victims are afraid to talk."

"So what does Harris do for him?"

"Can't answer that either. We just know that Slammer pays Harris a nice fee every month, same as Orsch."

"Who else is on Harris's client list?" Mitchum asked.

"Those are the two big-time criminals. In addition, he's on retainer for a couple of big-name law firms, 'Star Legal Services' and 'Gretchen, Riggs, and Lightner'."

"Star Legal Services? They're the defense attorneys who specialize in criminal defense, right?"

"Right. The joke is that if you're guilty of murder, you need the stars to shine over you at Star Legal Services."

"Gretchen, Riggs, and Lightner? They're criminal defense attorneys, too, right?"

"Right. They're the ones who represented that South American drug dealer a couple of months ago. Won an acquittal on a murder charge for that guy, too, come to think of it."

"Yeah, on a technicality. Somebody mishandled the evidence," Askew added.

"So it looks as if Harris has wealthy clients on both sides of the law who pay him exceedingly well?" Mitchum asked.

"Seems that way. Those are the only four clients with any information in his computer or office files. Oh, he's apparently had a few walk-ins, but from the looks of his files, he'd turned them away—well, he referred them to another private detective, I should say."

"Any clues as to what he was doing out here with that map, or where it came from?" Mitchum asked.

"Not a solid clue. We checked his telephone records, and the only person he was in touch with over the past few days besides Orsch and Star Legal Services was somebody at the County Attorney's office."

"Who?"

"Can't answer that one. No records there."

"Now, what about Harris and the cops? You said he maybe is cozy with 'em?" Askew asked.

"I said it, but I'm not sure I can prove it," Phil explained, "but I'll give you what we have, and you can judge for yourself."

"Okay."

"Harris had those phone calls to and from the County Attorney's office. He also had a bunch of calls recently from a cop who serves as a go-between between the Sheriff's Department and the guy who coordinates the County Attorney's Special Investigators."

"I see. Any chance Harris has recently made a trip to Chicago?"

Before Phil could reply to Askew, Mitchum's telephone rang again. "Mitchum here?"

"David Winters calling for Clarence Askew."

"Just a moment. He's right here." Mitchum handed the phone to Askew and told him who was on the line.

"Yes, David?"

"You asked me to check into the ownership of that warehouse located at 1217 Makings Street." Winters spoke precisely.

"Yes, I did. What have you got for me?"

"That was s-o-m-e assignment," Winters began, then hesitated. "Are we on a secure line?"

"Fairly so"

"Okay, then. I'll send you a summary of the information I have, but I'm calling because I thought you might like to have the results of my search as soon as possible."

"Yes, that will be helpful."

"Okay, then. That warehouse has some interesting history behind it, and I'll start early on."

"Wait a minute," Askew interrupted. "Would you mind if I recorded our conversation?"

"Not at all."

Tommy brought a portable recorder and the cables to connect it to the phone. Moments later, with the recorder functioning, Askew asked Winters to go ahead.

"That warehouse was built sometime in the late 1920s or early 1930s," Winters began. "I couldn't determine with absolute certainty who the original owner was, but a . . . , um, shall I say a 'reputed' gangster by the name of Meto, Ivan Meto, had a major financial interest in the building by the mid-to-late 1930s."

"Ivan Meto? He's the one who liked diamonds, I believe. Are we thinking about the same man?" Askew asked.

"One and the same. In fact, part of the mystery of Meto's disappearance and the disappearance of his diamonds centers on that old warehouse."

"It does? How so?"

"Well, we're getting off track with regards to the current ownership of that warehouse, but since you asked, I'll tell you the rumors I picked up during the course of my investigation."

"Okay."

"Mind you, Clarence, what I'm going to tell you now are rumors, nothing more, nothing less, so what you make of them is up to you."

"Okay."

"Ivan Meto was rumored to have constructed a reinforced concrete vault somewhere within that warehouse. That was, so the story goes, where he kept his excess cash as well as many of those famous diamonds. Well, as you probably know, nobody ever found those diamonds after Meto disappeared or was killed—or whatever happened to him. At least, we don't think anyone ever found the diamonds—or the cash."

"Right. Nobody found his diamonds or much of his stash of cash, at least according to the stories I've heard."

Winters chuckled. "Plenty of people searched that old warehouse for Meto's vault, but as near as anybody knows, nobody ever found it—but, I'm supposed to be telling you about the ownership, not the mysteries, of that old warehouse."

"Okay. Where does ownership go from Ivan Meto? Who got the warehouse after he died?"

"That's where things get rather sticky. See, Ivan Meto was reputed to have had a son by a prostitute. That boy should have inherited Meto's property because he didn't have any other children, not that we know of anyway, but it wasn't quite that simple. It seems as if somebody set up a trust of sorts to keep Meto's crime empire functioning and to maintain ownership of his properties, including that warehouse. Whoever set up that trust must have worked hard to conceal the ownership, because I traced it through three layers of dummy corporations before I lost the thread."

"So we don't know who actually owns that warehouse now?"

"Not really. Well, maybe we have some clues. Somebody pays the taxes, but it would take a court order plus a whole lot of work to sort through the mess and determine exactly where the money comes from. You see, the taxes are paid by a check drawn on a financial institution in South America. It's payable in American funds, and it originates somewhere in California, at least that's how the people in the County Treasurer's Office remember things, but once it's cashed, well, it's not easily traceable."

"I see."

"Now the picture isn't quite as bad as I've painted it—but from here on it's pure speculation."

"Go ahead. Tell me what you think."

"Okay. Let's say Meto actually had this son by the prostitute. The boy, again as the story goes, didn't take Meto's name, so let's say he took the name of his mother. The rumor is that this boy later had a son himself who got into politics and became well placed."

"Right, so there are descendants of Meto alive today who just may own that old warehouse. Am I reading you right?"

"That's right."

"So, where do we go from here?"

"Well, Clarence, this assignment you gave me regarding who owns that warehouse got me interested in learning more about Meto's kid—assuming the story about him is true. So, I started digging into the birth records from the years the kid was likely born. Thought maybe I could identify the kid and—"

BING-BONG! BING-BONG!

In the background, Askew could hear the distinct chimes of a doorbell. Winters paused in mid-sentence. "Wait a minute, Clarence," he said, "there's somebody at my door."

"Okay. I heard the bell. I'll hold for you."

BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM!

Moments later, the harsh rattle of automatic pistol fire echoed through the telephone Askew was holding. A door slammed shut—hard. Then all was silence on the line. Moments later, Askew could hear the crackle of fire through the phone. David Winter's house was on fire and burning rapidly.

Askew dialed 911.
CHAPTER 23

Mitchum, Askew, and the others spent four uninterrupted hours studying the notebooks obtained from Mike Masters's daughter. As they compared their content with the content of the material Askew had copied from the official case files, it became apparent that someone had stepped in and deliberately scuttled the investigation. What appeared to be solid leads hadn't been followed, simply because new and seemingly more urgent cases were given precedent.

Askew pushed the notebooks away from him in disgust. "It had to have been a cover-up!" he growled, then turned to Mitchum. "What do you say we go back into those warehouses tonight and set up our cameras? See if we can figure out what's going on—and, more importantly, exactly who's involved? Get some pictures of 'em if we can?"

"Tonight? You want to go back into those warehouses tonight?"

"Why not?"

"I guess that's fine with me. Before we do that, though, let's check in with Sheron, assuming we can. Maybe she can tell us who was driving that black Ford. Then, we'd better get some rest if we're gonna spend the night down on Makings Street."

"Right. You want to call the guy who's looking after Sheron?"

"Ya." Mitchum dialed Tex Moser's cell phone.

"Moser here."

"Mitchum here. How's Sheron?"

"I talked to her just a few minutes ago when she woke up—but only for a few minutes. She said the fire had to have been set because her house was burning at both doors when the smoke alarms woke her up. In fact the fires at both outside doors were so hot she couldn't use either door to get out of the house. She went out a window instead, but not before she'd breathed too much smoke. Anyway, she's still a little groggy, but her doctor says she's going to be okay. I don't know when she's going to be released, but we'll find somewhere for her to live for a while where we can keep an eye on her for her own protection."

"Right. No problem with that. Is she able to answer a question?"

"Not right now, Delbert, 'cause she's sound asleep, and the doc says not to wake her if we don't have to. So, I'll ask her whatever you've got just as soon as she wakes up and then get back with you."

"Tex, your phone may not be secure, and I don't want to say too much, but ask her if she got any information for us. She'll know what you mean, and by the way—her looking into things for us may be what brought on the arson fire."

"I hear you. Incidentally, I called the State Fire Marshall. Told him I'd give him good odds that that fire was arson. Figured they could investigate it as such. Gave 'em a little push in that direction."

Before Mitchum could terminate his conversation with Moser, his telephone beeped to indicate a call waiting. He hastily thanked Moser for calling the State Fire Marshall and for keeping an eye on Sheron Streeter, then switched to his waiting call. "Mitchum here."

"Phil Orlando here, and I've got some information for you."

"Okay."

"Darth Harris was indeed in Chicago on the day that message was mailed from there to Clarence. Can't say that we can absolutely be sure that he was the one who dropped it in the mail at the Post Office there, but he had the perfect opportunity."

"Good work. Can you determine what else he was doing in Chicago?"

"Not for sure, but we're working our way through his computer files—and we found the Chicago ticket purchase recorded in his credit card records. We'll let you know if we uncover anything else of immediate interest."

Mitchum passed the information along to Askew. Moments later, Askew pulled out the message he'd received with the Chicago postmark and paced it on Mitchum's table:

THE KILLER YOU SEEK WILL NEVER BE FOUND.

HE CAME FROM CHICAGO TO DO THE JOB AND

HE DIED THREE YEARS AGO. YOUR SEARCH IS

OVER. SORRY.

"Bradford's contact says the killer died about five years ago. Whoever wrote this says it was three years ago. Even so, if Harris mailed that message from Chicago, he probably was mailing it for someone from here, and not from himself."

"Yeah."

"He may not even know who he was mailing it for."

"Right."

Once again, Mitchum's telephone jangled.

"Mitchum here."

"Tex here."

"What's happening?"

"Sheron woke up a few minutes ago. Nobody was around, so I talked to her a little. Reassured her that we all were hanging in there with her. Now, I'll tell you what she said about the driver of that black car. This probably isn't a secure conversation, but whoever's listening in already knows what I'm going to tell you."

"Okay."

"Sheron says she went to take a look at the records that should have listed who was driving that particular car on that particular night—but the records were missing."

"I'm not surprised."

"Yeah, the records were missing. She couldn't tell whether the car had actually been signed for and then the sign-out sheet discarded or if the car had never been signed for. To put it mildly, she had an extremely unsatisfactory conversation with the young cop who was in charge of the motor pool, and then she called his supervisor. Nobody could—or would—give her the name of the cop who'd signed out that particular car."

"So, Sheron raises some questions about who was driving that particular car, and later that night her house is set afire."

"That's the way it looks."

"Keep an eye on things over there, Tex," Mitchum cautioned, before he signed off and relayed the information to Askew.

Askew simply shook his head at the news from Sheron. "Let's get some rest and then go have another look at that warehouse," he said.

* * * * *

They released Darth Harris. Phil and Tracy Orlando had bugged his office and his home. They'd tapped his telephone and also bugged his cell phone and his car. He'd be getting in touch with someone soon, and they'd know it. Maybe he'd lead them to the one who was trying to thwart Askew's investigation.

* * * * *

Makings Street was quiet when Johnny drove Mitchum and Askew past the warehouse where they hoped to plant surveillance cameras. Maybe there wouldn't be any activity at 1217 Makings Street that night. Still, it was early in the evening by criminal standards. "Crime-standard time never changes" was one of Askew's favorite expressions.

Once again, Johnny dropped the two men off near a manhole at a slight distance from the other two they'd used to enter the sewer on their previous excursions. By midnight, they'd made their way to the drain they used as a basement entrance to the north warehouse.

The main floor of the warehouse where the three people had died hadn't been cleaned up. Maybe nobody ever would clean it up—or care. Someone had removed the bodies, all right, but the blood and a few chalk marks, likely made by the police, remained. Time would take care of things. Time, and the bums that sought shelter in the building.

"Let's go take a look at that door." Mitchum motioned toward the walk-in door through which the three victims and their killers had most likely entered the warehouse.

Askew nodded, and the two men made their way quietly to the door. No sounds could be heard in the area outside the door. The lock on the door had been broken years ago, but there were brackets by which the door could be barred.

A few minutes of searching around the warehouse turned up a couple of short pieces of lumber that would serve to bar that door if they wanted to secure it—and they did. The lumber wasn't ideal for the job, but nobody was going to get in through that door without making a lot of noise. They'd be warned and have time to get out of there if anyone tried to break down that door.

With the walk-in door barred, Mitchum and Askew walked the perimeter of the main floor. They inspected the two overhead doors. At first it appeared that both were securely latched from the inside. Upon further inspection, however, the men discovered that one of the doors was not latched. It might have been the one through which the people had entered the warehouse on the night when three of them were killed, and through which the police had entered.

Mitchum secured the doors. Nobody could now just quietly walk in on them as they continued to explore the building. Walk in on them, yes—but not quietly.

Once the outside doors to the warehouse were secured, the two men made their way to the door they'd seen that might lead directly into the main floor of the 1217 Makings Street warehouse. It appeared to be a heavy wooden door reinforced by horizontal metal strips, an old door that had perhaps been put in place when the warehouses were built.

A slight tug followed by a slight push didn't move that door in the least. When Mitchum beamed his flashlight at the lock, it appeared to be rusted tight, as if the door hadn't been used for many years. Curiously, the bolt in the ancient lock appeared to be drawn back. To Mitchum's surprise, that door was actually _unlocked_! The building had probably settled slightly, such that the door was jammed in its frame.

Askew beamed his flashlight around the door frame. It was a tight fit, but Mitchum's pry-bar would fit between the frame and the door both above and below the lock. Ever so cautiously, so as to avoid making undue noise, Mitchum began to pry around the lock. Soon he had the door free so that it would move back and forth a tiny fraction of an inch.

Before continuing his work on the door, Mitchum backed away and carefully examined the door and its frame. The hinges were installed so that the door would open toward him; the hinge pins were riveted so that they couldn't easily be removed.

"I'm going to try to pry the door open," Mitchum whispered to Askew. "You stand back away from the door just in care there's a booby trap," he cautioned.

Askew backed away while Mitchum worked his pry-bar in deeper between the door and its frame, and then began to force the door open. Once he'd opened it just a little, he stopped and ran his fingers around the edge of the door, searching for any kind of trip-wire or lever that might have been attached. Finding nothing, he forced the door farther open until there was perhaps a half-inch opening. After searching but finding no attached trip-wire and listening intently for sounds on the other side, Mitchum motioned for Askew to join him for a look beyond the door.

Mitchum beamed a tiny flashlight through the opening, then almost chuckled aloud. The wall was close to two feet think where the door was located, and there was another similar door on the other side. The space between the doors would make a superb hiding place, certainly large enough to hide two men the size of Askew or Mitchum. Mitchum wished he'd known about that hiding place years ago when he had infiltrated the warehouse.

"I'm gonna try to open the other door," Mitchum whispered.

Askew stepped back, listening carefully for any signs of other human activity, as Mitchum inspected the lock that had been installed on the inside of the door. It was locked but was easily pried open from the inside with the pry-bar.

Once the lock was open, Mitchum applied his pry-bar to the second door, loosening it, and then ever so carefully forcing it open. Moments later, Askew and Mitchum closed the first door as far as they could without jamming it, then eased themselves into the warehouse addressed as 1217 Makings Street.

There were no sounds indicating a human presence, only the eerie quiet of the enormous empty space beyond them. Nevertheless, the two men cautiously explored the main floor, all the time seeking out the best place inside the warehouse to install one of the surveillance cameras. Finally, they selected a column where they could mount the camera in a cavity using an adhesive strip. It would cover the outside walk-in door as well as the two overhead doors and, aided by night-vision technology, should produce clear images even in the near-total darkness of the warehouse interior—day or night.

Once the camera was securely in place, Mitchum checked the small recording device and attached monitor. The image was clear. They'd have to find a place to hide the recording device and monitor, perhaps in the storm sewer if they couldn't find a secure place inside the building.

Mmmmmmm! Mmmmmmm! . . . Mmmmmmm!

Suddenly, there were sounds of approaching motor vehicles outside the warehouse. Mitchum and Askew started for the double doors through which they'd entered the building. Once at the doors, though, they heard voices on the other side of the wall. What was this? There was no way anyone could have come in through the walk-in door without making a lot of noise because they'd barred it. But there was no mistaking the voices! Several people were on the other side, and suddenly there were loud, angry voices. Maybe they'd come in through one of the overhead doors, or maybe there was an outside opening to the freight elevator. Regardless of how they'd come in, they were there.

Mmmmmmm! . . . Mmmmmmm!

There was no time to listen in on the conversation because just then there was more vehicle activity outside their side of the building. "Let's get out of here," Mitchum quietly urged.

"How? They're on both sides of us."

"To the basement," Mitchum replied. "Come on."

As quickly and quietly as possible, Askew followed Mitchum down the stairs he'd taken when he'd first been in this warehouse to rescue Karen. "Now we'll see what's on the other side of that wall somebody built to keep us out of here," Mitchum whispered.

There were increasing sounds of activity above them, but it was unlikely they were in any danger of immediate discovery unless someone noticed the two doors ajar and decided to sweep the entire double-building. Mitchum's judicious use of his flashlight revealed exactly what he'd thought they'd find on the other side of the door in the wall that had been constructed after he'd been in the warehouse that first time, years ago—a double-barreled shotgun was aimed at that door with a wire rigged so that opening the door would trigger the weapon.

While Askew removed the trip-wire from the shotgun's trigger, Mitchum went to work on the door. Moments later, he'd picked the lock. Their escape route was open.

And not a moment too soon! Someone on one of the floors above them was shouting now. Whoever was upstairs had probably discovered the open double-doors through which Mitchum and Askew had gained access to the warehouse and had given orders to search the entire building.

There were sounds of running booted feet on the floor directly above Mitchum and Askew. "Come on, Delbert," Askew breathed, "We've got to get out of here."

"Ya. You get the floor grate out of the drain. Me? I'm gonna rig up our own booby trap to slow 'em down a bit."

While Askew used the pry-bar to lift the grate from its place and prepared to exit through the drainpipe into the sewer, Mitchum repositioned the shotgun so that it now was aimed directly at the foot of the stairs leading to the basement. Moments later, he had the trip-wire looped across the stairs just above the floor. It wasn't a neat job, nor was it well hidden, but if anyone charged down those stairs without looking very carefully, well . . . !

Once the shotgun was repositioned, Mitchum hurriedly joined Askew in the small room and closed the door behind them. There was no way they could lock the door, but maybe it wouldn't make any difference. With one last look around the room, Askew and then Mitchum slipped into the drain on their way back into the storm sewer, and Mitchum slid the heavy metal grate back in place over his head.

KER-BAM! KER-BAM! "EEEEEEEEEOOWWWWW!"

Askew had just made it into the sewer and was checking for any signs of human activity there when the shotgun above them roared twice and someone screamed wildly. Mitchum joined Askew moments later. "Got 'em with both barrels. That's what they intended for us," he chuckled. The two then scrambled along the sewer toward the manhole where Johnny would pick them up.

Once in the car, the men checked the monitor that was recording the camera's signal. It appeared to be working properly. Apparently, the camera hadn't yet been discovered, and the video recording in the monitor, once it was digitally enhanced, would provide reasonably clear pictures of the operation that was taking place that night, and most importantly, of the people involved.

When they were sure the monitor was working perfectly, Mitchum replaced its memory card and then took it back into the sewer. There he hid it in a crevice where the concrete had deteriorated enough for him to scrape out a secure holding place. They'd pick it up on the following day. In the meantime, they had the memory card from that night's recording so far to analyze. They'd see who, if any, of the people they might recognize.

* * * * *

After he was allowed to leave Mitchum's cabin, Darth Harris drove directly to his office. Once there, he immediately made two calls—both of which the Orlando brothers monitored. The first was to someone in the County Attorney's Office and consisted of a brief message: "This is Darth Harris. They caught me, and they've got the map. Sorry. We've got to talk." The response was brief: "I'll pass the message along." The second call was to the man called Orsch: "I need to talk to you, sir. It's extremely urgent." There was no response except for a "click" as a receiver was replaced.

On the following morning, the _Times_ carried a brief note on the seventh page regarding Harris. He'd been found dead in his office. Investigators ruled his death a suicide.
CHAPTER 24

The surveillance camera Mitchum and Askew had placed in the 1217 Makings Street warehouse dramatically chronicled the events of the night: A large man in dark blue coveralls had walked into the building through the walk-in door and raised one of the large overhead doors. A big rental truck backed up to the loading dock, and three men wearing grey coveralls soon were busily engaged in unloading parcels—when somebody discovered the unlocked and partially open doors through which Askew and Mitchum had entered the building. Following that obviously unexpected discovery, the man who'd opened the overhead door gave an immediate order to find the intruders. Six or seven additional men were summoned from the street and charged into the warehouse. They were armed with assault rifles and quickly fanned out though the building. Four minutes later, the shotgun Mitchum had rigged as a booby trap could be heard to discharge in the distance.

After the men reviewed the recording, Tommy took it to Bradford's. He had equipment to enhance and enlarge the images, and they might be able to identify some or all of the men.

It had been a stressful night, and Mitchum and Askew would rest much of that following day. Later, they'd check in with Sheron Streeter. Then, late that night, Mitchum would retrieve the memory card from the hidden recorder and see what additional information it might provide, that is, he would if no one had discovered its hiding place and destroyed it—or the camera. And they had no way of knowing if their pursuers had followed them into the storm sewer.

It was late that afternoon when a call from Tommy informed Mitchum that Tex Moser, Sheron Streeter, and Wes Christian were at the gate and on their way up to the cabin. Mitchum said, "Ya."

"Wes is a former Marine medic," Mitchum answered Askew's unasked question. "I suspect Tex thought it best to get Sheron out of that hospital, and asked Wes to keep an eye on her medical condition. We'll find out soon enough."

Moser quickly confirmed Mitchum's suspicion. "There were strange people moving around that hospital wing," he told them, "and I figured we'd best get Sheron out of there."

"She really doesn't need hospital care now," Christian added. "She's gonna be okay, but I'll keep an eye on her for a few days just to be certain."

"Can she stay here for a few days?" Moser asked.

"Ya. Stay as long as she wants. Thing is, we'll have to tighten security."

Moser grinned. "Want me to contact the motorcycle guys?"

It was Mitchum's turn to grin. "You might just alert 'em to the fact that we may need their services. That way we can give 'em a quick call if we do need 'em."

"Are you sure it's okay if I stay here, Delbert? I . . . I don't want to . . . to impose." Streeter spoke up hesitantly.

"Ya. The place ain't fancy, but we're happy to have you," Mitchum replied.

Sheron smiled. "I'm not very fancy either so we'll get along just fine, and I feel safe here, and I'm very, very tired. Is it okay if I nap now?"

Mitchum showed her to one of the bedrooms and told her to make herself at home.

"She need anything, Wes?" Mitchum asked when he'd returned from showing Streeter to the room where she'd be staying.

Wes shook his head. "No. She just needs sleep. Lots and lots of good ol' sleep."

Toward nightfall, Johnny drove Mitchum to the sewer manhole where he'd hidden the camera's monitor. They lifted the cover cautiously, and Mitchum lowered a microphone down the manhole to listen for any signs of activity. Hearing none, Mitchum lowered an electric lantern. When there was no reaction, Mitchum climbed into the manhole and looked up and down the sewer using night-vision binoculars. Again, he saw nothing to indicate anyone else was or had been in the sewer.

While Mitchum was checking out the sewer, Johnny was carefully surveying the surroundings for any signs of people, and tonight he was carrying a rifle—just in case. They had to assume that someone was watching the sewer system and its several nearby entrances, but there was no one around this one that he could see.

Moments later, Mitchum had replaced the memory card with a new one. He assured himself that the camera was still working although it now was detecting no activity. Once again, he hid the monitor.

* * * * *

Later that night, the men assembled in Mitchum's cabin watched the newest recording from the camera Mitchum and Askew had installed in the warehouse: The search for intruders had apparently been called off not long after the shotgun blast. One of the men, probably the one who'd kicked the trip-wire, was carried out the door. From all appearances, he was very, very dead.

After the unloaded rental truck left, half a dozen motor vehicles arrived in a well-timed sequence throughout the night. As each vehicle arrived, the driver and a passenger loaded up their share of the packages and drove away. Reasonable photographs were obtained of the occupants of each vehicle. Those would enlarge well and could be digitally enhanced at Bradford's. Whether any useful information would come from having the images remained to be seen.

And if they could make no use of the images with his investigation, Askew reasoned, they just might come into use in the future—especially if someone got a federal investigation going into the criminal organization using that warehouse.

It was as the men were reviewing the surveillance camera's pictures that Askew's cell phone jangled. "Hello. Clarence Askew here."

"De . . Detective . . . Detective Askew?" The voice was old, feeble, faltering.

"Yes, this is Detective Askew." Only one man he knew would refer to him in that way. "How can I help you, sir?"

"De . . . Detective Askew. This is . . . This is Tom . . . Tom Weatherbee. Do . . . Do you . . . remember me? Remember who . . . who I am?"

"Yes, Tom, I remember you. How are you?"

"N . . . Not so . . . Not so good, and I'm . . . I'm scared."

"You're scared?"

"You've got . . . You've got Mike's . . . Mike Masters's notebooks. Don't you?" Weatherbee did not respond to Askew's leading question.

"Yes."

"I . . . I thought . . . I thought so. So . . . so you know."

"Know what, Tom?"

"There was . . . There was a . . . a . . . a . . . a . . . cover-up." It was hard for the old man to bring himself to say those words.

"It would appear so. Yes."

"You . . . You knew . . . You knew I . . . I . . . I wasn't . . . wasn't telling the . . . the whole truth, didn't . . . didn't you?"

"I had a strong suspicion."

"Of course, you did. See . . . See . . . I . . . I was a . . . was a cop, too. You . . . You know . . . You know that, don't . . . don't you?"

"I know that."

"I . . . I was . I was a . . . a good cop, too. But the money . . . the money. It . . . It was just . . . just too . . . too tempting."

"Tom, you said you were scared. Why?" Askew brought the old man back to his statement about being scared.

"They're . . . They're coming . . . coming for me. I . . . I just know it. Gonna . . . Gonna shut me up . . . for . . . for good."

"Who's coming for you, Tom?"

"Oh, you can't . . . you can't . . . can't stop him. He's . . . He's gonna . . . gonna shut me up . . . for . . . for good."

"Who did it, Tom?"

"Won't . . . Won't do no good . . . Won't do no good to . . . to tell you 'cause . . . 'cause I can't . . . can't prove it. 'Course maybe . . . maybe you could . . . could look into . . . into his . . . his ancestry. That might . . . might . . . might provide a . . . a link."

"Who, Tom? Who did it? Who ordered the murder of those kids? And why?"

The old man was silent for so long that Askew thought the connection had been lost. "Are you still there, Tom?" he asked.

"I . . . I'm still . . . I'm still here."

"Who did it, Tom?"

"They're . . . They're coming for . . . for me."

"Who did it, Tom?"

"Abolence. Stanley Abolence. Stanley Abolence and his father." As the old man blurted out the name, the telephone line went dead.

Askew held the phone to his ear for several seconds, hoping Tom Weatherbee would come back on the line, yet knowing he wouldn't. Finally, he switched off his phone and looked around at the men assembled there. "Stanley Abolence and his father," he said in a hushed whisper.

Moser chuckled, breaking the spell: "The County Attorney! Man! When you guys stir things up, you do a bang-up job!" he exclaimed.

Before the impact of Weatherbee's revelation could completely sink in, Askew's phone jangled again: "Hello. Clarence Askew."

"Mahone. I've got something for you—and all caveats apply."

"Okay."

"I overheard something at the bar that might or might not help with what you're looking for. You should be able to check out enough of it to tell if it has any truth to it. Anyway, this young guy, maybe 30 years old, was really upset. Said his buddy got himself killed just a night or so ago when he ran into a trap, kicked a trip-wire, and a double-barreled shotgun blew him away. BAM! BAM! Just like that! Said he knew the guys he was working with were bad news, but he didn't bargain for people getting killed, for sure not his best friend. Said they'd made a delivery of some sort with a truck or SUV—things get fuzzy here, and you have to remember he'd had a lot to drink by this point in his story—and his job was to keep people away from the operation. Exactly how, he didn't say. Street goon, maybe.

"Now, here's a part of this guy's babble that's more relevant to your question: This guy said the organization he works for is gonna move out of the area. Said things were getting crowded here, that some judge wanted to call in a federal task force. Only this guy didn't want to move anywhere 'cause he has a girlfriend here and so on. But the leader is gonna pack up and move, and already has done the preliminary work, so they'll be moving, whether the rest of 'em like it or not. This guy, he didn't seem to know where they'd be going. Maybe to South America or Arizona or whatever. Ya gotta understand, he was drunk.

"He was a regular motor-mouth by this time, blubbering in his drink. Was starting to go on about a new import business—that was his term—in archaeological artifacts. I wanted to ask him a few more questions, help his memory a little, but some guy came right about then and got him out of there. Big guy with a mean face. Scar on his right cheek. Short dark hair. Dark eyes. Denim shirt. Roughed motor-mouth up a little on the way out, too. Told him to shut up, and roughed him up. Believe me, I watched my back when I left that bar. But, hey! I'll keep nosing around.

"Oh, by the way," Mahone continued, almost as an afterthought, "when I was out, I looked over that rental car you parked near your apartment. Your sister's car, too."

"Yeah? Find anything?"

"Your sister's car had a bug under it. I got it outta there. There's what looks like a genuine bomb attached under your rental car, though, probably wired into the ignition switch. Turn the key, and you're dead. I didn't touch it. Removing that is a job for the bomb squad, not me."

"I'll get on it."

"Where's your truck?"

"It's hidden."

"It better be. Look it over for a bomb anyway." There was a click as the phone went dead.

Askew dialed the bomb squad number. With them on the way to his parked rental car, he then relayed Mahone's information to the others. "Things are beginning to fit together," he said.

"What's fitting together?" Sheron Streeter came into the room, still looking very tired and somewhat disheveled, but somewhat refreshed from her rest. Askew filled her in on the two phone calls.

"David Winters was looking into birth records, hoping to find Ivan Meto's heirs, before he was killed. What's the chance we'll find that Stanley Abolence is Meto's grandson?" Streeter asked.

"Even if he was, that wouldn't prove him to be the one who hired someone to kill Fred Russell and Carol Holman," Askew responded.

"No, but it would point to him as heading up the area-wide crime organizations we're all certain exists. And Weatherbee did finger him."

Mitchum had been silent up to now. He turned to Askew: "Your friend, Mahone, said this organization was moving. He implied that they'd be moving right soon. In your opinion, could Stanley Abolence simply abandon his run for State's Attorney General and move away?"

Streeter spoke up. "I can answer that one. He's got access to a tremendous fortune, and it's all off-shore or in South America, so he can live anywhere he wants. Don't ask me how I know this, but I do. He doesn't need money. It's power that's driving him now. If he's got a chance to become even more powerful somewhere else—he's outta here."

Mitchum nodded. "I'll go along with that. Now, speculate a little. Why might Abolence be sending a guy like Darth Harris out here to poke around?"

Streeter smiled. "I doubt that Abolence would be looking for Harper's treasure, so let me try something a little different on you. Suppose Abolence would like to find his grandfather's body and give him a proper burial—or something like that? Or maybe he wants to get completely rid of Meto's remains so nobody can check the DNA and link the two of them?"

"Okay, let's go with some motivation like that for now." Mitchum acknowledged her remarks. "Now, let's think in a different direction. Suppose Abolence is gonna run. How would he leave here?"

"I'd guess he'd leave by private plane. There are five airports, and—"

Askew spoke up, interrupting Streeter. "We'll have to watch each one." He turned to Mitchum. "Could we put a tail on Abolence?"

"Ya, I'd reckon so, but I'm not sure it would do any good—unless we could connect him with something illegal. Instead of tailing him, what would you think of setting a trap for him?"

Streeter sat bolt upright. Her blue eyes were gleaming. "A trap? How so, Delbert?"

Mitchum turned to her. "Following up on your suggestion that Abolence may be interested in locating Meto's remains, and the assumption that people who've been looking into his ancestry just may have aroused his murderous ire, we might just be able to fake the recovery, or at least the discovery, of his grandfather's body. Or of the burial place. Whatdaya think?"

"It . just . might . work! Yes, I'm . getting . an . idea . for . a . trap." Streeter was thinking as she responded. "By the way, is there any chance your friend Bradford can connect Abolence with the payments to that old cop, Tom Weatherbee?"

"Don't know. Bradford's people are checking into that now."

"And what about his connection with the ownership of that warehouse?"

"Again, we don't know. David Winters hit a dead end on that project."

"Yeah, and got killed when he started to look into the birth records of Meto's kid, which raises another question in my mind: Who's Stanley Abolence's father?"

Mitchum smiled. "Bradford's checking into that, too."

Askew was leaning forward, listening intently as Streeter and Mitchum interacted. "Right." He turned to Streeter. "Now, Sheron, how might we set a trap?" he asked.

Streeter thought for several moments before she responded. "I guess I need to let you guys in on some things I know." She turned to Mitchum. "Can I . . . Can I trust these guys, Delbert?" she asked. Her big blue eyes now were wary.

"Ya."

"Every one of 'em? One-hundred percent?" Streeter looked around the room, her eyes cool. "I gotta know for sure."

"Ya. You can trust 'em. I do."

"Okay, then. Good enough for you, Delbert, good enough for me." She took a deep breath. "I've been conducting my own investigation into Stanley Abolence for some time now. Let me start from the beginning:

"A few years ago, there was a tremendous archaeology discovery near the modern city of Hebron, that's in Israel. The archaeologists think they've discovered the ancient city of Hebron that was home to one of the major characters in the Old Testament, a man named Abraham. This discovery would date to around 1700 B.C. There are rooms and tombs and the usual things that really excite archaeologists. I'm saying all of this in the present tense because the scholars are working on this stuff right now.

"Not long after the discovery of this ancient city, artifacts from this site as well as another major site in Israel began showing up in the United States. Museums wouldn't touch 'em because they thought the artifacts were stolen—which, of course, they were. Even so, certain collectors were willing to pay tremendous sums of money, in cash, for those artifacts."

Streeter looked around the room, making sure each person there was following her. "I was working with a federal agent who was tracking some of the stolen stuff," she continued. "He'd given me an illustrated list of the missing items, and once you saw the pictures, you'd recognize the artifacts. This was prize stuff.

"Anyway, to make a long story short, some time later I saw one of those artifacts, a royal seal from one of the ancient kings of Israel, on Stanley Abolence's desk. He was right pleased to show it to me, and I acted dumb so he wouldn't think I saw anything wrong with his having it—because I wasn't absolutely sure at the time that there was. Suspicious, yes, but not sure. Anyway, I did a bit of research and contacted a museum curator I know who was just plain flabbergasted that somebody would actually have that seal—and the nerve to show it off.

"And you have to remember that Israel's security at archaeological sites is probably the tightest in the world. Some of the relics that come in from South America or Africa have an easy time of it, but to get artifacts out of Israel would probably require a whole lot of cash or influence distributed just so.

"Now, don't ask me how I did this, but I found a paper trail on that particular seal. It was paid for with cash, of course, but that cash came from an off-shore bank that just happened to be the same bank where the checks to pay taxes on that old warehouse at 1217 Makings Street come from. And Stanley Abolence has a rather large sum of money in that bank. Oh, I couldn't check on specific withdrawals, but his account wouldn't have taken much of a hit to pay for that seal—and it had to have cost him a bundle."

Mitchum had been following Streeter's account with deep concentration. When she had finished, he raised his hand. "Question."

Streeter smiled. "Go ahead, Delbert."

"Is Abolence a buyer or an international fence—or both?"

"Hey! I see things more clearly now," Askew broke in before Streeter could answer. "That question puts things into perspective for me. The guy's a high-powered fence. He finds a buyer for stolen goods on the international level. The seller moves 'em into that warehouse, and somebody takes over and distributes the goods to the buyers."

Streeter smiled. "I'd agree. It's not stuff being sold locally through that warehouse, so we don't get involved like we might with the drug trade or locally stolen goods. And let me tell you, Abolence has made a tremendous fortune."

"Do you think he's a buyer, a collector of, say, art items? Like that seal?"

"I don't know. He lives quite modestly, seemingly within his means, but who knows what he's got stashed away, maybe in Mexico or South America. That royal seal is the only thing of great value that I ever saw in Abolence's possession, but then I don't get into his office very often."

Askew raised yet another question. "David Winters thought the tax payment on that old warehouse originated in California and came through South America. How many bank accounts does Abolence have?"

Streeter smiled. "Several that I know about, and they're mostly either off-shore or in South America. Of course he probably has some I don't know anything about. I'm telling you, he's loaded—and wanting more and more. That I know!"

"So, Sheron, what's your idea of a trap for Stanley Abolence?" Mitchum asked, changing the course of the conversation.

"Can you get me one of those devices that changes my voice on the telephone, something that will make me sound like an old lady?" she asked Mitchum.

"Ya."

"Then . . . ." Streeter's intense eyes flashed as she outlined her plan.
CHAPTER 25

Bradford's call came early the following morning. "Here's part of the information you requested," Bradford began. "The payments to Tom Weatherbee were made through a bank in South America. As best we can determine, our local County Attorney, Stanley Abolence, has control of that account. He also has control of the bank account in California through which the taxes on that warehouse at 1217 Makings Street are paid. We can't determine the ownership of that warehouse with certainty, but our guess is that Abolence would have a controlling interest as part of a syndicate—or maybe he owns it outright, perhaps by inheritance.

"Now, who was Abolence's father? Good question. Would you believe that the birth records from the approximate time of his father's birth are simply missing from the State Division of Vital Statistics? Would you also believe that Stanley's birth records also are missing from the state office? Both statements are very true. We're not giving up, however, and are following up on a story that suggests Abolence's father was the son of Ivan Meto and was born to a prostitute here in the city. We may be able to locate some school records or other records that give us some insight on this question. Anyway, even though it's incomplete, we thought you'd like what information we had."

Mitchum thanked Bradford for his help. That call completed, he called Rebecca and John at the bank to alert them to the plans to lay a trap for Stanley Abolence. Finally, he called 'Big Joe' Patterson, the president of the veterans' motorcycle club, and then faxed him several copies of Abolence's photograph. The most recent photo he had came from the campaign literature Abolence had sent to Askew. Abolence would be easily recognizable from that photo.

* * * * *

It was time to set the trap for Abolence.

The sun was just setting when Askew drove Streeter to a public telephone located at a convenience store. Mitchum and Johnny followed in Mitchum's rarely used dark blue Buick and parked nearby. The car blended in nicely with the surroundings and, except for the deeply tinted windows, didn't call undue attention to itself. They'd wait until the first call was completed and check to make sure there weren't any tails on Askew and Streeter before driving over to the storm sewer entrance where Mitchum had stashed the warehouse surveillance camera's recorder.

With the radios they carried, each person could listen in on Streeter's call to Stanley Abolence's home number: "Hello. This is the Stanley Abolence residence."

The voice changer altered Streeter's voice to sound like an old woman: "May I speak to Stanley Abolence, please?"

The female voice responded. "Mr. Abolence has guests right now. May he call you back?"

"I think he'll want to take this call. Ask him if he'd like to hear from his grandfather, Ivan Meto?"

"Yes. I'll ask him. Hold please." The voice sounded surprised, anxious. Streeter had rung a bell with her.

Suddenly, Abolence himself was on the line: "What is this about?" he hissed.

Askew was standing beside Streeter, keeping an eye on his watch. If Abolence was set up to trace this call, they'd probably have only two minutes to talk before he or his henchmen determined where they were calling from.

"Do you want to know where your grandfather Ivan Meto is buried?"

"Perhaps. How—"

"Sorry, time's up," Streeter broke in when Askew signaled that two minutes were up. "You stay right by that phone. I'll have to call you back."

The group drove to yet another telephone several blocks away. All of them were aware that they'd cornered Stanley Abolence, and that he could be—would be—most dangerous. They'd keep a close lookout for any signs of Abolence's hoods.

At the second telephone stop of the night, Streeter resumed her call. Abolence picked right up. "So, two questions," he began, again without any kind of introduction or greeting. "How do I know you've actually got anything for me and aren't just trying to shake me down? Second, assuming it's good information, how much are you asking for the information about Ivan Meto's burial site?"

"The price is yet to be determined."

"Okay. How do I know you really have anything for me?"

"Trust me."

"I don't trust anyone. If you've got information about Ivan Meto's burial site, you'll have to—"

"Same as with a drug deal, Mr. Abolence" Streeter interrupted. "We'll meet. You'll bring cash, and I'll point out the exact spot where he's buried. Bring some muscle along with some shovels, and they can dig him up on the spot."

"A lot of people have searched for that burial site. How do I—"

"Time's up. Gotta go. Think about it. I'll be in touch."

As Streeter was finishing her call, Mitchum's telephone vibrated to indicate an incoming call. "Mitchum here," he answered.

"Orlando Freeman here, Delbert. Got a moment?"

Orlando Freeman served as the president of Mitchum's bank. His call at this hour had to be important. "Ya."

"Can I drop by your place for a very brief conversation?"

"Are you at the bank?" Mitchum answered his question with one of his own.

"Yes."

"Good. I'm running an urgent errand right now, and I'm close to you. How about if we meet in the parking lot of that mall two miles this side of the bank? Sort of split the driving distance? Won't have much time, but we can talk a little. Look for the Buick."

"Give me ten minutes."

Freeman was waiting in the parking lot, a place where he and Mitchum frequently met to talk business when they wanted privacy. Tonight, Mitchum was in a hurry. "This will only take a few minutes," Freeman told him, "because I just need your approval for something."

"Ya?"

"I anticipate a minor problem with our vault," Freeman began, a slight smile flickering across his face. "That is, with the _size_ of our vault," Freeman continued.

"Ya?"

"I had a call today from some guys who said they are bringing your share of the salvage from a sunken ship. Said something about your having financed a part of their operation, and that they planned to deliver your share tomorrow," Freeman continued.

"Ya?"

"They estimate they'll be bringing about 900 pounds of gold coins and over 1,000 pounds of silver coins, plus a medium sized crate of artifacts. Ancient stuff, they tell me."

"Ya. Sounds about right. The coins'll be worth a fortune, so they should go into the vault. Any bullion?"

Freeman chuckled. "Not too much by comparison. Oh, maybe a hundred pounds or so, they said. Silver bars, most likely."

"Ya."

Freeman chuckled again at Mitchum's mild acceptance of the treasure. "Our problem is that we can't accommodate that large a shipment in our vault, that is, we can't if we want to continue using the vault for our banking business."

Mitchum nodded his understanding. "Ya. What do you want to do with the treasure?"

"We can store part of it in the basement for a while, but it won't be quite as secure as if it's in a genuine vault. Anyway, to make my long story short, I've been talking to the president of a small bank about three miles from ours. He said the owners want to sell, and I looked over the books. Actually, it looks extremely solid and very profitable strictly as a bank, and we could sure use the vault. Oh, and I took Rebecca along to check on the security, and she says it's petty good, and that she can make it better without too much trouble."

"Ya?"

"My question is this: Should we consider buying it? Maybe make it a branch bank, or maybe operate it independently?"

Mitchum didn't hesitate. "Ya. Go ahead and buy it. Operate it as you think best. Give Rebecca whatever she needs to upgrade security."

"Okay. I'll get things moving yet tonight," Freeman said. The men shook hands, and then Freeman was gone. That was the way Mitchum liked to do business. If Freeman said the other bank was stand-alone profitable, it would be, and he trusted Freeman to take care of the details. Then, too, Mitchum appreciated the need for more vault space—especially since another salvage operation he'd partially financed was already under way, this time seeking gold the Nazi elite had been trying unsuccessfully to smuggle out of Germany near the end of World War II, and which was now on the bottom of the ocean. Freeman didn't know about that venture—yet. Nobody knew everything that Mitchum had going. He liked it that way.

While Askew and Streeter drove to another convenience store telephone, Johnny drove Mitchum to the sewer entrance where he'd stashed the surveillance camera's recorder. Even before he opened the manhole cover, however, Mitchum sensed that something wasn't right. He backed away from the cover and looked around, then walked back to the car and spoke with Johnny: "Cover me," he said.

Johnny surveyed the area using night-vision binoculars. When he didn't see anything suspicious, Mitchum once again inspected the manhole cover.

Mitchum had developed a keen eye for minute detail. When he replaced something like that manhole cover, he did so in a specific way. In this case, he'd placed it so that the lettering denoting the foundry where it had been cast was centered toward a crack in the nearby sidewalk. Now, the lettering was at a slight angle to the sidewalk. That manhole cover had been removed and replaced.

Johnny joined Mitchum and crouched there near a shrub to the side of the manhole, a short-barreled shotgun at the ready, as Mitchum cautiously lifted and slid the cover to one side. There didn't appear to be a trip-wire attached to the cover, so Mitchum slid it further aside until there was enough space for him to climb into the sewer.

Using his tactical flashlight, Mitchum inspected the sewer opening and the part of the sewer he could see. There it was! Somebody had indeed been inside that sewer—and they'd placed a bug of some sort in the rubble on the floor to the right.

Two questions immediately crossed Mitchum's mind. Was that some sort of motion detector—or the trigger for an explosive device? With this one placed so obviously, where was the second one, the one that would be well-hidden?

Whoever had been in the sewer most likely would have discovered the surveillance camera's recorder. There wouldn't be much point in looking for that, not now, anyway. And there was the possibility that the bug had detected their presence and alerted someone who was even now on his way to intercept them. "Let's set and spring our own trap," Mitchum whispered to Johnny.

"Yeah."

Whatever kind of device that was on the sewer floor, someone would most likely be monitoring it. Once Johnny was back in the driver's seat with the Buick's engine running, Mitchum tossed a rock at the bug, scoring a direct hit on the device, quickly pulled the manhole cover back in place, and then sprinted for the car. Minutes later, they'd parked well out of sight where they could see anyone who might approach that area.

They didn't have long to wait. The maroon Ford, most likely the same one that had shadowed Askew a few nights before, drove slowly by the entrance to the sewer. After circling the block, it came back and parked near the manhole cover. Two men, one of them cradling a shotgun, got out of the back seat and maneuvered their way to that manhole cover, then cautiously moved the cover aside and looked into the sewer.

When they found no activity within the sewer, the two men returned to the car and appeared to be talking things over with the driver. Moments later, they returned to the manhole. One of them climbed down the ladder and into the sewer while the one with the shotgun stood watch. A few minutes later, he, too, entered the sewer.

"Too bad we didn't get a booby trap of some sort set down there," Mitchum whispered. "Take care of some of the bums."

"Yeah," Johnny replied.

As Johnny and Mitchum watched through night-vision binoculars, the men emerged from the manhole, replaced the cover, and made their way back to the car. A few minutes later, the car engine started, and they drove away.

"Think they'll be back tonight, Johnny?" Mitchum asked.

"Hard to tell. I could argue either way," Johnny replied.

Mitchum thought a few moments: "I guess we'll leave things alone for the night."

"Best," Johnny agreed.

Mitchum and Johnny waited and watched, not wanting to call attention to the fact that they'd been in a parked car near that sewer entrance when the maroon Ford was there. Then, unexpectedly, Mitchum's phone vibrated. "Mitchum, here," he whispered.

"Tommy, here. I'm at the cabin. Askew and Streeter have't checked in since the second checkpoint."

"Something must have gone wrong. We'll check on them," Mitchum replied.
CHAPTER 26

"Something's wrong," Mitchum growled, "'cause Clarence and Sheron haven't reported in with Tommy as agreed."

"Then we'd better go find 'em," Johnny replied, as he turned the ignition key.

As they pulled out of their parking place, however, Mitchum caught nearby movement from the corner of his eye. Someone was in the shrubs across the street, maybe watching them, but the men really didn't have time to check things out. The important thing now was to find Askew and Streeter, but then Mitchum had an idea. "Make a U-turn," he told Johnny.

The moment Johnny was opposite their former parking place, Mitchum switched on his powerful tactical flashlight. The blinding beam caught two figures, both men, and Mitchum aimed for their eyes as they dove for cover. The tactical flashlight beam wouldn't do them permanent eye damage, but it would temporarily blind them—and from the way the two men collapsed, Mitchum knew he'd taken at least one of them out of immediate action. He'd delay anything the men had planned by way of following or confronting them. Give them time to get away.

"Go, Johnny," he growled, "and keep an eye out for a tail."

Mitchum and Johnny drove in silence past the convenience stores where Streeter had made her first and second calls. As they neared the third telephone location, a booth in the lobby of a run-down office building, they saw the car Askew had been driving. It was in the parking lot, seemingly abandoned, and its driver's door was standing wide open.

Johnny pulled up behind Askew's car. Even before they reached his vehicle, they saw that he was slumped on the ground beside it. As they approached, guns in hand, Askew stirred and moaned. "At least he's alive," Johnny observed.

"Ya."

Johnny and Mitchum lifted Askew onto the seat of the car. "What happened?" Mitchum demanded.

"St . . . Stun . . . Stun-gun," Askew gasped. "They . . . They hit me . . . hit me with . . . with a . . . a stun gun. Caught . . . Caught me . . . off guard."

"Where's Sheron?"

"Oh!" Askew slapped his forehead, looked around, trying to focus on the phone inside the lobby. "If she's . . . If she's not . . . not around, they . . . they must have got her."

"What do you mean, _they_ must have got her? Who's they?"

Askew was shaking his head, clearing it now. "Sheron went up the walk to the door and was going inside the lobby toward the phone. You can see it from here." He pointed toward the phone Streeter planned to use. "I was watching her. Then a car pulled up between me and her. Parked right over there. Blocked my view of her for a moment." Askew pointed to where the car had parked. "Couple of guys got out and started inside, like they were following Sheron. I got out in order to keep an eye on her and them, and one of 'em must have slipped around behind me 'cause somebody zapped me with a stun-gun. That's all . . . That's all I remember." He still had a dazed expression on his face.

"Wait here, Johnny. I'm going inside to take a look around the phone," Mitchum said.

Johnny nodded, then turned to Askew. "What kind of a car was it?" he asked.

"I . . . I can . . . I can just barely remember it."

"Whatever you can remember may help. Was it big or little?"

"Big."

"Big car. Four door?"

"Four door? Must have been, 'cause I think somebody got out of the back seat. Out the back door. I think that was the one who got me. Or maybe there was a second car, and the one came out of it. Behind me. If there was a second car, I didn't see it."

"Brand name of the car you saw?"

"Don't know. Ford, maybe?"

"Black?"

"Black? Yeah. Well, dark anyway. Lights like those sometimes make other colors look black." Askew waved his hand at the security lights.

"Any identifying markings?"

"Can't remember. Didn't see any nameplates."

"Dents? Scrapes? Broken glass?"

"No."

"Three guys?"

"Yeah, at least three got out of the car. Maybe plus a driver."

"What did the ones you saw look like?"

"The two guys who went inside looked just like your ordinary businessmen to me. They were wearing suits and ties. The works."

"Carrying anything obvious?"

"Don't remember anything like that."

"How do you think somebody caught on to you guys? How'd they know where you'd be?"

"If Abolence had advance notice that Sheron or someone would call, he might have been able to get something working that would trace the calls in less than the two minutes we counted on. This might be a logical third stop."

Johnny thought for a moment. "Yeah. I've got an idea of how that might have worked. Let me try it on you."

"Okay."

"Let's assume that somebody gave Abolence advance warning that someone would be calling him, maybe setting him up, and he got some sophisticated equipment set up to trace the calls."

"Okay."

"Who could it have been other than Tom Weatherbee?"

"I don't know. Weatherbee seemed so scared that somebody was after him, and when his phone went dead, I assumed they got him then and there."

"Yeah. That's what we all assumed. We should have checked further." Johnny grabbed his cell phone and called Bradford. Moments later, he turned back to Askew. "Bradford's people will check out Weatherbee—see if he's dead or alive. If he's dead, they'll try to determine what happened to him. Maybe there will even be telephone records showing who he called over the last few days."

Meanwhile, Mitchum had traced the steps Streeter had taken walking toward the phone. There were no clues to indicate that she'd actually reached the phone, nor were there any clues as to her disappearance from the lobby of the office building. The voice changing device she was carrying was nowhere in sight. When he returned to the car where Johnny and Askew had been talking, Johnny said, "We want to try out an idea on you."

"Okay."

Mitchum listened. "Ya. There's a good chance you're right. We should have learned by now not to trust anybody. And, thanks for getting Bradford to check things out for us." He turned to Askew. "What do you think they want with Sheron?"

Askew shook his head. "If Abolence is serious abut leaving the area, he'll use her as a shield to insure his getaway," he muttered.

"You think he's serious about getting away from here?" Mitchum asked.

"I don't know what to think."

"What do you think, Johnny?"

"I'd say there's a good chance he'll run, but we're as ready as we can be if he does 'cause we've got Big Joe and the motorcycle vets keeping an eye on the airports."

"Ya," Mitchum agreed. "I faxed 'em pictures of Abolence so they'd recognize him."

Johnny nodded. "If he tries to get away by air, we'll know it. We just gotta watch and wait."

It was almost midnight when the call came from Patterson: "There's a small business jet landing at Westport. Bradford's checking the markings now, but knowing a little about the traffic at this airport, I'd say somebody is coming for our boy, Stanley Abolence."
CHAPTER 27

"Okay, Joe. We're on our way," Mitchum responded. They'd agreed that Johnny would drive Askew to the airport and Mitchum would remain "at large," joining up with Patterson and the motorcycle vets as soon as Abolence's presence at the airport was verified.

Patterson stayed on the phone with both Askew and Mitchum, but for almost half an hour there was nothing for him to report. The business jet was parked at the airport, and there had been communications to and from the airplane, but Patterson did not have the equipment to break the cryptic code they were using.

Half an hour gave Johnny and Askew time to reach Westport. They parked on a rise to the east of the airport where they could see the jet. Then, as Askew studied the jet through his night-vision binoculars, he saw the headlights of a vehicle approaching. "If that's Abolence, I want him. Let's get down there," he hissed.

"Sit tight," Johnny replied. "Abolence has Sheron, remember. We've got to give him a little room."

"Sure, he's got her,"Askew hissed, "and he'll use her as a shield, but we might as well try to take him, because if he gets away, he'll shove her out of the airplane anyway."

"I know," Johnny responded, "but let's let the other guys handle this. They can do it better than we can."

"Other guys?"

"Yeah."

"What other guys?"

"You'll see."

As the vehicle approached the jet, Askew's telephone jangled. "Hello."

"Askew?" He recognized Abolence's voice.

"Yes."

"I thought you'd be nearby. Came to see us off, didn't you?" Abolence taunted.

"Looks like you've won a big one."

"Keep your distance, Askew, or Streeter gets iced."

"Okay. You win. Have a good trip."

As they talked, Askew and Johnny could see Abolence climb out of the vehicle, pushing Sheron ahead of him, his gun at her head, telephone cradled on his shoulder.

"Why don't you let her go?" Askew asked.

Abolence laughed. "She's my ticket outta here."

Askew was now ready to climb into the jet, pushing Sheron ahead of him up the steps. "Why'd you do it, Abolence? Why'd you have those kids killed?" Askew asked.

"You're never gonna know. Just keep your distance from the plane." The telephone went silent as Abolence climbed into the plane.

Several minutes passed. There seemed to be some delay. Then the jet began to move. It slowly taxied to the runway, and was soon ready to accelerate down the runway.

"They're gonna get away," Askew mumbled, "I oughta . . . ." He raised his gun, but Tommy pushed it aside.

"It's too long a shot for a handgun, Clarence. Besides, don't be so sure they're getting away. Look over there." Johnny pointed behind the plane, beyond the runway.

"What? What's going on?" Askew lifted the night-vision binoculars to his eyes. "Oh, my gosh!" he exclaimed.

Across the grassy strip at the end of the runway came the throaty rumble of a big Harley-Davidson running flat out. Driving that motorcycle was Delbert Mitchum. He was almost invisible in the darkness, but through his night-vision binoculars Askew could see that he was bent almost flat over the fuel tanks and behind the handlebars as he rode. Behind him in the buddy-seat sat Big Joe Patterson.

Patterson was seated upright. He was swinging his right arm in a circular motion above his head, and Askew could make out that he was swinging a heavy log-chain, the end of which was draped over Patterson's muscular shoulders.

From the looks of things, Askew figured Mitchum had that motorcycle going well over one-hundred miles an hour and accelerating by the minute—and the two of them, he and Patterson, were rapidly gaining on the jet. Because the jet would be making quite a bit of noise itself and the motorcycle was directly behind it, it was unlikely that anyone in the jet knew Mitchum and Patterson were approaching.

Faster and faster and faster they came. Once they caught up with the jet, Mitchum swung to the right and began to draw even with the now slowly accelerating plane. And Patterson was still swinging that heavy log-chain in ever-larger circles above his head, much like a horse mounted cowboy swinging a lasso.

Just as it appeared to Askew that the jet would be lifting off and leaving the motorcycle in its wake, Mitchum drove past it and Big Joe tossed that heavy chain—directly into the intake of the jet's engine.

WHAM! BAM! EEERRREEEKKKK!

There was a tremendous shriek and clatter as that steel chain destroyed the jet engine. White smoke began to billow from the engine compartment as the pilot fought to control the now gyrating and skidding aircraft.

Even as the pilot was attempting to bring the ruined airplane to a stop, Askew saw more action as six motorcycles roared up and drew even with the airplane. Moments later, as the airplane skidded off the runway and shuddered to a stop, six former special forces operatives sprang from those cycles and stormed the plane from both sides.

Those former special ops men had practiced their raid on that particular type of airplane ever since it had landed and been identified. Less than thirty seconds later, one of the men was helping Sheron Streeter off, and another was carrying an unconscious Stanley Abolence off the plane—in handcuffs. Still another had the pilot, also in handcuffs.

Johnny and Askew hurriedly joined the group on the runway by the plane, and the men who'd rescued Streeter and captured Abolence and the pilot began quietly to fade away into the darkness. Even before Airport Security arrived minutes later, both Askew and Streeter were on the phone to Judge Mildred Teel. Judge Teel said she was on her way and would meet them at the airport. She'd also follow them to the police station. Furthermore, she informed them that she was asking for immediate assistance from the FBI.

* * * * *

It was perhaps ten minutes later as Askew and Streeter were about to accompany Abolence and the pilot to the police station when Streeter looked around the group and asked, "Where's Delbert?"

"I don't know," Askew replied. He saw Patterson on the motorcycle he and Mitchum had ridden in pursuit of the plane and waved him over. "Where's Delbert?"

"Oh, I guess you don't know what happened!"

"No! He's okay, isn't he?"

"He's going to be okay."

Streeter hurried to join Askew, concern for Mitchum showing on her face: "What happened, Joe?"

"Abolence apparently got off a lucky shot right before the guys stormed the plane. It caught Delbert in the back of his right arm. Didn't hit a bone so it's not too serious, but it tore up some blood vessels and got to bleeding pretty bad. Wes Christian didn't have the proper bandages, so he took him to a clinic we sometimes use. They're gonna keep him over night. Oh, by the way," Patterson continued after a brief pause, "Delbert said it was fine with him if you guys wanted to stay at his cabin tonight or for a while, that he'd be seeing you soon."

"Is someone keeping a watch on Delbert?" Streeter asked.

Patterson grinned. "You bet. We've got a rotating schedule already set up so that he'll have a couple of guys keeping an eye on him at all times throughout the night—and as long as he stays at that clinic."

* * * * *

Lori visited Delbert Mitchum that night as he slept in the infirmary. She sat by his bed for quite some time, just watching him sleep, before he realized he had a special visitor. Or, was he dreaming? He was never absolutely certain. Once he awakened to her presence, however, perhaps awakened more by the fragrance of her perfume than her actual presence, Lori took his hand and held it in hers. As soon as he realized she was near, he asked if she would play the guitar.

She told him she was sorry, that her guitar was out at his cabin, and that she couldn't play for him for that reason, but that she'd be back to play for him just as soon as he was back home. Then as his pain-relief medicine kicked back in and he drifted back toward sleep, Mitchum heard her say distinctly in her happy voice, "Good job helping Clarence investigate those murders, Delbert. I'm proud of you. You always were a good cop."

When he reached his hand out for her, however, she seemed simply to vanish. Then, just as he drifted off to sleep, he sensed her presence come back again. This time she was facing him, and he saw the serious look on her wonderfully expressive face. "It's not over yet, Delbert, and it won't be until you've found Meto's diamonds—all of them!" she whispered softly. "There's awful danger in the search, though, so you be very wary. You and Clarence, both. Other people want those diamonds, too. Want 'em bad. So, you be wary." With that, she was gone. Even though she'd given him a message of warning, somehow knowing that Lori was nearby helped Mitchum sleep soundly for the first night since Clarence Askew had asked his assistance with that cold case.

* * * * *

Mitchum had been awake for only a few minutes the following morning when a nurse entered his room and asked if he was up to having a visitor. When he assured her he was, the nurse ushered Sheron Streeter into the room.

"Hi, Delbert," Streeter murmured, as she gently touched his hand.

"Hi, Sheron."

"You gonna be okay?"

"Ya."

"They taking good care of you here?"

"Ya."

The young woman reached for him and then hugged him there as he sat up in bed. "I wanted to say thank you, Delbert," she whispered.

Mitchum hugged her back with his good arm. "You're welcome, Sheron," he assured her.

"You've been awfully good to me, Delbert," Streeter continued, stifling a sob as she hugged him, "and it seems like you're always getting hurt on my account."

Mitchum squeezed her shoulder. "You're one of the nicest people I know, and I'm glad you're around," he told her softly, "and I'm not hurt bad. Another day or two, and I'll be okay."

Streeter raised her head from Mitchum's shoulder where she had nestled it. Her warm eyes were glistening with tears. "I love you, Delbert," she whispered, then kissed him.

"I love you, too," Mitchum replied, giving her shoulder another one-armed hug before she straightened up.

"I'll be checking in on you," she told him, "and you call me once in awhile, okay?"

Mitchum assured her he would.

Sheron Streeter was one girl he'd met that Mitchum really liked. She was quite youthful in appearance, youthful and gangly, and in these ways she reminded him of both Lori and Carol Holman, the other girls he'd really enjoyed knowing along the way. They'd been young and gangly when he'd known them, too. Furthermore, unlike most of the people Mitchum had encountered over the years, Sheron had always said nice things like 'please' and 'thank you,' and she'd expressed her concern for his well-being. Sometimes Mitchum wished he were thirty or forty years younger.

"She really likes you, doesn't she?" The nurse's unexpected question broke through Mitchum's musing.

"Pardon me?"

The nurse giggled "I said that girl who was just here really likes you."

"Ya, I guess she does."

"I can tell. Do you like her?"

"Ya. I'm real fond of Sheron."

"I thought so. What does she do?"

"She's a cop."

"That's interesting. You were a cop once, weren't you?"

"Ya."

"You guys oughta get together. Good lookin' gal like her and a tough guy like you. You'd make a great team."

Mitchum chuckled. "That'd never work. She's young enough to be my granddaughter."

"Nonsense. A lot of younger girls team up with older guys these days. If you like her half as much as she likes you, you'd make a great team."

"Sorry, I'm afraid not."

The nurse giggled. "Now, you listen to me, Delbert Mitchum. You don't turn your back on a pretty girl like her just because she's younger than you. Makes no difference when you love each other. Now, I've got to get along and see to another patient, but I'm gonna be back to encourage you two, okay?"

"Ya." Mitchum grinned as the nurse left the room. "I can dream," he told himself wistfully.

* * * * *

The search for the diamonds could wait. It had been several days since Mitchum actually worked his silver mine—and he wanted to do so again as soon as possible. Once he was back home at his cabin, and his guests had found other places to sleep, he alerted Tommy as to what he was going to do. Tommy could handle anything that came up above ground, of that Mitchum was absolutely certain. As for him, he'd simply be unavailable for the entire day. No telephone. No radio. Nobody talking at him. Sometimes, he just liked it that way.

When Mitchum constructed his cabin, he'd built a small trap door into the floor of his bedroom. Secure in the knowledge that he'd be left alone for the day, Mitchum now locked and barred himself inside his cabin and then raised that trap-door.

Steep steps led downward, and Mitchum took them slowly, one at a time, his bandaged arm still hurting when he gripped the railing tightly. Once he'd reached the bottom of the stairs, he unlocked a heavy wooden door and pushed it open This was the entrance to a tunnel he'd created that led to the Lazy-D Mine, a mine that by Mitchum's estimate contained enough silver to keep him busy for well over another hundred years—not that he was going to last that long, of course, but somebody else would take over from him in the future. Right now, he had absolutely no idea who that person would be.

It was early in the morning when Mitchum descended those steps and went to work in his mine. Working in the mine was one of the few things Mitchum actually enjoyed at this stage of his life. It was hard, physically demanding work, but satisfying and somehow quite relaxing to him. Likewise, the coolness of the earth and the presence of silver ore were somehow refreshing to his spirit. By evening, Mitchum was restfully tired and looking forward to his supper and a good night's uninterrupted sleep. No sooner had he sat down to his meal, however, than the phone jangled. Askew's number showed on his caller-I.D. "I've got something for you, Delbert," Askew told him, excitement and a note of urgency in his voice.

When Askew used that tone of voice, it usually meant more work for both of them. "Ya. What's that?" he asked.

"I'd rather bring it out to you. Let you see it. Tommy wouldn't put me through to you all day. Said I could catch you this evening. If it's okay, I'll bring it out in about an hour."

Mitchum sighed. "Ya. Come on out." He hoped it wasn't another cold-case file Clarence wanted to share with him. Not that he minded helping Askew. In fact, he'd enjoyed the chance to play detective. Still, he was tired and . . . .

True to his word, Askew arrived one hour later. Once the men exchanged brief pleasantries, Askew opened his briefcase, pulled out a large manila envelope, and handed it to Mitchum. "Take a look," he invited.

There in the envelope were photocopies of two notebooks. Mitchum recognized them instantly. Although he hadn't seen them for forty-odd years, they were copies of the notebooks that once belonged to Carol Holman and Fred Russell. "Where did you find the originals?" he asked.

"Stanley Abolence's house."

"Ain't that something. He kept 'em all these years," Mitchum mused.

"Yeah, I guess so. They weren't well hidden, either."

"The originals are evidence, I assume?" Mitchum inquired.

"Yeah, they tie Abolence to Holman and Russell better than anything else we've got so far. He had something to do with their deaths, of that I'm certain, although he'll no doubt deny it. It's going to be a federal case, and the FBI has the notebooks, so you can rest easy about their safe keeping. Fact is, I'm probably not supposed to have these copies, but then I figure it's my case, too."

"Did you read these notebooks, Clarence?"

"Studied every single word. Scrutinized the drawings, too."

"Did you see anything in them that warranted killing Fred and Carol and all those other people?"

"Not really, although it seems to me as if Carol was awfully close to finding those diamonds of Ivan Meto's, and maybe she was on to something that would tie Meto and Abolence. And, say, regarding those diamonds—" Askew interrupted himself in mid-sentence, hesitating.

"Ya?" Here it comes, Mitchum thought. His face softened. It was okay.

"From reading her notebook, it seems to me that Carol thought those diamonds were still hidden in that old warehouse at 1217 Makings Street, that nobody had ever found 'em."

"Ya. That's how I remember her thinking."

"A couple of cryptic notes indicated she'd talked with you about where they might be?" Askew spoke as if it were a question, but Mitchum knew he meant it as a fact. He also now knew exactly where this visit was heading.

"Ya. She did." So that _was_ what this visit was all about. Well, so be it!

Askew's face brightened. "Do you know where they are?"

Mitchum sighed. This task was going to require some serious work. "Maybe. I know where I'd look, anyway."

"Some people said they really were in a vault inside that warehouse, but a lot of folks looked for a vault and never found one. Do you think they're in a vault in there?"

"Ya. Well, a kind of vault. Maybe not a conventional vault like in a bank, but a vault nonetheless. Like I said, I know where I'd look."

"Would you help me recover them?"

Mitchum sighed again. It was out in the open now. He hesitated.

"I'd split the profits with you, and I was thinking maybe we could give something to Sheron to help her purchase another house. Her insurance paid off all right, but the money won't buy another house like her old one, the one that burned."

Mitchum sighed. "I personally don't need more money, but I guess we could go have a look for those diamonds—and I do like the challenge." He didn't tell Askew that he already had provided funds to Sheron to assist her in buying another house to replace the one she'd owned that had burned, or that he'd actually helped her purchase the first one several years ago.

One nice thing about owning his own bank was that Mitchum could transfer funds discretely so that nobody else needed to know whom he was helping or what he was financing. In fact, few people had any knowledge of his resources, and that was exactly the way he liked it. Oh, people speculated this way and that, but nobody knew for certain how well Mitchum was "fixed" except for the CPA who handled his bookkeeping and tax statements. If people thought him a worthless recluse, so much the better, he thought, because it saved him from having to deal with all the bums who were looking for handouts and the women who were looking for a rich mate. He'd had enough of that business years ago.

"Let's go tonight!" Askew was eager to get going on the search for those diamonds.

"No. Not tonight. I've worked in the mine all day, and I'm tired. Give me a day to rest up and get a few things together, and we'll go tomorrow night."

"Okay. I'll pick you up about dusk."

Mitchum shook his head as Lori's warning came back to him. "No. You come on out. Park in the shed like before. Johnny will drive us from here. He can keep an eye on our entry into that warehouse."

"You don't think it's safe to just go in by the street door?"

"No. It's not at all safe to be seen going into that warehouse. I'm not sure Abolence's gang has left town—or if they every will."

"You want to go in via the storm sewer?"

Mitchum though for a few moments. "Ya, I think so. We'll have to be careful, though, because members of Abolence's organization, if we can call it that, have been in those sewers. Who knows what sensors or booby traps they've set.

"And you've got to realize," Mitchum continued, "that we've messed with their organization, maybe even forced them to relocate. Oh, maybe the prospects of the federal investigation called for by Judge Teel had something to do with that, too, but they'll think we've had a good deal to do with it—and they won't mind getting rid of us as examples to anyone who dares to cross them in the future."

Askew thought for a moment. "You're right. And here's something else, Delbert. Abolence may be able to run his organization from prison, if he ends up there, and he might offer somebody a bonus to blow us away. So, yeah, you're right. We'll be safer going in through the sewer."
CHAPTER 28

They entered the storm sewer at a different manhole than any they'd used previously. Both Mitchum and Askew were keenly aware that there might be booby traps or motion detectors set in the storm sewer near the warehouse or inside the building itself, and they proceeded with extreme caution. To their surprise and measured relief, however, they arrived at the underground entrance to the second warehouse without finding anything that might alert someone to their presence.

"I don't like it," Mitchum whispered, "not one bit."

"Why's that? We haven't found any booby traps. Seems to me that things are going well."

"Ya. Things are goin' well, all right. Maybe _too_ well. Clarence, there's an old military expression: 'If your advance is going well, you're probably walking straight into an ambush.'"

Askew squinted at Mitchum in the darkness "You think we're walking into an ambush?"

"Don't know. I hope not, but I've got a feeling, and it's not a good one, either."

"Maybe Abolence's gang has pulled out for good, and the warehouse is completely abandoned."

"Maybe."

"You don't think so. You want to turn back?"

"Na. We'll go ahead, but we may be walking into that ambush," Mitchum cautioned, then asked, "Are you ready to climb up the drain and go inside?"

"Ready when you are."

"Okay. Put these on. We don't want to leave fingerprints." Mitchum handed Askew a pair of thin gloves, then pulled on a pair himself.

Mitchum lay on his back and backed his way into the drain pipe through which they'd enter the warehouse and scooted himself upward using his feet and elbows until he came to the iron grate. After checking carefully to see if there were any trip-wires attached and finding none, he pushed it aside. As near as he could tell with his flashlight, they were alone. "Come on up, Clarence," he signaled.

They investigated the basement level carefully for signs of human activity and, finding none, climbed the stairs to the main floor. Once again, the warehouse seemed vacant.

Still, something didn't feel right to Mitchum that night. The place seemed spooky. Maybe it was Lori's warning, or maybe his paranoia was kicking in. Maybe Abolence's thugs had installed surveillance cameras in the warehouse and even now were watching the intruders. Mitchum didn't know exactly what was giving him the feeling they were being watched, but they'd better be extremely wary. Of that, he was certain.

The doors through which they'd entered the warehouse at 1217 Makings Street were essentially as they'd left them—slightly ajar. Using utmost caution, the men pushed them open. Nothing seemed amiss, but in Mitchum's thinking, something _was_ amiss.

"Where do we look for the diamonds?" Askew whispered excitedly.

"Up." Mitchum hoped the lure of those precious gems was not affecting Askew's ability to reason. To be wary.

"Up? To the top floor?

"Ya."

As they started up the stairs, Mitchum's telephone vibrated. It wasn't a good time or place to take a call, but then any call coming in on that number at that time of the day was likely important, so he answered. "M," he whispered, using the code that Johnny or Tommy would recognize.

"Johnny here. There's been a development in the Abolence case that you should know about. There was a hearing this afternoon, and the judge freed him on ten-million dollars bail."

"He's out?"

"Yes. Sheron tried to tell the judge that ten-million dollars was chicken feed to Abolence, that he'd pay the bond and skip, but the judge wouldn't listen. Almost had her cited for contempt of court. Abolence left the courtroom with a big smirk on his face. Sheron says he's probably got murder on his mind, too, and that you guys are probably number one on his hit list. Be careful out there."

Mitchum thanked Johnny, then relayed the information to Askew as they climbed the stairs to the third floor.

"Yeah, I know." Askew replied.

"You knew Abolence was out, but you didn't tell me?" Mitchum's whisper was hard. Maybe it was best that Askew couldn't see the flame in his intense blue eyes.

"Didn't figure it would make any difference to us. He's surely not coming here, not after what's happened." Askew didn't seem concerned.

Mitchum wouldn't count on Abolence not being there in that warehouse watching and waiting for them that very moment, but he didn't say anything. Instead, he turned to Askew and suggested that they sit at the top of the stairs and rest a few minutes before proceeding. "The next lap of our adventure is going to be the hard and dangerous one," he explained, "and we'll need to stay well-focused. On guard, but relaxed and _well-focused_." Mitchum didn't like the part of the adventure that was coming next, but he didn't want to alarm Askew unduly. The climb would be hard enough, and now he had to worry about Abolence being there.

While they sat there, Mitchum forced himself to relax using a technique he'd been taught by some of his friends who'd been Army Rangers. He would go to the mountain cabin he'd created in his mind. There was a beautiful lake nearby, and it was always springtime. He'd go and sit by that lake and take in the growing things, the trees leafing out, and the grass just starting to green up. Later, he'd toss a pebble into the lake and watch the ripples travel across the water. By the time the water became smooth again he'd be totally relaxed, his mind crystal clear and focused.

"Where do we look now?" Askew asked, as Mitchum stirred.

"Up, much higher. Are you ready?"

"Yes."

Mitchum wanted to get it over with, and he was hoping that he was wrong about an ambush. "Let's go then."

Both men were just getting to their feet when a familiar yet uncharacteristically harsh voice barked from the darkness behind them: "Get your hands in the air! Both of you! Now!" There was no mistaking Abolence's commanding voice. At the same time, a brilliant beam of light from a tactical flashlight illuminated Askew and Mitchum.

"Turn around slow and easy," Abolence growled, "and keep your hands away from your guns. I won't blind you with this light because I need you, but I'll shoot if you go for your guns. Easy now, both of you."

Mitchum and Askew turned toward Abolence as they were told, careful to hold their hands away from their guns as he had commanded.

"Take your guns out of their holsters and place 'em on the floor. Slow and easy."

Again, Mitchum and Askew did as they were told. Had Mitchum been by himself, he would simply have drawn his gun and shot it out with Abolence then and there, but with Askew more directly in the line of Abolence's possible return fire, well . . . .

"It's all over, Abolence. You might as—" Askew taunted.

"Not for me, it isn't over," Abolence interrupted.

"What do you want, Abolence?" Mitchum asked. He could stay focused and remain in control of the situation, he told himself. He'd done it before, and tonight there really wasn't any other choice. Not if he wanted to survive.

"The diamonds. I figured you'd lead me right to 'em. That's what _you're_ here after, isn't it?"

"Ya." There was no reason to deny their mission.

"Figured so. There isn't anything else of much value in this old warehouse, not anymore. Well, if you want to stay alive, let's go get 'em. Lead me to those diamonds, right now!"

Mitchum had a good idea of how Abolence knew they were there that night, but he'd ask anyway. Torment Abolence just a little more. "How'd you know we were here?" he asked.

Abolence laughed. "You aren't the only ones who know how to set up a surveillance camera. Now, cut the talk, and take me to those diamonds."

"It's going to be a pretty hard climb, straight up a narrow steel ladder. Are you sure you wouldn't like to wait here 'till we can bring 'em to you?"

Abolence laughed. "Do you take me for a sucker, Mitchum? Wait right here, you say? No way. I'm going with you. Now, you guys get going wherever you're going, and I'll follow. Just move slowly and don't try to jump me, 'cause I won't hesitate to kill both of you."

"Ya. We hear ya." Mitchum led Askew and Abolence to the west wall of the warehouse. There, almost invisible in the blackness of the building's interior, was a narrow steel ladder anchored into the concrete wall. It began about two feet above floor level and led straight up, seemingly disappearing into the inky darkness overhead. "This is where we begin," he said.

Abolence traced the ladder with his powerful flashlight beam as it went up almost to the ceiling and then connected to a narrow catwalk that ran completely across the top of the building. "Where's that ladder gonna take us?" he growled.

"To the diamonds, assuming somebody hasn't got to them first."

"All right, then, let's go get 'em. Get moving." Abolence waved his arm toward the ladder.

Slowly, step by step by step, Mitchum began to climb the ladder, followed by Askew and then Abolence. It was obviously difficult for Abolence to climb vertically, what with his trying to use only one hand on the railing while gripping his pistol in the other. In fact, Mitchum noted just how much the pistol was waggling from side to side as the man climbed. He also noted that Abolence wasn't wearing boots that would help him keep a firm footing on either the ladder or the narrow catwalk above where they'd be walking. "He's not well dressed for the task at hand," Mitchum murmured to himself. His lips curled into a slight smile at the thought.

The catwalk was anchored a little less than six feet below one of many heavy steel beams that supported the warehouse roof, the roof itself curving well above those massive beams. Although there was a steel railing along one side of the catwalk, it was not a place for anyone fearful of heights. Even so, Mitchum felt good, energized and focused. He hoped he could stay that way.

Mitchum wasn't sure Abolence was going to be able to follow them, but somehow he managed to clamber up the ladder and follow both Mitchum and Askew onto the narrow catwalk. With one hand, he gripped the guardrail; with the other, he gripped his pistol with renewed determination. "All right, Mitchum," he growled, "where are those diamonds?"

"See that beam?" Mitchum asked, pointing to the one directly overhead, above the catwalk, now minimally illuminated by the light from Mitchum's lantern.

Abolence looked up and stared at the beam, his eyes wide and glistening with excitement and anticipation. "Yeah, I see it. What about it?"

"A little unusual, isn't it?"

"Don't play games with me, Mitchum. What's unusual about it? And what difference does it make?"

"Look closely. It's actually constructed of two 'I' beams welded together. You can see that." Mitchum directed their attention to the steel beam with his flashlight.

"So what?"

"There's a hollow space in the center between the two 'I' beams."

"You think those diamonds are inside there somewhere? Inside that beam?"

"Maybe. We're going to look for evidence of a door of some sort." Of course, that door just might be welded shut, but Mitchum didn't think it would be.

"A door?" Abolence snorted.

"Of some sort, yes." Mitchum was carefully inspecting the sides, top, and bottom of the welded beam as he inched along the catwalk. The beam was as high as his head, and he could only see the top when he stood on tiptoe, so he felt carefully along the top and sides as they moved along, letting his hands explore what he might not be able to see in the semi-darkness.

"You know that's where those diamonds are, do you?" Abolence sounded skeptical.

"No."

"Then why are we looking here?"

"People have looked over every inch of this warehouse, but I doubt that anyone ever looked here—and this is where I'd have hidden those diamonds if they were mine to hide." Mitchum stated his case simply.

"Well, then. Keep . . . Keep looking. Keep looking! Keep . . . Keep looking!" Abolence sputtered angrily as he inched ever closer to Askew and Mitchum, waving the gun in his hand as he spoke. Abolence was agitated now, and Mitchum wondered if he were on drugs.

Mitchum scowled. "I could look a whole lot better if you'd back off a little and keep that gun out of my face."

Abolence backed away. "All right! All right, but don't forget that those are my diamonds. Mine, you hear? Mine! All mine!"

"Your diamonds? Really?" Askew asked. He'd taunt Abolence just a bit. Make him just a bit uneasy. Maybe cloud his thinking just a bit.

"They're my diamonds, all right. All mine!"

"Right. They belonged to your grandpa, didn't they?"

"Shut up," Abolence retorted, anger now in his voice. "Never mind who they belonged to. I said the diamonds are mine."

Mitchum couldn't resist. "Don't you claim good ol' Ivan Meto as your grandpa?"

"Shut up. If you know what's good for you, you'll find those diamonds fast. Shut up and find 'em!" Abolence was getting even more annoyed. Irritated. It was not healthy for a man on a narrow catwalk to be so agitated. Nor might it be healthy for Mitchum or Askew when that agitated man held a gun on them.

Mitchum continued inching along the catwalk, inspecting the steel beam, not quite certain what he'd do if he found an entry to the center space, or what Abolence would do if they didn't find what he was sure was there. Both Askew and Mitchum played their flashlights along the beam—and it was Askew who suddenly exclaimed excitedly, "There it is. I can feel it!"

"Where?" Abolence hissed

"There!" Askew pointed to the top of the beam. He was surprised that Mitchum hadn't found the door to the opening, had gone on past it, in fact—but there it was. He'd found it!

There indeed, on the very top of the double beam was what appeared to be a sliding steel plate, designed to be pushed down slightly and then to the left, movement that would no doubt expose an access hole leading to a hollow hiding place. Askew backed away to let Mitchum and Abolence look as he beamed his flashlight at the door.

"Open it! Open it now! Now!" Abolence hissed. He was obviously jittery, and that was making him a little unsteady on his feet.

Mitchum retrieved a small pry-bar from his tool kit. As Abolence pushed in front of Askew and crowded near to him, Mitchum pushed the sliding plate down against whatever spring was holding it closed, and then pushed it to the left, sliding it several inches to reveal an opening—an opening just large enough for a man's hand.

"That's it! Get back! Get back, both of you," Abolence snarled. He appeared hesitant to let go of the railing, yet unwilling to put his gun in his waistband. One way or the other, he had to free up one hand if he wanted to check inside that opening.

Mitchum and Askew backed away as Abolence balanced on tip-toe, finally pulled his hand away from the railing, and shoved it directly into the access hole.

SNAP!

There was a loud metallic SNAP! followed by the C-R-U-N-C-H! of living bones breaking—immediately accompanied by Abolence's terrified scream of pain: "EEEEEOOOOOOWWWWWWW!"

As Abolence jerked his hand out of the access hole, the others saw that a huge steel trap of the kind once used to trap wild animals had closed fast on Abolence's hand, the trap's sharp teeth biting deep into his hand from either side. It had easily crunched the bones in his hand and sent blood spurting from the deep puncture wounds, as the strong steel spring contracted.

The shock and pain of the sprung steel trap were simply too much. Abolence dropped his gun as he grabbed for his badly wounded hand, teetered against the railing for a moment, rocked back and forth on the narrow catwalk, threw up his hands, and then completely lost his balance. His pistol fell, bounced and skittered across the floor below, lost in the darkness. Then he also pitched forward and fell from the catwalk. All the while, Mitchum and Askew clung to the vibrating railing. There was no way they could have helped him.

"EEEEEEEEEEEEOOOOOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!" Abolence screamed aloud as he fell until he, like his pistol, hit the solid concrete floor below with a sickening THUD! accompanied by the sharp and unmistakable SNAP! of bones breaking.

Askew quickly spotlighted Abolence's motionless form with his tactical flashlight. From the angle of his head in relationship to the rest of his body, it was obvious that he'd broken his neck and was dead—or dying.

"Should we . . . Should I go down there? Check on him?" Askew whispered.

"Na," Mitchum replied, shaking his head. "You can't do anything for Abolence, not now. He's a dead man. Let's get those diamonds before we go anywhere."

"Okay, I'm with you. Let me take a look in here." Askew stood on his tiptoes and beamed his flashlight into the opening through which Abolence had stuck his hand. Two additional steel traps, spring-loaded toothy jaws spread wide and poised ready to bite, stared back at him, but there were no diamonds to be seen in the cavity.

"I thought that one was too easy," Mitchum mused, when Askew relayed the information about the hiding place. "That was a decoy-space, an opening greedy people searching impatiently for the diamonds would spot first and go for without thinking much. You and me? We'll keep looking, and knowing what we now know about the person who secreted those gems, we'll be extra-cautious." Mitchum closed the door, leaving the remaining steel traps on guard, wicked teeth cocked wide and ready to bite.

Inch by inch by inch, Mitchum and Askew carefully inspected the I-beam. They were almost to the far end and ready to conclude that someone had taken the diamonds and replaced them with those steel traps when Mitchum found a second door in the top of the beam. Once again, he used his pry-bar to press against the door until he managed to slide it open. "Ingenious. They didn't even lock 'em," he mused, "because the presence of a padlock would have given away the location of the caches to anyone who came along."

The light of Askew's flashlight revealed six small cloth bags sitting in the hiding place. Cautiously, he lifted one out, opened the drawstring, and looked inside. "Wow! Delbert! We've . . . We've found 'em!" he gasped excitedly.

"Take it easy," Mitchum cautioned. He didn't want Askew to become overwhelmed with the newly found diamonds. After all, they had a ways to go, what with the trek back across the narrow catwalk, the climb down the narrow vertical ladder, and then exiting the building, before they were home free. Who could know who or what else they'd face on the way. They'd both better keep their wits about them, of that Mitchum was certain. "Stay focused, Clarence," he murmured, as Askew turned away.

Askew hurriedly retrieved the six bags and placed them in his backpack. Mitchum closed the access door after checking to be sure nothing remained. As Askew started to retrace his steps across the narrow catwalk, however, perhaps assuming that was all the diamonds there were to find, Mitchum continued to inspect the beam for additional hiding places—and found still another secret sliding panel. Three additional bags of diamonds rested there, and he carefully placed them in his backpack.

Mitchum switched on his most powerful flashlight and carefully examined the space where the bags of diamonds had been hidden. Was that everything to be found there? Perhaps not. In a corner, he found a grimy piece of paper. It had been folded over and over again and compressed into a small wad about the size of a dime.

The paper appeared to be extremely brittle with age. When Mitchum tried to unfold it, he saw that it was going to crack or tear if he persisted. As he meticulously examined what part of it he could see, he noted that it contained ink markings that now were quite faded. It would be useless to try to decipher those marks here without adequate light and time, so he carefully folded the paper as he'd found it and put it in his pocket. He'd examine that little folded paper later. If he couldn't unfold it without damage, he knew Bradford's people could. In fact he'd seen them retrieve messages from ancient and seemingly completely faded-out documents.

Once certain that nothing else remained in the cache, Mitchum closed the door. Then he searched the rest of the beam and the wall where the beam and catwalk were anchored, but found nothing more. Only when he was certain that he'd found all the caches along that beam did he follow Askew across the narrow catwalk and down the vertical ladder to the warehouse floor.

Abolence was indeed dead. He'd broken his neck when he fell. Askew and Mitchum left him where he'd fallen, steel trap teeth still deeply embedded in his hand. They'd telephone Sheron Streeter with the news of his demise once they were well away from the scene.

Mitchum and Askew continued cautiously down the stairs to the main floor, retrieved their guns from where they'd placed them on the floor at Abolence's command, then went through the doors connecting the warehouses. After checking as best they could to be sure that no one else was in the warehouse with them, they continued back the way they'd come and into the storm sewer. Although Mitchum fully expected that someone else would be waiting to ambush them, no one was, and they hiked to the manhole where Johnny was waiting to pick them up. The diamond retrieval mission was accomplished.

Unless there were yet more diamonds to be found? Mitchum would think about that question.

* * * * *

With Abolence's death, Clarence Askew knew that Cold Case #64-16/17 would never be officially closed to everyone's satisfaction. Even so, Askew himself considered it closed, reasoning that Abolence arranged the murders of Fred Russell and Carol Holman—although his motivations for doing so must forever remain somewhat uncertain. Most likely, Abolence had been obsessed with the fact that Carol was looking for the diamonds he considered his, but no one could prove that now. Or maybe the fact that she was connecting him with Ivan Meto angered him enough for him to take her life. In Askews experience, people had murdered others directly or caused their death for considerably lesser motives.

The federal investigation into Abolence's criminal activities and his organization would move forward, of course. Sheron Streeter and Judge Mildred Teel would see to that. Furthermore, Streeter had the backing of Internal Affairs to investigate the criminal ties Abolence had with police officers over the years. That part of the investigation might take years—and might prove to be extremely dangerous for the investigators.

Having summarized his investigation into the murders of Fred Russell and Carol Holman and placed his summary in the case folder, Askew eagerly began his search in the COLD CASE files for yet another unsolved mystery to investigate.

One case that intrigued him involved the disappearance of a child some thirty years ago. Another involved a daring daylight bank robbery during which three people were murdered. Still another focused on . . . . It seemed as if the list of unsolved mysteries went on and on. He and Delbert, for Askew now considered Mitchum to be his partner, had a great deal of work to do!

* * * * *

Mitchum again carefully locked himself in his cabin and told Johnny he was not to be disturbed for the afternoon. Today, however, would not be spent working in his mine. Once he was seated at his desk, he retrieved that little piece of folded paper he'd found secreted with the diamonds in that warehouse vault.

He'd kept that paper in his office safe, assuming it was valuable. Now, he carefully unfolded it, teasing it with tweezers when it appeared to be stuck together. Once it was unfolded, the small square paper measured about two inches on either side.

Markings on the paper were faded, but Mitchum placed a photocopy of the paper on a glass slide and placed the slide under his low-powered microscope. After some minor adjustments, he was able to reconstruct the marks. Now, to determine what those marks meant?

Not only would Mitchum attempt to decipher that scrap of paper, but he'd do some serious thinking about several of the mysteries associated with that warehouse located at 1217 Makings Street. Now that he had Carol's notes to help his memory, it just might be that he could solve those mysteries, too.

Lori had insisted that he and Clarence must be wary, especially as they explored that warehouse. Now where, and from whom, Mitchum asked himself, might danger exist now that Abolence was dead? And what clues might Carol have left for them in her notebook?
CHAPTER 29

Carol Holman had, indeed, put a great deal of time into researching Ivan Meto's last days. This was evident to Mitchum from reading her notebook. She was convinced that Meto really did have a "barrel of diamonds" stashed away somewhere, just as the rumors suggested. Furthermore, she was convinced that he knew someone was trying to kill him and steal his diamonds as well as take over his turf, and that he managed to hide the diamonds before that could happen.

Concealing the bags of diamonds in that beam in the warehouse had, in Mitchum's opinion, been a stroke of genius. But a _barrel_ of diamonds? Where could Meto have stashed an entire barrel of diamonds? Of course, it might not be a _literal_ barrel of diamonds, but it likely was a pretty good stash!

Something else troubled Mitchum. Rumors persisted that there were underground "living quarters" in that old warehouse. To his knowledge, however, no one had ever actually located such living quarters. Granted, the term "living quarters" might simply mean a small hideaway room with a bed, but there would have to have been ventilation and most likely, plumbing and heating, if someone were to be able to stay there for any length of time. But where could such a room be located? Where was the entrance? Even if a person could enter the underground living quarters from a tunnel, most likely there would have been an entrance from inside that warehouse as well. Where could it be?

Furthermore, adding to the mysteries, there were persistent rumors about an actual vault built into that warehouse. It was in this vault that Meto was said to have secured his excess diamonds as well as the huge amounts of cash he used to transact business. No one, to Mitchum's knowledge, anyway, had ever discovered such a vault.

It certainly wasn't because no one had searched for those diamonds or for the cash believed to have been stashed somewhere. Following Meto's death, any number of people had searched that old warehouse. That was no secret. Of course, no one had looked up as Mitchum had to consider the roof support beams as a hiding place for the diamonds, but they must have gone over every other inch of that warehouse. Most likely, they'd also searched the adjoining warehouse, as well as any other properties known to have belonged to or been frequented by Ivan Meto.

Well, now . . . . Mitchum sat back, put his hands behind his head, and began to do a visual inspection of those warehouses. First, he mentally walked the basement of the warehouse at 1217 Makings Street, then continued up to the main floor, and the second floor, and then, finally, the roof. All the time, he was searching for a potential entrance to a hidden room or vault. Even if the entrance to such a room or vault had been sealed in some manner, there should be some evidence of its existence. At least there had to be a place large enough to accommodate such an entrance. But where? What had he and the others overlooked?

Having visually toured the 1217 Makings Street warehouse, Mitchum turned his attention to the adjoining warehouse. The warehouses were similar in many ways. Then, as Mitchum mentally walked around that second warehouse, he saw something that just might be worth investigating. Moments later, he dialed Bradford's number. "I need information about the kind of heavy duty freight elevators that were installed in warehouses back in the 1930s," he told Bradford's secretary.

"Okay."

"Could you fax me a diagram of how they were built, and especially how the lifting mechanism worked?" he asked.

"Within the hour," she replied. Mitchum detected a smile in her voice. Getting information out to clients quickly was her specialty.

With information about freight elevators requested, Mitchum turned his attention back to the markings on the slip of paper he'd picked up with the bags of diamonds. In addition to the seemingly random marks on that paper was a string of three capital letters: L-A-H.

Mitchum sat and contemplated the meaning of those three letters—L-A-H. They might be someone's initials, or they might be some sort of code, or they might be the abbreviation for something.

In addition to the letters, there were what appeared to be stray circular marks on the paper, circular marks both above and below the line of letters. And there was a small cross in the middle of the circular marks. Mitchum had no idea as to the meaning of those marks, or if they actually had any particular meaning.

Once again, Mitchum called upon his favorite relaxation technique to clear his mind and help him think through this mystery. In his mind, it was again springtime in the mountains, and he was seated in a grassy spot near a pristine lake. As his mind cleared, he again imagined tossing a pebble into that lake and watching the ripples. And, as the water calmed, so did his mind.

With a renewed ability to focus on those three letters, Mitchum began to sort through a wide variety of possibilities. Code? Initials? Abbreviation? Something else? It quickly became clear to him that he might have to return to those warehouses to search for something represented by L-A-H.

Wait! There was something he'd overlooked during his initial examination of that folded paper—and suddenly those circular markings became crystal clear. Unless he was mistaken, those three circular markings represented the three large caves on his property. Draw a line through the lowest and highest caves, bisect that line, and drop down the slope as was delineated on that drawing (exactly how far to drop down was not shown), and find . . . what? Was something buried there? Someone? Once he'd had a chance to explore those warehouses more fully, he'd turn his attention to that little map—for that's exactly what it was. Of that, Mitchum now was certain.

As he was considering how he might best explore those warehouses, Mitchum's fax machine beeped to alert him that a message was incoming. Moments later, the machine began to hum. Sixteen pages of text and pictures were quickly delivered to him, and he began to study the construction and workings of a 1930s-era freight elevator.

Mitchum had never closely examined the mechanism of a freight elevator such as the ones installed in those older warehouses. He had ridden on one a few times, perhaps 50 years ago, but that was the extent of his contact with them. Now, as he prepared to examine the freight elevator in that old warehouse, it became imperative that he know as much as he could about them. After all, he wouldn't be able to detect things that shouldn't be there if he didn't know what _should_ be there—and the things that shouldn't be there just might lead him to those hidden diamonds or cash, or maybe an underground room.

According to the drawings he now had, much of the elevator's working mechanism was installed below ground, or below the main floor in those warehouses he was concerned with. There would be space around the mechanism for repairmen to work, of course, and he wondered if there could be an entrance to a hidden underground room there as well. Or, perhaps the entrance to a vault? Hmm! His thoughts raised an immediate question: Would anyone who was searching the warehouses for a hidden room or a vault have bothered to descend into the cramped and seemingly rather dangerous space below the freight elevator? Probably, but maybe not.

And why was there now no such elevator in the warehouse at 1217 Makings Street? There had to have been some way for its owner to move freight from the main floor where it would have been unloaded to the second floor or to the basement. Was there any trace of a freight elevator having been taken out? That was something he'd have to check out. Of course, the adjoining warehouse had a freight elevator, but it would have been all but impossible for it to have serviced both warehouses. Very unlikely, anyway.

Something else occurred to Mitchum as he thought about searching those warehouses, and that was the heating system. Both buildings had once been heated by steam heat. The pipes were still in place overhead on each floor, and the rusting remains of the heating plants were still in place. Of course, each office had its own separate heating radiators. Hmmm! Clearly, yet another visit to that warehouse complex was due. This time he'd explore the entire complex, top to bottom, inch by inch. First, though, he'd locate whatever surveillance cameras Abolence had installed—and disable them.

Mitchum debated whether he wanted to go exploring alone or take Clarence with him. He'd always preferred to go on his own in the past, but he trusted Askew. Liked working with him. Yes, he decided, he'd see if Clarence would like to go along—although he already knew the answer.

* * * * *

A full moon illuminated the night as Johnny drove Mitchum and Askew to a manhole through which they planned to enter the storm sewer and make their way into the warehouses. They had debated the possibility that they might enter the building from the street, but Mitchum still didn't feel secure with that exposure. Abolence might be dead, but his henchmen weren't, and someone was probably keeping an eye on the warehouses. They'd have an eye to using one or both of them once the current difficulties blew over, as they most likely would.

Mitchum and Askew might be entering the warehouse via the sewer as they had in the past, but this time they had several of their own people keeping an eye on the above-ground entrances to the buildings as well. Johnny would keep an eye on the manhole through which they entered the sewer, Patterson would patrol the streets, keeping an eye on similar nearby manholes through which others might enter the sewer, and Phil and Tracy Orlando would watch the street entrances to the warehouses. If anyone was following Mitchum and Askew, they'd have plenty of warning, and if worse came to worse, they'd have protection. As Patterson put it jovially, "We'll call in the biker vets if we need 'em." Mitchum knew that a good number of those vets, as Joe called them, would welcome the chance to mix it up with a bunch of gangsters, but he hoped it wouldn't come to that.

Once inside the north warehouse and having assured themselves they were alone in the building, Mitchum headed directly to the old freight elevator. It appeared to be essentially like the drawings he'd obtained that afternoon. From his study of the drawings, he would know what should belong there—and what didn't belong. And what didn't belong might just provide a clue as to what else existed in that warehouse.

The access door that opened to let a workman service the elevator's lifting mechanism under the floor obviously hadn't been raised in many years. In fact, it was jammed shut and wouldn't budge, so Mitchum used his sturdy pry bar to work it loose. Once the door was opened, his flashlight beamed into the opening revealed a small sub-floor room mostly taken up with the elevator's machinery. "I'm going down there and have a look around," he told Askew.

A narrow steel ladder secured in the wall under what was essentially a trap door led down to the floor of the service area. Just before he started down that ladder, however, Mitchum beamed his light directly down at the floor. "WHOA!" he exclaimed. There, at the bottom of the ladder, sat a huge steel bear-trap, spring-set jaws wide open—just waiting for some unsuspecting person to step into the triggering mechanism. "Take a look at this, Clarence," Mitchum directed Askew.

Askew took a look, then shook his head. "Be wary, Delbert," he breathed.

"Wary." It was the same term Lori had used. Ya, he'd be wary, all right. He'd better be.

Mitchum climbed down, then, cautiously avoiding the steel trap, and then carefully studied the elevator mechanism. There was nothing unusual about it as far as he could tell. Indeed, it was almost exactly like the mechanism in the drawings he'd studied. Even the electrical wiring was still in place, although electric service to the building had likely been terminated years ago.

Satisfied that the elevator mechanism seemed to be standard, Mitchum next turned his attention to the small room that housed the works. The floor and walls appeared to be solid concrete. Old but sound. There was nothing unusual. At least, there was nothing unusual that he could discern.

Turning his attention specifically to the concrete walls and floor, Mitchum searched carefully for any signs that newer concrete or plaster had been used to conceal an opening. Search as he might, however, he couldn't find any such evidence. It would have been an ideal place to install the entrance to a hidden room or vault, and Mitchum had visions of finding evidence of that opening, but he couldn't.

Mitchum was somewhat disappointed at not finding the hidden room or the vault, but he realized that the search was just beginning, and he'd not yet explored the warehouse where he expected to find something. He must not let disappointment cloud his judgment. After all, someone had found that little room interesting enough that he'd placed a bear trap where someone climbing down that ladder without paying attention would surely have stepped right into the treacherous jaws.

And there was a good deal of the warehouses left to explore. In fact, the office areas in both warehouses warranted special attention as did the rooms that once served as employee washrooms and workrooms. This was no time for discouragement because the search was just beginning.

After leaving that sub-floor room where the elevator mechanism was located, Mitchum climbed the steel ladder that led straight up to the very top of the elevator near the roof. Again, the mechanism at the top was quite similar to that shown in the pictures he had obtained. There didn't appear to be any surprises there. They'd go back to the other warehouse now to see if there was evidence of a similar elevator having once been installed there.

Mitchum and Askew made their way through the heavy double doors that linked the two warehouses. They carefully examined the space between the two doors, but found nothing out of the ordinary—although there did remain the question of why two doors were installed in that thick concrete wall instead of one.

Before they could explore further, however, they had to find and neutralize the security cameras Abolence had installed. Even though Abolence was dead, they could not take the chance that someone else might be monitoring those cameras, with an eye to learning what Mitchum and Askew might find—or with an eye to avenge Abolence's death.

Askew found the first camera. It was located over the walk-in door and situated to cover the main floor of the warehouse. "Do you think there are others?" he asked Mitchum.

"Ya. Ask yourself where _you'd_ hide one, and then look into those places."

They started a systematic search throughout the main floor area, and they found two more cameras. The second one was hidden in a broken light fixture, the third under the stairs. If there were others, both men agreed, they were extremely well hidden. They'd have to take the chance that no other cameras were recording their activities.

Although they had taken a great deal of time searching for those surveillance cameras, time they would rather have put into exploring the warehouse, they felt more comfortable for having found and disabled the three cameras. Now, it was time to continue exploring the warehouse. What they found, if anything, would likely not now be observed by Abolence's men.

It was when they examined the place where a freight elevator was once installed in the south warehouse that they discovered "something of interest" as Mitchum would later say. By the light of their flashlights they could make out the outline of where the sub-floor room that once housed the elevator mechanism was located. It now was floored over with heavy wooden planks. Looking upward, they could see where flooring had been installed to cover the opening where the elevator traveled up to and through the second floor as well.

There didn't seem to be any evidence of a trap door or other way of gaining access to that sub-floor space beneath that flooring either. Mitchum worked on the planks with his pry-bar, but they seemed to be of solid construction and were securely bolted into place. Then, as he was thinking of how best to gain access to that sub-floor room, Askew called softly, "Come over here a minute, Delbert."

Askew focused his flashlight on a three-inch steel pipe that ran up the side of one of the concrete columns supporting the wall. It came up through the floor and ran through the second floor. "I've checked each column, and that's the only pipe like that one I've found along any of the columns or the walls," he said. "It just might be a ventilation pipe of some sort, maybe for an underground chamber."

"Ya. Could be. Let's check it out." With the beams of their flashlights, the men traced the pipe up the column and through the second floor above. On the second floor, they traced the pipe to the roof. Out on the roof, they found that the pipe indeed did appear to be a vent pipe. There was a metal cap above it to keep out rain. And a very faint yet discernible malodorous smell could be detected as coming through that pipe.

"What's that odor mean to you?" Mitchum asked, his voice hushed even though they were alone.

Askew though a moment, then whispered his response: "Death!"

"Ya. It's the smell of death all right." Mitchum paused a moment. "What do you think we're gonna find under that planking?" he asked. It wasn't really a question, because both men knew the answer. There would be dead bodies down there. The only questions were how many were there—and who they were?"
CHAPTER 30

No way could Mitchum and Askew stop exploring that warehouse now, not after their dark discoveries of that night. The following night they were back—back with tools to cut through the planking that now covered the sub-floor space once occupied by the freight elevator mechanism.

There had been no activity around the warehouses the previous night or all that day as near as they could tell, so the men felt safe in making all the noise necessary to accomplish their mission. Still, because they didn't know what the remainder of Abolence's gang was doing, Mitchum and Askew had again posted men around the warehouses and sewer entrances to keep a watch for intruders.

Once Mitchum cut a hole in the corner of the planking, they were greeted by even stronger smells of death. By the light of their powerful flashlights, they could instantly see the source of those odors. At least four bodies in various stages of decay lay sprawled in the sub-floor room.

Askew immediately reached for his phone to call Sheron Streeter's number. Before he could dial however, Mitchum raised his hand. "Wait!" he hissed.

"You don't want to let—?"

"Later, Clarence." Mitchum interrupted Askew's question. "Let's you and me look around some first. Make sure what we're seeing here. Besides, those bodies aren't going anywhere."

Mitchum wadded up a handkerchief and pressed it against his nose to help stifle the terrible odor, then held his flashlight under the flooring and pressed his face close to the hole. There, indeed, were the remains of four bodies. From the way they were lying, they'd probably been killed somewhere else close by, probably inside the warehouse, and then dumped into that pit. Still, it seemed unlikely that anyone would have gone to the trouble to install that vent pipe _after_ the murders. Hmm. If he could just see a little more of the pit!

"Let me take a look, okay?" Askew asked, interrupting Mitchum's thoughts.

"Ya. Go ahead." Mitchum backed away while Askew studied the bodies.

"You see that trap?"

"Trap?" Mitchum questioned.

"Yeah. There's another one of those steel bear traps partially hidden under one of the bodies."

"Where?"

Askew drew back from the hole and directed Mitchum's gaze.

"Ya. Good call, Clarence. I see it now."

Mitchum sat up. "My guess is that there's more down there than those bodies, but I guess we have to let the cops in first. Otherwise, they'll claim we messed up a crime scene, right?"

"Right."

Mitchum grinned. "I cut that hole right above where the ladder is located, same place as it was in the north warehouse. Now, crime scene or not, I'm gonna climb down a little ways into the pit and have a look-see."

Askew shook his head. "Are you sure it's safe?"

"Na."

Mitchum hadn't cut the hole quite large enough to accommodate his shoulders easily, but he managed to wriggle through and descend via the ladder into the dusky sub-floor room.

Once at the bottom of the ladder, Mitchum switched on his tactical flashlight to illuminate the area. He was especially interested in any signs of relatively recent concrete work or plaster on the walls or floor, and there indeed were several discolored places that would be worth investigating. The opening of the vent pipe they'd followed to the roof was visible, as well. Could that vent pipe have extended through the concrete floor at one time—perhaps into those rumored living quarters? That would be something to check into at a later time.

What else lurked there—if anything? Much as he would have liked to explore the room further, Mitchum knew that he couldn't do it without messing up the crime scene.

"Go ahead and call Sheron," Mitchum told Askew, once he'd climbed back out of the sub-floor room. "Tell her it's an extremely sensitive site, so bring along only her most trusted people. She'll know what you mean." While Askew dialed Streeter's number and told her what they'd found, Mitchum radioed the people standing guard and informed them of their find. "There'll be cops here pretty soon," he told them, "so let 'em in, but keep an eagle eye out for any of the enemy trying to sneak in with 'em."

* * * * *

While Askew worked with Sheron Streeter and the investigation surrounding the four bodies discovered in the warehouse, Mitchum worked his mine—and thought about that "treasure map" he'd found in the warehouse along with the second diamond cache. He was not at all surprised to find that the "treasure"—whatever it might be—was located on his property. After all, he'd had several late-night visitors, all of whom had been armed and intent on beating the location of or information about something out of him. Each one of those intruders now lay deeply buried on his property, however, and not one of them would ever be found. They'd come to his home to kill him, and he had no regrets about their demise. Of course, he had not known the location of whatever they were seeking, as they assumed he did. Perhaps this map would pinpoint the treasure or whatever it was they were seeking.

As was usually the case, working deep in his silver mine calmed and invigorated Delbert Mitchum. Although he now did not need the money he would obtain from the silver ore, the physical labor and the enjoyment he derived from taking the silver from the ground were irreplaceable pleasures. Moreover, because he worked underground and alone and would not be interrupted by telephone calls, he found it a great opportunity to think about the mystery of the treasure map.

On the second night after the discovery of the bodies, Askew called Mitchum to let him know what was going on with the bodies they'd discovered. Two of those bodies had tentatively been identified. One was that of Ivan Meto. The other was one of his bodyguards. They'd identified those two from dental records. The identity of the others remained in question.

If that identification was correct, Ivan Meto had not been buried on the Lazy-D Mine property as was once thought. Mitchum smiled to himself, remembering that Carol Holman had questioned the location of Meto's burial. What the men who'd parked near where Mitchum had assumed Meto was buried were talking about, he couldn't guess. The conversation he'd recorded only raised more questions, and didn't answer a single one. Maybe they'd buried one of the bodyguards there, or maybe they'd buried one of their own. Or maybe it wasn't a _person_ they'd buried. Now, where might this treasure he was currently pursuing, the one drawn on the paper he'd discovered in the diamond cache, be located?"

* * * * *

"We've got to find a spot where we can look at those caves from the perspective shown in this drawing," Mitchum said, as he and Askew rode the Mountain Goat ATV into the mountainous area where the three caves were located. "Once we do that, we'll try to estimate where the map pinpoints whatever it's trying to show us."

Mitchum had shown Askew the "treasure map" he'd found with the bags of diamonds. Now they were on their way to see if they could locate the "treasure." After several hours of slow riding over extremely rough terrain, Mitchum found a place where they could properly view the caves.

Viewed from that location, the caves on Mitchum's property did seem to match the circles drawn on the map. Mitchum had surveying equipment with them, and he soon located a spot that provided the perspective shown on the diagram. Before long, he'd determined the approximate location of the "x" or "cross"—the treasure—purportedly indicated on the map.

Reaching that "x" wasn't easy. Mitchum guided the ATV to within a quarter mile or so of it, and the two men hiked the rest of the way, following for a time the trail Carol Holman and Fred Russell once hiked on their way into the mountains, an extension of the trail they followed on the day they were murdered. Once near their destination, Mitchum called Johnny to let him know where they were. "Keep an eye on us," Mitchum requested, and Johnny assured him he would.

Mitchum and Askew eventually found themselves near a small ravine, perhaps a quarter mile from the trail Carol Holman and Fred Russell had hiked many times. "Maybe somebody thought they'd discovered whatever it is we're looking for," Askew speculated.

"Ya. Could be."

The two men walked the ravine slowly, inspecting the rock formations as they did so. It wasn't long before Mitchum stopped. "See that rock pile? See how it has slid downhill there?" he asked.

"Where it's washed?"

"Ya. Where it's washed. I wonder if there might not have been a small cave there and somebody dynamited the opening. Something about the way it looks makes me think so." Before they could inspect the area further, Mitchum's phone vibrated. "Mitchum, here," he answered.

"Johnny here. You've got a guy shadowing you. He's parked over on the highway and is approaching you from the south. Should we take him out?"

"Na. Let's just keep an eye on him. See what he's up to. Let him think he's not been detected. Keep your rifle handy."

"Okay."

"Is he armed?"

"Handgun, but not a rifle or shotgun, near as we can tell."

"Thanks, Johnny."

Mitchum relayed the information to Askew, then again turned his attention to the rock pile. "Lucky for us that we brought in some shovels and explosives," he said.

"Want to try to blast out a cave opening?"

"Ya. Let's try blasting a little of the rock away first. Then we'll dig some if we have to. See if we're really onto something, or if this is just a false start."

Mitchum dug a small hole at the bottom of the wash-out where he thought the cave entrance might have been, then set and detonated a small explosive charge. Once the debris settled, they could see that they indeed had exposed an opening in the mountainside. Mitchum set and detonated yet another small explosive charge to enlarge the opening. Now they could see into the small cave behind the rocks.

There could be no doubt that they'd discovered the entrance to a small cave. There also could be little doubt in Mitchum's mind that whoever was shadowing them would be especially interested in what they now were doing.

"You take a look in there, Clarence," Mitchum instructed, motioning at the cave entrance. "I'm gonna sit back on the ledge up there and see if I can spot our shadow."

Askew knelt down at the opening and switched on his powerful tactical flashlight. The opening was still much too small for him to crawl into, but he could easily see into the cave's interior.

What do you see?" Mitchum asked, once Askew drew back from the opening and joined him, seating himself on a flat rock beside the older man.

"It's a deep cave," Askew responded. "That is, it goes way, way back. Also, there's not much room in there for a person. Neither one of us could stand upright. We'd have to hunch over from the entrance for a distance of twenty feet or so, then crawl if we wanted to go further back."

"You spot anything somebody might have put in there?"

"No, but the cave does have some large branching passageways. My guess would be that anyone wanting to hide something in there would crawl back quite a ways and then follow one of the passageways that goes off to one side or the other. Anything placed back like that wouldn't be visible to anyone looking directly into the cave and wouldn't be damaged by flying rocks when they dynamited the opening."

"Ya. Good thinking. Let's take a walk. Pretend we're going back to the cabin for dinner."

"Okay." Askew wasn't sure what Mitchum had in mind, but he'd go along with whatever he suggested.

The men left the shovels they'd been using and started back up the trail toward the ATV. Once they were some distance away from the cave, Mitchum told Askew what he'd seen. "A man is watching us, all right," he said. "He's about a quarter mile up the mountain to our south. Parked over on the highway and hiked in, I'd guess. I couldn't get a good enough look to identify him, nor could I tell if he's alone."

After they'd hiked a ways farther, Mitchum turned to Askew. "Now, I want you to slip through there," Mitchum pointed the way, "and double back. Our shadow will hear the ATV start up soon, and that may encourage him to come down out of hiding and take a look at the cave for himself. You'll get a good look at him if he does. Me, I'll take the ATV back to the cabin and pick up a couple of things and some food for us while you keep an eye on him."

"What do you think he'll do?"

"My guess is that he has a powerful interest in what's inside that cave. As soon as he thinks it's safe, he'll get down to it and have a look-see for himself." Mitchum laughed. "Maybe he'll even try to dig his way inside, but he won't get far, not without explosives."

"You want me to challenge him? Make sure he doesn't get into that cave?"

"Na. Let him work. It'll take him quite a while to dig an entrance to that cave big enough for a man to fit through. Maybe he'll do some of our work for us. Clear out some of the rocks. Anyway, wait 'till I'm back before you challenge him—if it comes to that. I'll walk back, so it'll take a while, and I'll bring Tommy with me."

"You have any idea who we're up against?"

"Na. Didn't get a good look at him at all. Mostly saw slight movements in the brush. Maybe you'll recognize him." Mitchum turned away, then turned back toward Askew. "Whoever it is probably came in the same way whoever concealed something in that cave came into the mountains. It's not such a long hike from there to the highway."

Askew followed the path Mitchum pointed out to him, moving quietly through the densely wooded area, and soon found a vantage point from which he could watch the cave entrance as well as the slope above it and to the south. Before long, he heard Mitchum's ATV start up in the distance. If Mitchum was right about the intruder's intentions, it wouldn't be long before he'd emerge from his hiding place.

The sun was high in the sky as Askew focused his binoculars on the area where Mitchum had spotted the intruder. Ten and then fifteen minutes went by. And then twenty. Askew was thinking that maybe the intruder had left, but then he spotted movement on the mountainside.

A burly figure moved awkwardly down the mountainside, obviously trying to be as quiet as possible. For a moment, Askew couldn't quite believe his eyes. Oh, he recognized that figure, all right, recognized him by the way he walked even before he saw his face. He'd spent years working directly with him.

What could that man be doing out here?
CHAPTER 31

Askew watched from his concealed vantage point as his former boss, Sheriff Jeff Bowlee, made his way slowly down the mountainside toward the cave he and Mitchum had unearthed. Through his binoculars, Askew noted that the sheriff was armed with his regulation handgun, but he saw no evidence that the man carried a rifle or shotgun.

Bowlee spotted the entrance to the cave with no trouble, of course, squatted down, and then looked inside. Without so much as a glance over his shoulder to see if anyone was watching, he switched on his flashlight and carefully surveyed the interior of the cave.

It was obvious that Bowlee had discovered that the entrance was too small to accommodate him—and he was not happy about that. Askew heard him swear loudly, then saw him begin to dig furiously at the rocks with his bare hands, pitching the rubble to one side or the other with a tremendous vengeance as he did so. "Good luck in moving all that rubble," Askew mouthed, suppressing the urge to laugh at Bowlee's ineffective activity.

Bowlee yanked and tore at the rocky rubble for a good half hour, alternating between the shovel Askew had been using and his bare hands, then stepped back to look at the entrance. When it appeared that he hadn't yet enlarged the entrance nearly enough for him to enter, he again hunkered down and surveyed the interior of the cave with his flashlight.

Askew continued to watch Bowlee, who now seemed to be frustrated and angry. He'd stopped his furious digging pace and now was only occasionally pitching a rock out of the entryway, all the time looking around at the surrounding hillsides. Had he suspected he was being watched? Askew wondered. More than likely, he was wanting someone else to finish digging out the cave entrance.

Bowlee turned slowly and studied the entire area as if trying to detect sounds indicating that someone was nearby. Then, obviously even more frustrated, with one long last look at the cave entrance, he suddenly turned and made his way back up the mountainside to the hidden spot from which he'd watched them earlier, likely hopeful that someone else would clear the rubble and make it possible for him to enter the cave.

Askew sat perfectly quiet, scarcely breathing, wondering if Bowlee had somehow managed to detect his presence, fearful that he had, yet confident that he had not. Moments later, when Mitchum sank down beside him and whispered his greeting, "What's happening?" Askew wondered if Bowlee might have heard Mitchum's approach.

"He might have heard you coming," Askew replied, as he ate the sandwich and drank the coffee Mitchum brought, then related what Bowlee had done.

Mitchum took a drink from his canteen. "Sheriff Jeff Bowlee, huh? Can't really care if he did hear me. He'll wait for us to find a way into that cave. We'll find out soon enough what he wants that's in there."

"How do you think he'll come on to us?"

"Don't know. We'll go on back down there. If he's here to get something out of that cave, maybe we can help him. Or he can help us." Mitchum's mouth was smiling, but Askew noticed that his intense blue eyes were hard.

"Tommy around?"

"Ya."

"Good."

"You got a hide-out gun, Clarence? Just in case Bowlee makes us put down our obvious weapons like Abolence did?"

Askew shook his head.

"Here's one in an ankle holster for you, then." Mitchum handed Askew a small Beretta pistol in a leather ankle holster.

"You wearing one of these, too?" Askew asked, as he strapped the holster to his ankle and pulled his trouser leg down over it.

"Ya." Mitchum patted his leg. "Got a boot knife, too. With people like Bowlee around, ya gotta be prepared."

Once Askew had familiarized himself with the small pistol and returned it to his ankle holster, he and Mitchum made their way down the mountainside to the pile of rubble that now marked the entrance to the cave they'd discovered.

Mitchum had brought additional explosives with him, and immediately blasted out still more of the rubble from the cave entrance. When the dust and debris settled, the two began to shovel away the rocks loosened by the explosives.

The entrance now was large enough to admit a person. Askew dropped to his knees and explored the cave interior with his flashlight.

"You want to go in first?" Mitchum asked.

"Sure, I'll go take a look around."

Askew tossed a couple of rocks out of his way and crawled through the narrow opening, his tactical flashlight beam illuminating the way into the depths of the cave. Mitchum sat outside and kept an eye on the place higher up the mountainside where he knew Bowlee was concealed. "It shouldn't be long now before he shows his face," he mumbled to himself.

It was ten minutes later when Askew's face appeared in the cave entrance. He motioned for Mitchum to come over. "I found something of interest, but I'd say it's probably lethal," he whispered. Mitchum nodded his understanding, and Askew gingerly pushed a sturdy strongbox through the opening.

The strongbox was of a style featured in countless Wild West movies. Fashioned of solid oak and heavily reinforced with iron straps, it measured approximately 24 inches in length, 20 inches deep, and 18 inches from the bottom to the highest point of its rounded top. A huge combination lock secured the sturdy hasp.

Mitchum had to agree that the strongbox was most likely booby-trapped. A pattern of copper rivets was barely visible across the lid, partially hidden by one of the heavy iron straps. It was possible they were in place there simply to reinforce the chest—but also they just might serve to hold an explosive devise or mechanism inside the lid. Of course, the strongbox had probably been in that cave for fifty years or more, so any explosive devise might have deteriorated to the point where it would not explode. Neither Mitchum nor Askew wanted to test that theory.

What the strongbox contained was anybody's guess. It was extremely heavy, certainly heavier than one man could carry, so something was inside—but what? Before either Mitchum or Askew could speculate on that question, they heard the crackle of brush being trampled up the mountainside. Someone was moving toward them, coming hurriedly, and with no inclination toward stealth. Moments later, Sheriff Jeff Bowlee strode hurriedly and pompously out of the underbrush and up to where they were examining the strongbox.

"WHATCHA GOT THERE, BOYS?" Askew recognized the booming voice of his former boss.

Askew and Mitchum turned slowly to face Bowlee. His presence didn't surprise either of them. Neither said anything. They'd let him talk first.

"Looks like you've found something of _mine_ ," Bowlee glowered at the men as he gestured toward the strongbox, emphasizing the fact that he owned what they'd found—or at least thought he did.

"What brings you out here in the wilds, Sheriff?" Mitchum ignored Bowlee's statement.

"Had a caller report several explosions over this way, so I thought I'd better check. See what was goin' on. Make sure you hadn't blown yourself up."

"You say this is something of yours?" Mitchum questioned, again ignoring the sheriff's comments.

"It's mine, all right," Bowlee responded. He knelt down to examine the strongbox.

"So how did this strongbox of yours come to be in my cave?" Mitchum asked, his voice flat and matter-of-fact, as he waited to see what Bowlee would say.

Bowlee stood up, still scowling. "You ever hear of a gangster named Ivan Meto? Big man in this area back in the 1930s? At least, he thought he was a big man."

"Ya. I've heard of him. What about him?"

"Well, this strongbox belonged to my grandfather. Ivan Meto stole it from him. I've been lookin' for it for a long time. Figured you might know where it was, so I kept an eye on you—and you finally led me to it."

"You thought I'd know where it was? How's that?"

"Oh, I knew you'd know where it was, all right. Once you two started working on the murders of Holman and Russell, I figured it was only a question of time 'till you'd find this strongbox—'cause I figured those two kids were on its trail way back in the 1960s. With Abolence dead, nobody's gonna contest the ownership of its contents, either. Fact is, you probably knew where it was all along."

"Who was your grandfather, the one who owned his strongbox?" Mitchum continued his questioning.

Bowlee scowled. "Don't make no difference."

"Barney Blitz?"

"Figured you'd know. Yep, it was good ol' Barney Blitz. He killed Meto after he found out he'd stolen this strongbox, too. Guess you know that. Abolence was Meto's grandson. Guess you know that, too."

"Ya." Bowlee was certainly confirming a share of the things Mitchum and Askew had questioned.

"Ol' Abolence sure wanted to find this strongbox. He figured it had lots a diamonds in it, and he liked diamonds about as much as his grandfather did. He liked cash, too. Cash and diamonds."

"It was you who killed those young people, wasn't it?" Mitchum taunted.

"It wasn't me," Bowlee sneered.

"Abolence?"

Bowlee chuckled. "Try to prove that!"

"Why'd he do it?"

"Whydaya think, Mitchum?" Bowlee retorted, then answered his own question. "He thought they'd find this strongbox and give it to me. Thought they'd have the location written in their notebooks."

"They didn't, though, did they?"

"Nope. Abolence had 'em shadowed for about a month, and he sure thought they'd found what he was lookin' for. Sure was disappointed when he found they didn't. Or, at least, he couldn't figure things out from their notebooks."

Mitchum changed tactics. "So Abolence may have had those young people killed, but you're the one who sent those thugs out to find me. You wanted 'em to beat the location of this strongbox out of me, didn't you?"

Bowlee's scowl answered Mitchum's question, as the sheriff turned his attention back to the strongbox, ignoring Mitchum. This was indeed a sinister side of Bowlee's that Askew had never seen before.

"You and Abolence. Quite a combination. You guys work well together?"

Bowlee's scowled darkened. "I had to work with him, like it or not," he growled.

Mitchum chuckled. "Had to? Ya, I guess you did. You two made quite a combination."

Bowlee's scowling non-reply spoke to Mitchum's statement better than anything he might have said. After a few moments of examining the lock on the strongbox, Bowlee turned to Mitchum. "This thing is too heavy to carry out of here as it is. Maybe I can unlock it and just carry the contents. You know the lock combination, don't you?" Bowlee's right hand inched toward his gun as if he were warning Mitchum and Askew to give him what he wanted—or else.

"Maybe."

"What is it?"

"Try some combination of L-A-H."

"L-A-H? Whatdaya mean?"

"Ya heard right. L-A-H. Maybe right to L, back to A, and right to H. If that doesn't work, try the other letter combinations. Maybe start with H and work backwards."

Bowlee twirled the lettered dial. Moments later, the combination worked, and the ancient lock sprang open. Bowlee tossed the lock aside, yanked the rusty hasp open, and tugged at the strongbox lid. The lid seemed to be stuck, but Bowlee finally forced the chest open.

CLICK!

As Bowlee raised the strongbox lid there was that loud metallic CLICK! Mitchum and Askew dove for cover as Bowlee seemed to ignored the sound and stare directly into the chest, obviously entranced by the contents.

KER-BOOM!

The tremendous explosion tore the strongbox into countless pieces, flinging stacks of currency, silver coins, and a number of diamonds into the air. The horrific blast hurled Bowlee into the air, lacerated his chest, and slammed him against the rocky mountainside, smashing his skull in the process. The impact was so sudden and explosive that he had no time to scream. No way was Sheriff Jeff Bowlee going to claim that treasure now.

"Ya okay?" Mitchum called to Askew as he picked himself up from where he'd landed after diving over a boulder.

Askew brushed himself off as he got up from a spot he'd picked for shelter behind some sturdy trees. "I think so. That sure made my ears ring, though."

Mitchum nodded. "Mine, too. Mighty glad we both were ready for that blast."

Once the debris had settled, but before Mitchum and Askew began to retrieve the valuables, Askew spoke up. "There's another strongbox like this one inside that cave," he told Mitchum, "but I brought this one out for Bowlee because it looked like the only one that had been booby-trapped. Even if it hadn't been, I figured he'd settle for one of them, and we'd have the other to ourselves."

Mitchum grinned. "Good job, Clarence. We'll take care of the second one and what's left of the first one now that Bowlee won't have any use for either of them."

"Right. Want me to go drag out the other strongbox?"

"Ya. Take another look around inside the cave, too. See if there's anything else of interest in there. I'll work on picking up the remains of the first chest while you get the second one." With that, Mitchum began searching for the scattered treasure and placing each piece he retrieved into his duffle bag. Of course, much of the treasure was lost, having been scattered into the brush where it most likely would never be found. Well, Mitchum reminded himself, both he and Askew had found _enough_ loot, what with the diamonds they'd discovered in that warehouse and the contents of the second chest.

Moments later, Askew pushed the second strongbox to the cave entrance, where Mitchum grabbed a handle and helped lift it out of its hiding place. It, indeed, did resemble the first strongbox except there were no rivets showing in the lid. Not that that meant it wasn't rigged to explode when someone raised the lid! They'd be careful.

The second chest was locked with a combination padlock similar to the one that secured the chest Bowlee opened. Maybe it would respond to the same combination. They'd open it later.

"Find anything else of interest in that cave?" Mitchum asked.

"Not a thing, and I looked around good, too. Of course, I can't get into some of the passageways, but I illuminated them as far back as my flashlight beam would reach."

"Ya. I didn't think you'd find anything else, but ya never know." Mitchum turned his attention to the strongbox.

"Do you want me to call Sheron Streeter?" Askew asked Mitchum, once they'd examined the second strongbox, motioning toward Bowlee's remains as he did so.

Mitchum shook his head. "Na."

Askew raised his eyes to meet Mitchum's, questioning Mitchum but not actually asking him what they were going to do next. This was Mitchum's call. Askew respected that.

"Let's you and me take this second strongbox and the stuff I gathered up from the first one back to the ATV," Mitchum replied.

Askew had an idea about what Mitchum was going to do once he was gone, but he wasn't about to question him. Whatever Mitchum wanted to do was all right with him. "Okay."

Mitchum and Askew grabbed the handles on either end of the second strongbox and started for the ATV. It was a heavy chest, and the going through the brush was rough, so it took the better part of an hour for the two men to reach the Mountain Goat and load the "treasure."

"You take the ATV and head on back to the cabin. Johnny will be there. He'll help you unload the stuff. I'll be along after a bit," Mitchum told Askew.

Again, Askew didn't question Mitchum. Actually, he knew it was best that he wasn't there to see what Mitchum was going to do. "Okay."

Once Askew was on his way back to the cabin with the ATV, Mitchum retraced his steps to where Bowlee's remains lay. "So it was you, after all," he murmured, as he dragged the sheriff's body to the cave entrance and shoved it deep inside the cavern. "Sent those thugs to kill me, didn't you, Bowlee," he continued murmuring to himself, as he hoisted the body into one of the smaller caverns that branched off to the right, "but they didn't get the job done, did they, Bowlee? Neither did you. Good riddance!"

After shoving Bowlee's body as far as he could into one of the smaller caverns that branched off from the main cave, Mitchum then placed a charge of powder in place above that opening. Upon leaving the main cave entrance, he placed another charge of blasting powder in place above the main entrance to the cave.

KER-BOOM! KER-BOOM!

With two mild but efficient explosions, the blasts effectively sealed the cave he and Askew had unearthed earlier that day. Bowlee would be buried like the thugs he'd sent—deep in the earth. No one would ever find any of them now. The next rain would smooth the marks they'd left upon the mountainside. A few days from now, there would be no trace left that anyone had ever been there, much less unearthed a cave, and sealed it again—exchanging an ancient treasure for a thug with a star in the process.

Delbert Mitchum walked with a renewed spring in his step as he made his way through the mountains and back to his cabin. Tomorrow, he'd work in his mine, doing what he enjoyed most. Perhaps Lori would come to him—tonight or tomorrow. They'd celebrate today's events together. He'd always known she was watching over him. Yes, she was out there somewhere—close by. Mitchum could detect the perfume she wore even now, coming to him on the faint evening breeze that was just beginning to come up.
EPILOGUE

The deaths of Stanley Abolence and Jeff Bowlee meant the end of the investigation into the murders of Fred Russell and Carol Holman as far as Delbert Mitchum was concerned. That being the case, he was able to spend a great deal of time working at his mine. It was peaceful underground, and no one would be permitted to bother him. His security people would see to that. Furthermore, he enjoyed the strenuous physical activity, especially since he'd recently discovered another magnificent vein of silver ore just waiting for him to work.

Working in his mine also gave Mitchum time to think, and one of the things he puzzled over was the whereabouts of the vault purported to exist in that old warehouse he and Askew had frequented during the past days. Maybe the stories had it all wrong. Maybe there wasn't any vault filled with still more diamonds. Maybe there wasn't a barrel of diamonds. Maybe the vault, if it existed at all, wasn't actually in the warehouse. There were a lot of maybes. Still, Mitchum had a nose for treasure, and something told him that a treasure awaited discovery in that old warehouse. He'd keep pondering its location until he had the opportunity to search for it. There was no doubt in his mind about that.

One area of that 1217 Makings Street warehouse Mitchum wanted to explore was the small sub-floor room that once housed the freight elevator mechanism. The cops had removed the bodies and searched the surrounding area for clues, but no one had reported any vaults or hidden rooms. Of course, the cops hadn't been searching for a hidden room or a vault. Once the smell of death had dissipated somewhat, he and Askew would go back and have another look-around. This time, they'd locate that treasure, and maybe they'd locate the rumored living quarters as well. Who knew what they'd find there.

Then there was Harper's treasure to think about. He and Clarence had the two counterfeit silver dollars he'd found up on the mountain, and they might be a part of Harper's hoard. Now, where might that hoard be hidden? Might there be any clues to that treasure in Carol's notebook?

And then there was the man's diamond ring they'd found in the rubble blocking the storm sewer entrance to that second warehouse. It had initials on it, if he remembered correctly. Who owned it, and what was it doing there?

All of these thoughts occupied Delbert Mitchum's thoughts as he continued day by day to work his silver mine. Indeed, there were enough mysteries to keep him and Clarence busy for a long, long time.

* * * * *

July 1, 2005.

Clarence Askew carefully reviewed the two files he'd removed from the file cabinet reserved for unsolved cases—the so-called cold cases. After much deliberation, he selected one of them as the case he wanted to work on next. It involved the mysterious disappearance of an entire family, father, mother, and two young children, back in the late 1960s. What intrigued Askew perhaps as much as anything was his discovery that the missing father was closely related to a crime figure he'd heard much about over the past few weeks—Barney Blitz. Furthermore, they'd lived not far from the Lazy-D Mine, perhaps a mile from Delbert's property. And he'd discovered that the rural house they'd lived in was still standing, although in a state of serious disrepair.

The father of that missing family was reputed to have been an enforcer for Barney Blitz's criminal organization. Perhaps that fact had something to do with the disappearance of the entire family. At any rate, the only recorded evidence likely related to the disappearance had been a large bloodstain on the family home's living room floor—indicating foul play.

Askew was eager to get started on his second cold-case. And, of course, he would continue to work with Delbert Mitchum in exploring those warehouses. Maybe they'd discover that vault containing the barrel of diamonds that Delbert was certain existed? And the other mysteries he and Delbert had encountered would provide a continuing challenge for both of them. Indeed, Askew now looked forward to spending his retirement being a cop—or maybe "investigator" was the better term to describe him!

* * * * *

It was early evening on July 1, 2005, when Delbert Mitchum climbed the steps from his mine and into his cabin. He was tired from his daylong labor and looking forward to his nightly shower and his supper, and he almost missed seeing the red light flashing on his intercom-message system. Moments later, however, he called Johnny at the gate. "You have a message for me, Johnny?" he asked.

Johnny chuckled "Yes, sir. I do. Actually, I have a person waiting for you. Clarence Askew has been camped here for almost two hours waiting to talk to you. He's all ready to begin working another cold case, one he thinks will be of interest to you, and he wants your help. Fact is, I think he now considers you to be his _partner_. Shall I send him up?"

Mitchum sighed, but only half-heartedly, knowing that his days of quietly working his silver mine were almost over, at least for the time being. Yet he also found himself relishing the chance to work with Clarence again—to be a cop again, or at least a helper-cop—Askew's partner. "Ya, Johnny," Mitchum said. "Send him right up."

THE END

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