Black Cat Weekly #73

Chapter 7-2

“Nice to see you again, Special Agent Shepherd,” he said.

“An unexpected pleasure, Fugitive Team Leader O’Brien.” Pointedly, Dawna gave him an equally thorough once-over. He’d changed into a plaid sport shirt and Dockers, sockless in deck shoes. Damn, he looked good! She forced herself to concentrate on the business between them. “Where’s your niece?”

Damn, he looked good!“Tied up in a meeting. She’ll join us soon as they’re finished. Thought it best we come to terms in private. Got some trust issues to work out after last time.”

Dawna was in no hurry to revisit their past encounter. She waved her hand to take in the room. Both Ryane’s job and her office had been funded by Paul Winslow’s donations.

“I can guess how you got interested in apprehending Winslow,” she said. “But why do you think he’s in Pinecraft?”

“I know he’s in Pinecraft,” Tommy corrected. “And not only because you’re here.”

Dawna rolled a desk chair to face him and sat, crossing her legs. She noted that Tommy’s gaze followed the action.

“What, did your niece spot him in town?” she asked.

“She wouldn’t recognize Winslow. He vanished before she was hired.” Tommy moved the chair from the desk behind him and sat facing her. “But you’re right that she pestered me into going after him. So, like you, I set out some bait.”

Dawna caught a second whiff of the Ralph Lauren cologne she’d smelled earlier. She didn’t let the alluring scent affect her game face.

“Bait?” she repeated, raising an eyebrow.

“Bought a ticket for the finals in New Orleans. Private entrance, valet parking, personal skybox with smoked windows. A famous person can slip in and out without being seen.”

“Or an infamous fraudster,” Dawna added approvingly.

“Soon as the game sold out, I put the ticket up on Craigslist and started taking bids. Came up with a short list of four males using bogus IDs. Focused on the one using a forwarding service in Los Angeles. A helpful clerk told me he was sending the guy’s mail on to a PO box in Pinecraft.”

Dawna translated “helpful” to “bribe-able.” O’Brien had invested serious coin in his search. And he’d learned not only Winslow’s whereabouts but also what the man was calling himself. Her smile widened. “You sent him the ticket?”

“Sure. The Stingrayettes make it to New Orleans, I’ll know in which seat to find him.”

“Big if. I take it you hope to nail him sooner.”

“Hoped.” Tommy shrugged. “Till I saw the local PO.”

Dawna laughed. Pinecraft’s post office was owned and operated by year-round Amish residents, who contracted with the US Postal Service to provide mail services. The plain sects enjoyed peaceful coexistence with “English” law, but preferred to abide by their own values. The local clerk was not likely to be “helpful” to a stranger asking about a box renter.

Tommy’s alternative was to stake out the PO Box where his ticket landed. Unfortunately, the four hundred boxes were accessed from outside the tiny seventy-year-old building. He couldn’t linger in the miniature parking lot observing the one rented by Winslow without calling attention to himself.

His rueful laugh echoed hers. “Did my best. But I spotted no likely five-foot-ten-inch fifty-seven-year-old male nearby. And I can’t see inside the box. For all I know, my envelope’s still sitting in it.”

Dawna shrugged. “Or Winslow has someone else pick up his mail.”

“Dead end either way. Figured I’d do better by checking out your spectators. Saw a couple of guys who might be Winslow, but they came and went too fast for me to be certain. I don’t want to turn up again tomorrow. Might spook him. How long you plan to keep this up?”

“Through the weekend. Such a long shot, the bureau refused to commit more resources to it.”

Tommy chuckled. “Improbable as I find it, you don’t seem to be sufficiently enticing bait to make Winslow stick around and watch. Not even wearing your signature shoes.”

Dawna blushed. Man was sharp. Of course, he’d guess she enjoyed pretending the Air Zoom S5 had been designed for her instead of for a pro with a similar name.

“Not my signature,” she corrected with what she hoped was becoming modesty.

Tommy scoffed. “Should’ve been. You’re as good as Dawn Staley ever was.”

He’d taken his flattery way over the top, equating her with the Olympic gold medalist and seven-year WNBA veteran. Dawna shook her head. Her vibrating curly mane undercut her intended dismissive effect. Quickly, she added, “I can tell you want something bad. Let me guess: a current photo of Paul Winslow?”

“Sure,” he drawled. “But not as bad as you want his alias. You’ll have to give me more than a snapshot to get that.”

Dawna’s spine stiffened. “Such as?”

“Upgrade your show on Sunday to an exhibition match with Ryane and one of her girls. Get that Amish kid you’ve been training with—” He broke off and frowned at her. “Who is he anyway?”

“Jacob Zook,” she replied. “Roofer from Pennsylvania. Wants to learn the game.”

“So ask Jacob Zook from PA to partner with you. Get him to post a notice on all the bulletin boards. I’ll bust Winslow when he shows up.”

Dawna snorted. “Too complicated. You give me the alias, the bureau will tell me where he’s living twenty minutes later. I’ll make sure you get credit so you can collect your ten percent from the bondsman.”

Tommy was on his feet. He paced to the window, peered out.

She was pleased to get a rear view. As impressive as the front.

He turned, silhouetted against the evening light. “I doubt the bureau can access any more data warehouses than I can. Man’s residential address isn’t in the system.”

She translated again. “Access” meant “hack into.” Was it worth Kevin’s time to search?

As if he’d heard her unvoiced question, Tommy shook his head in a vigorous negative. “Guy running your op gets that name, he’ll flood the town with agents doing door-to-doors. Winslow will vanish before they get near him.”

Dawna chewed the inside of her cheek. She agreed with Tommy’s assessment. He’d gained a better understanding of Winslow than Kevin ever would.

“Suppose we draw a couple hundred spectators?” she said. “You’re only one man. How can you hope to find Winslow in a crowd that size?”

“True, I might not spot him watching you and Jacob go up against Ryane and her partner. But I know where to find him when you four finish the match.”

Dawna larded her response with skepticism. “What, you’re clairvoyant?”

Tommy made a clicking noise with his tongue against his teeth, a woeful sound. “Somebody’s background information is incomplete. You obviously don’t know a crucial detail—Winslow is a betting man. He paid his way through college running a book for his frat bros. He was at the University of Tennessee from 1973 through 1977.”

Tommy paused, waiting for Dawna to make the connection.

“Tennessee? So he had a front row seat when Pat Summitt took over coaching the Lady Vols,” Dawna said, remembering. Under Summitt’s leadership, the teams became national contenders for the next thirty years. “Man got hooked on women’s hoops.”

“And addicted to betting their games. Guy like him doesn’t stop. When he was living in Sarasota, he laid down money every time the Stingrayettes played. I’m sure he’s still at it, but he’s too smart to bet online. Has to be doing it locally. And the sole man taking action in Pinecraft deals only in person and in cash, and he keeps all the bets in his head.”

Dawna wasn’t surprised to learn a bookie could earn a living off Pinecraft gamblers. Financial need led to aberrant behaviors even among the plain-living Amish. She’d heard of some being busted up north for selling cocaine and home-grown and -cured tobacco, others implicated in puppy-mill scandals, where house pets were raised and traded like livestock.

The local bookie’s low-tech approach was like that of the Pinecraft postal clerk who totaled customer expenditures on an old-fashioned adding machine and accepted no credit cards. Economic choices sometimes forced rule-breaking and compromise.

Tommy watched her work out the implications. “You’re smart and you have excellent instincts.” His smile widened. “You see how our teaming up is the best way to catch the dude.”

“Has potential,” Dawna admitted.

Tommy was damn smart himself, understanding she’d be predisposed to believe a man who praised her mind, admired her ballplaying, and appreciated her appearance—and managed to come across as sincere while doing it.

“We might be able to work together,” she said.

“Which brings us back to the trust issue.” Tommy reclaimed the chair facing her. Elbows on his knees, he leaned closer. “I figured out why you excluded me from the bust last time. I’ll let that go. But I want your promise that I’m the one brings Winslow in.”

Dawna knew Kevin wouldn’t approve that deal. But Kevin would never capture Winslow with his half-baked op. She’d have a much better chance of success working with Tommy.

This time she wouldn’t be trying to save her daddy’s a*s. She’d be “appreciating” Tommy’s.

Her gaze locked onto his. “I’m in.”

They were grinning at each other when a freckle-faced young woman bounded into the room, reddish-brown hair snagged back into a ponytail. Her hazel eyes glowed, and her right hand shot toward Dawna. “Wow, you showed up!”

Dawna recognized Stingrayette Assistant Coach Ryane O’Brien from her business card photo. The former point guard had been known for her reckless abandon as a college player.

Standing to greet her, Dawna recalled that the scar above Ryane’s left eye had resulted from a head-on collision with a Fordham player. Her hustling style came across in her vigorous handshake. Relaxing her own equally firm grip, Dawna said, “Your uncle’s pretty persuasive.”

“Lucky for me,” Ryane retorted. “With your help, Uncle Tommy will capture Paul Winslow. It’s totally wrong the man isn’t in prison. He stole all that money from people who’ve never gotten a dime back. I’d like to return every cent he pumped into our program. But they tell me we spent it all. So next best thing is to get him behind bars. Make him give whatever he has left to his victims.”

“Noble sentiment.” Tommy’s effort to temper Ryane’s enthusiasm with old-guy cynicism was overpowered by audible fondness. “You find a partner who’ll make this exhibition irresistible to him?” he asked.

“Carlie says she’ll play with me.” Ryane beamed at Dawna. “Winslow won’t be able to stay away.”

“Excellent choice,” Dawna agreed.

She knew that Carlie George had been ranked among the top twenty players in the nation during her senior year at a Florida high school. Her choice of the basketball program at scrappy up-and-coming Suncoast over the longer-established and better-known University of Florida Gators had garnered so much media attention, Dawna couldn’t have missed it.

Winslow would also have heard of the hottest new Stingrayette recruit. He’d be eager to see Carlie George in action on Sunday.

Tommy glanced at his watch. “I promised Ryane I’d grill steaks for us tonight. She lives on the other side of Sarasota from Pinecraft. Has a very private backyard. No risk we’ll be seen together. You meet us there, and I’ll fire up the barbecue. We can work out the details over dinner.”