Black Monday, A Stan Turner Mystery Vol 7

  Chapter 32

  PRESUMED DEAD

   

  With Barringer behind bars I started to wonder about my would-be assassin. I hadn't heard anything since his arrest and I was curious as to what the FBI was doing with him. I had asked Besch about it, but he said he knew as little about it as I did. I decided to call Agent Roger Benson and find out what was going on.

  "Stan, how are you feeling?"

  "Good. The first few weeks were painful, so they kept me doped up. I've pretty much recovered now except for a little lingering soreness in my ribs."

  "You were lucky Mr. Z didn't stick you with that needle or you wouldn't be feeling anything."

  "Mr. Z?"

  "Yes, your assailant was Sean Anthony Zehpopolis—Mr. Z to his friends."

  "What is he some kind of a hit man?"

  "Ordinarily he's hired just to scare people. I'm surprised they hired him to do a hit. I guess they didn't think you'd be much of a challenge."

  "Ordinarily I wouldn't have been. I guess someone upstairs is watching out for me."

  "Lucky for you."

  "So, what's Mr. Z's status? Has he been charged yet? Do I need to sign a complaint or something?"

  Benson didn't respond. I could hear papers shuffling in the background. I said, "Where do you have him locked up?"

  "Listen, Stan. I've got some bad news?"

  "Bad news? What do you mean?"

   

  "He's not in custody."

  "What? You let him go? He tried to kill me."

  "It was some kind of administrative snafu in the U.S. Marshall's office. Benson managed to switch identifications with another inmate who was being released. They didn't discover the error until several hours after Benson had hit the street. There's an all-points bulletin out for him. It shouldn't be long before he's back in custody."

  The news that Mr. Z was out on the street made me livid. How could a penal institution of all things be guilty of such gross negligence. If Benson had been hired to kill me, what would prevent him from finishing the job now that he was free again.

  "What about me and my family? What if he's still after us?"

  "I don't think you have to worry about him now. He's a wanted man and will probably get out of the country just as fast as he can."

  "What if he doesn't?"

  Benson was silent. I could hear him breathing.

  "What about Huntington? Did Mr. Z kill him?"

  "It appears that way, although we haven't found a body. He had a lot of information about him in a notepad he was carrying. He was obviously looking for him."

  "What else was in the notepad? Were there any other leads in it?"

  "All his notations were abbreviations or some kind of code he used. It's pretty meaningless to us."

  "I thought you guys could crack any kind of code? I can't believe you can't figure out this guy's pocket calendar."

  "It's his own code and probably isn't based on logic."

  "So that's it? You're at a dead-end?" I asked.

  "No, like I said. We've got an intense search going on for Mr. Z. We'll find him, if he hasn't left the country."

  Benson's assurances didn't give me much hope. It appeared Mr. Z had outsmarted the FBI. If he was that good he might not be running at all. He might be lurking around the next corner ready to unleash an attack on me. In fact, I figured he was probably very upset that he'd tried to kill me twice and failed. Now it would be a matter of principle—a matter of pride that he finishes the job.

  Although I hated guns, the thought occurred to me that I should get one just in case. Since I didn't know much about them, I asked Detective Besch to help me pick one out. He agreed and offered to show me how to use it too. I didn't relish the idea of carrying a gun around all day. It would be cumbersome and annoying, but it appeared I had no choice.

  Another problem was Rebekah. I didn't dare tell her what was going on as she was a worrier and wouldn't sleep at night if she knew I was running around with a concealed weapon. I prayed the FBI would find Mr. Z immediately so I didn't have to take this drastic action.

  Besch picked me up and we went to a gun dealer frequented by many Dallas police officers. After looking at dozens of different possibilities, I settled on a small caliber Barretta that I could strap around my ankle. I figured this would be the least conspicuous place to carry it. After I finished all the paperwork to make carrying it legal, we went to the police target range to try it out.

  It was kind of fun firing it, but I couldn't imagine pointing it a person and pulling the trigger. Besch assured me if I was being attacked I'd find the courage to do it. I hoped he was right. After a couple hours, Besch said we'd done enough for one day and offered to buy me a drink at a local bar. Although I didn't hang out at bars too often, I felt obliged to have a drink with him since he'd taken the time to help me out. When we arrived, Besch went straight to the bartender and ordered a Scotch on the rocks. I ordered a beer.

  "Well, I hope you never have to use it, Stan."

  "You and me both."

  "It's a good little piece, though. I guarantee it will stop Mr. Z in his tracks if you hit him."

  "If I even see him coming," I said.

  Besch told me I needed a few more sessions at the range before I'd be competent to use my new weapon. He talked to the officer in charge and arranged for me to come back and get more training. He also promised to have extra patrols around my house and our office for the next few weeks. He said he'd give all his officers a description of Mr. Z and if anyone saw him they'd report it immediately. Besch seemed genuinely concerned about my safety and for that I was grateful. After drinking a second beer, I thanked him and headed home. Now all I had to do was figure out how to hide the gun from Rebekah.