Heat

Chapter 5

Jesse sat at the dining table of a twelfth-floor suite at the Ritz-Carlton in Buckhead and polished off a large cut of prime rib. Elsewhere on the table were the remains of a loaded baked potato, a Caesar salad and a bottle of Mondavi Cabernet Sauvignon (the reserve). He took another swig of the wine, then turned his attention to a large dish of macadamia brittle ice cream.

“Prison hasn’t improved your table manners,” Kip Fuller said from across the table.

“You’ll have to forgive me, Kip, but it’s been a while since anybody cared.” The ice cream was sensational. “Why aren’t you eating?”

“Because it’s three o’clock in the afternoon, and I had lunch,” Fuller replied. “Are you sober enough after all that wine to start absorbing some detail?”

“Shoot.”

“Ordinarily, I’d just build you a legend for this job, but last week I got lucky.” He handed a large newspaper clipping across the table.

Jesse picked it up; it was from the Toccoa, Georgia, newspaper: LOCAL BUILDER’S FAMILY WIPED OUT IN DUI CRASH.

He read a few paragraphs, then looked up at Fuller. “Okay, so the guy’s name is Jesse; what else?”

“His wife and three daughters were killed in a head-on car crash.”

“I read that much.”

“What’s not in the article is that the husband, one Jesse Barron, lived through the crash and was hospitalized with head injuries. When he recovered enough, he checked himself out of the hospital and disappeared. I talked to the local sheriff, who knew the man well, and he reckons he’s a suicide; they just haven’t found the body yet.”

“What else do you know about him?”

Fuller took a file folder from his briefcase and opened it. “Born in a place called Young Harris.”

“I know the town; not far from where I was born.”

“He’s two years older than you are; went to North Georgia College, in Dahlonega, flunked out the first year. Single for a time, then married in his early thirties to one Sally Terrell, had three kids close together — daughters, Margie, Becky and Sherry, ages seven, five and four. The guy worked in construction in Atlanta for half a dozen companies, then moved to Toccoa a little over a year ago and started his own business. He was having a tough time of it, apparently — on the verge of bankruptcy, so the loss of his family wasn’t his only reason for suicide.”

“He could have just taken a hike,” Jesse said.

“The sheriff doesn’t think so. Barron had been drinking heavily, was depressed and had talked about suicide before the accident.”

“Sounds good. Anything unusual about the guy?”

“Very little. A high school football knee injury kept him out of the military, and he was too young for Vietnam, anyway. There is one delicious little detail, though; something we’d have been hard put to invent.”

“What’s that?”

“He was arrested nine years ago in a fight; he was one of a group of hecklers who were badgering a black couple who had bought a house in a white neighborhood.”

“I like it,” Jesse said. “A nice little credential. Was he a member of the Klan or anything?”

“I checked with the FBI — they’ve got a man in just about every Klan organization. He was actually on a list of people approached about joining, but he never did. It shows that the guy must have had a reputation for bad talk around town.”

“Good. What did he look like?”

Fuller handed over a small color photograph. “This was his driver’s license picture. A little smaller than you, and fatter, but you could be him after a car crash.”

Jesse nodded. “Does he have any family?”

“A grandfather in a county nursing home — in his nineties and ga-ga. That’s it.”

“How’d you come across this guy? You don’t read the Toccoa, Georgia, newspaper.”

“No, but researchers at Justice do; they keep an eye out for identities that could be used in the witness protection program. I’ve also got a name from Alabama, but he’s not nearly as good — too many relatives. The nice thing about Jesse Barron is that he’s from your part of the state, so your accents are probably similar.”

“If he’s from Young Harris, they certainly are. What happens if Barron’s body turns up?”

“The sheriff has agreed to keep it quiet,” Fuller said. “There’s nobody to notify, no heirs, nothing to leave them if there were any. The guy was living in a rented trailer.” He pushed the file across the table to Jesse.

Jesse looked through it; it was complete down to Barron’s failing grades his first and only year in college. “Sold,” he said. “Now let’s talk about this town in Idaho. What was it called?”

“St. Clair. It’s a one-industry town — a chipboard manufacturing company called St. Clair Wood Products. Family-owned, employs around four hundred people. We’ve been subscribing to the local weekly newspaper, the Standard, for a while and, apart from jobs in the local stores, county government, the sheriff’s office, that sort of thing, Wood Products is about it.”

“Any black people in town?”

“None. A few Indians.”

“If this guy Coldwater is half Indian, what’s he doing as head of something called Aryan Universe?”

“Apparently, they consider the Indians as some sort of racially pure strain; I know, it’s bizarre.”

“What sort of ideas have you got about infiltrating?” Jesse asked.

“Maybe you, as Barron, could set up some sort of small business, maybe remodeling of houses, like Barron? You had some construction experience in your past, didn’t you?”

“I worked summers at house building when I was in high school and college. I’m fairly handy, but God help the person whose house I tried to remodel.”

“Well, then.”

“I don’t like it; two guys have already gone in there in regular middle-class jobs. If Coldwater is recruiting, I doubt it’s from that bunch. He’s likely to want a more disappointed kind of recruit, I would think; somebody who’s pissed off at the world. Certainly Barron, if he were alive, would have a lot to be pissed off about — he’s lost his family and his business. Tell me, was the drunk who hit his family black?”

“I’ll find out. I think you’ve got a good idea about the guy being disappointed. How would you infiltrate?”

“Maybe just drift in there, look for work, drink at the local beer joint, see who’s who around St. Clair. If Barron suddenly turned up, would the local cops want to talk to him about anything? Did he do anything illegal?”

“Nothing like that in the record.”

“So I could use Barron’s name with no fear of his name ringing alarms if he got busted for speeding or something?”

“Why not? That way, if somebody did some checking on him, we’d know exactly what they’d find. He’s got a social security number and that’s helpful, if you’re going to look for work — and we could have a word with some of Barron’s former construction employers in Atlanta, alert them for requests for references.”

“Okay, let’s do it that way. What about a driver’s license and credit cards? I’d like to have one working credit card in my pocket.”

Fuller looked through some papers. “His credit report says he’s got a Visa, but it’s tapped out and way overdue. I’ll fix something up with the bank and have them issue a new card. As for the driver’s license, I can get one made up with your picture on it. Hang on, I’ve got a Polaroid camera in my luggage.” Fuller got up and went to his bedroom.

Jesse wiped off the hefty steak knife the Ritz-Carlton had furnished with the prime rib, slipped it under his belt in the small of his back and tucked his shirttail in over it. He had still to hear from Dan Barker, and he meant to be ready if he didn’t like what he heard.