Chapter 8: Steady Work

Twelve Years Ago

Beltsville, Maryland

It took more than three days to take care of Halliday, but only because Jenkins had to get Sam a fake ID. It took twenty-four hours before he was able to provide Sam a West Virginia driver’s license in the name of William Harris of Martinsburg, West Virginia, along with an envelope containing ten grand in hundreds. As soon as he had the license, Sam left, telling Jenkins it would happen Friday night.

From Beltsville, Sam drove to Martinsburg and checked into a motel. Then he called for a taxi and went down to the lobby and waited for it to arrive. He had the taxi driver take him to a nearby strip mall. After the taxi left, Sam walked across the street to the local Enterprise Rent-A-Car office.

Enterprise got its start specializing in local customers who needed a replacement car while their personal car was in the shop. Many of their offices were in low-cost areas near strip malls and light industrial locations. They ran a low-cost system that didn’t pay a lot but did allow for rapid advancement to ambitious rental agents. Sam walked inside and headed to the counter, where a young guy who looked like he’d only been out of college a year smiled at him and said, “Welcome to Enterprise. How can we help you?”

Sam returned the smile. “Thanks. I need to rent a car for a few days. My car’s in the shop and I need a replacement.”

“Sorry to hear that. Let’s see how we can help you.” For the next few minutes, the young agent typed into a terminal and arranged a late-model Chevy Malibu. When asked, Sam pulled out his wallet and handed over William Harris’ driver’s license. “Very good, Mister Harris. Thank you. Here’s your license back. Now, all we need is a credit card.”

At that, Sam got a slightly pained expression on his face. He glanced around and lowered his voice, then asked, “Can I pay cash?”

“That’s not really how we do things, sir.”

“Listen, I’m meeting somebody for a few days and my wife, she’s the one who pays the credit card bills, you know.” Sam opened his wallet and pulled out some hundred-dollar bills and discreetly displayed them; the agent noticed that the number of bills was about twice what the rental contract was for.

“Uh, that’s kind of unusual.” Sam smiled and pulled out another couple of bills, and the agent nodded. “Yes, sir, we’ll be happy to help.” Sam pushed the bills across the counter and ten minutes later drove the Malibu off the lot.

From Enterprise Rent-A-Car, Sam drove to Liberty Arsenal, a local gun store. Once inside, he found a glass case with some pistols and walked up to it. A clerk came over and asked, “How can we help you, sir?”

“Looking for something small, for the wife.”

“Well, we have pistols for any size. Anything particular in mind?”

Sam gave it some thought. “She’s a little bitty thing, you know. Now me, I like a good old-fashioned Colt .45, you know, the original M1911, that’s what I have, but that’s just too big for her.”

The clerk nodded. “That’s a real fine piece, but you’re right, it can have a kick. Maybe something smaller, a nine or a thirty-eight, or something even smaller.” He moved down to another case and Sam followed. “Do we need to consider concealed carry?”

“Well, maybe.” Sam lowered his voice and continued, “Some coloreds moved into the neighborhood and she’s sort of nervous about that. Me, I don’t care, but she gets real nervous about some things.”

The clerk nodded again. “Well, we have some derringer models in .357 that can stop most anybody. Very small and concealable. Bond Arms even has some with a pink handle for the ladies!”

Sam laughed at that. “That’d be cute, but they’re kind of silly, you know. What’s that?” he asked, pointing to a different pistol.

“That’s a Ruger .22. Very small, easily concealed, ten-round magazine, quite accurate over a short range.” He pulled it out of the glass case and handed it to Sam. “See, nice and lightweight, very easy to put in a purse. Just about zero recoil, too. If she does have to shoot at somebody, she’ll be able to keep it on target very easily.”

Sam hefted it and smiled. “I like it, and so will she. It takes twenty-twos?”

“Twenty-two long rifle.”

“I think this will do it. Now, let me have a box of subsonic, so I can teach her, and another box of regular for later.”

“We can do that. She’s really that small?” asked the clerk.

Sam returned a lewd grin. “Oh, man, so small and tight, but it feels so smooth slipping in, you know!” He pulled his wallet out to pay for the pistol.

The clerk just smiled and nodded. That was more information than he needed, but it wasn’t the first time he had heard that sort of talk from a customer. “Let’s do the paperwork. Let me see your license.”

That was the reason Sam had Jenkins provide him with a West Virginia driver’s license. West Virginia had some of the loosest gun laws in the nation. No permits were needed; you simply needed to pass a Federal background check, and Sam had looked into that. With a clean driver’s license for a nonexistent West Virginia resident, there would be no problem in buying a firearm or ammunition. The clerk filled out the ATF Form 4473 and then went into the back office and went online with the FBI’s NICS system, the National Instant Criminal Background Check System.

As Sam expected, there were no issues found and the clerk finished writing up the sale. Sam took the pistol and ammunition and put them in the trunk of the Malibu, and then ran a few more errands in the Martinsburg area. Afterwards, he ate lunch in a local diner and then drove the Malibu back to Beltsville. He left his Ford at the motel in Martinsburg.

It was Monday that Jenkins had approved Sam’s plan, and Tuesday that he had provided the West Virginia driver’s license. Wednesday was when Sam had driven to Martinsburg and then back to Beltsville. Thursday, he took the day off and stayed at home. The assignment wouldn’t be done until Friday night.

The timing worked around the gambling habits of James Halliday. Sam’s research, aided by Jenkins, showed that Halliday liked to play high stakes poker. He wasn’t into sports or the track, so a bookie wasn’t in the mix. Instead, Halliday played poker Friday nights, high stakes games run by a mobster in Norfolk. The games floated around through several different five-star hotels; that night’s was at the Hilton. The simplest way to reach Halliday was late at night in the parking garage where he parked.

Sam got to the garage around 11:30 Friday night. He parked next to Halliday’s car and he waited for Halliday to show up. At 11:58, Halliday appeared, walking towards his car slowly. Sam decided he must have lost a bundle; Halliday looked very unhappy. When he got closer, Sam got out of his car and said, “Hey, can you give me a hand? My battery, I think I need a jump. Do you have jumper cables?”

“Have you tried Triple-A? It’s kind of late...”

“Be a pal. My wife is going to kill me. I promised her I’d get a new battery and blew it on a game,” replied Sam.

Halliday snorted out a laugh. “I hear you. Okay, give me a minute. Pop your hood.”

He went around to the rear of his car and hit the button on his key fob. The trunk unlatched and he lifted it. He leaned forward to look for the cables and never noticed that Sam hadn’t popped his hood open. Instead, Sam walked behind him to the back of the car, and when Halliday leaned forward, Sam pulled the little Ruger out and put it to the back of Halliday’s head. The subsonic ammo was quieter than standard ammo, and the sound of the two rounds firing was muffled by the open trunk. Halliday collapsed, falling face forward into the trunk. Sam pushed the corpse into the trunk and lifted his legs, shoving them into the trunk as well. He pocketed the Ruger and slammed the trunk shut. He doubted he had been with Halliday sixty seconds. He peeled off the latex gloves he had been wearing and put them in his pocket.

Sam climbed into the Malibu and drove out of the garage. A few minutes later he was on the highway headed towards West Virginia. The traffic was minimal; it was the middle of the night and I-270 was empty. Sam set the cruise control at five miles an hour over the limit and never even saw a cop. He drove straight to the motel.

It was time to finish the job. Everything he had worn, right down to the skin, from his shoes and socks to his latex gloves, went into the gym bag he had bought. He removed the cartridges from the gun and tossed it into the bag and zipped it up. Then he showered twice and went to bed. Eight hours later he woke up and showered a third time, shaved, and dressed in clean clothes. He took the gym bag and headed out in the Malibu. First stop was a McDonald’s for lunch, but then he went to the storage unit he had rented for three months. He let himself in and set up what he had purchased at Lowes a few days before. A large plastic storage bin was placed in the center of the floor. A jumbo polyethylene garbage bag was placed inside, with a second placed inside the first. Next, the gym bag was placed inside the garbage bags, and opened. The final step was to pour three one-gallon bottles of high strength muriatic acid into the gym bag. He put the lid on the bin loosely and left the storage unit, locking it behind him.

From the storage unit he drove back to Enterprise Rent-A-Car and turned in the Malibu. He also called a taxi, to take him ‘over to the garage to pick up his car.’ In reality, he had the driver take him back to the motel, where he checked out and headed back to Beltsville, then he tossed a cartridge out the window every mile or so. Halfway home he tossed the key to the storage unit out the window. It would be three months or more before anybody went into the unit and found a storage bin with mush inside, if that.

Monday morning Sam Wilcox went into the office and found Jenkins already sitting there, reading a newspaper. “Morning, Sam. Seen the news yet?”

“Can’t say as I have. Anything interesting?”

“Depends on what your interests are.” He waved the newspaper. “There’s nothing in the Washington Post, but I never expected anything to show there. There was an article in The Pilot that might interest you.”

Sam eyed him curiously. “The Pilot?”

“The Virginian-Pilot. It’s Norfolk’s biggest newspaper. I don’t have a copy, but I did see it online.”

Sam nodded but didn’t say anything. He logged onto the computer and googled the newspaper. He was online moments later. “Gangland Slaying In Norfolk.” He looked over at Jenkins. “It’s terrible how organized crime is responsible for such horrendous deeds.”

“Anything new in the story? When I read it earlier, it just said that a body was found yesterday and that it resembled other killings in the last few years.”

Sam shrugged. “They never give everything to the reporters. It might be amusing to check out the police reports directly.”

“I already did that. The police have already talked to Mrs. Halliday and she told them that her husband had once had a gambling problem, but that he had kicked it. She couldn’t understand what had happened.” Sam raised an eyebrow when Jenkins said that Halliday was no longer gambling. “What? You were expecting that she knew he was still playing poker? Wait until she finds out he’s blown the retirement and college funds. Anyway, the detectives are on it now. They don’t have the coroner’s report, but one of them noted it looked like an execution. We’ll know more by the end of the week.”

“We’ll just have to wait for a bit.”

“Going native?” asked Jenkins.

Sam rubbed a hand over his chin. “Seemed like a good idea. Time for a change, don’t you think?”

“Maybe so.”

Sam Wilcox had an extremely average looking face, courtesy of a plastic surgeon in Miami that Jenkins had sent him to. The surgeon had skillfully reshaped his nose, filled in the cleft in his chin, and removed several noticeable moles, leaving behind a bland countenance. The surgeon had also managed to pull his ears back, so they no longer stuck out like jug handles. It was a face that could blend into any crowd. Sam could be any man and every man. In this he was assisted by a fast-growing and heavy beard; Sam had a five o’clock shadow that showed up around three or four in the afternoon. He could grow a beard or mustache in a week or two. His height was unexceptional; colored contact lenses could change his eye color; dye could change his hair color. His complexion was dark enough that he could pass for Latino as necessary. He was surprisingly strong, but his build was more wiry than muscular, and while he had no fat on his frame, he could simply pass as somebody who worked out frequently. That could be anybody from a Wall Street broker who spent his lunches playing handball to a construction worker who spent his days doing heavy labor.

“Now what?” asked Sam.

Jenkins shrugged. “Now, nothing. We monitor the situation for a few days and see if the cops have anything other than a gangland murder. They’ll probably figure out that the poker game’s dealer has a history of settling problems with a twenty-two in the back of the head. It won’t be long after that that they go down that particular rabbit hole.”

“And if they can’t tie him to it?”

Jenkins simply shrugged. “Don’t overthink this. We have handed the police an open-and-shut case against a known gambler with ties to organized crime. If they put this guy away, even for a crime he didn’t commit, nobody is going to complain. If they can’t put him away, it won’t blow back on an unknown resident of West Virginia who doesn’t even exist.”