Chapter 11
Burgess Dixon was getting ready to go to a business dinner.
He was treating the managers of his Dixon Down and Dirty sites to a night of fine dining.
He could have just given them a raise, which is what they would have preferred, but these public get-togethers had been his habit for years, and no one was brave enough to approach him with the other option.
He’d lost points with all of them when the FBI began to dig into his business practices, although the managers and certain employees had been well aware of what was going on.
The fact that they were no longer going to be called to testify at his trial was a huge relief for all of them, and this night was his thank-you to the managers for not betraying him as Freddie Welsh had done.
Freddie had been the manager of his first launch location. They’d known each other for years, and Dixon was shocked when Freddie agreed to testify against him. In Dixon’s mind, it was Freddie’s fault he was dead.
He gave himself a last look in the mirror, accepting that at the age of sixty-four, he looked like some boxer’s old sparring partner.
Nose slightly sideways on his face. Dirty-blond hair swiftly thinning.
The broad chest of his younger years was down around his waist, and not for the first time, he was wondering where his green, frog-like eyes and cleft chin came from.
He looked nothing like his mother or the man who’d been his father.
So, his mother maybe slept around, but he never held it against her. He had sins of his own to worry about.
He picked up the phone and called Whistler.
“Yes, Boss?”
“Bring the car around. We need to leave for the restaurant.”
“The car awaits, as do I.”
Frickin’ asshole. Whistler was still pissed. He could tell it. Dixon ended the call and put his phone in his pocket as he left his suite and headed down the stairs.
Whistler was in his chauffeur uniform, as requested. It was Whistler’s public role in Dixon’s life, and as far as the rest of the world knew, his only role.
Dixon walked across the foyer, then out onto the verandah, moving past the pillars to the white stretch limo.
Once he was seated inside, he poured himself a drink and began sipping it as they went.
By the time he got to the restaurant, he was relaxed and curious as to how much pushback he was going to get from the men who would be present.
Freddie Welsh had been well-liked among the managers, but they all knew the score.
Whistler stopped in front of the restaurant, then jumped out to get the door for his boss. Dixon liked the attention of having his own limo and chauffeur for public affairs. As soon as Dixon was inside the restaurant, Whistler drove the limo to a parking spot and settled down to wait.
* * *
Wine was flowing. The food was four-star rated, and the ambiance of the location was everything it should be, but there was an undercurrent of reserve among them that made Dixon nervous.
Then one of them made an announcement during dinner that sadly, this would be his last time to celebrate with them, and that he and his family were moving back to Canton, Ohio, to take over his father-in-law’s business, due to his ill health.
Dixon frowned. “I would have thought you might have had the courtesy to let me know in person beforehand.”
“Oh, but I did, sir. I personally took the letter to your office myself. I thought that you would be there, but your secretary said you were gone for the day. I saw her take it straight to your desk before I left. As I stated in my letter of resignation, I will work out the end of this month while my family goes on ahead. We’re all worried about my father-in-law’s health. ”
“Ah… Sorry about that. I took a couple of days off to work from home,” he said and made himself smile. It all sounded innocent, but he and Freddie had been really good friends, and he had a feeling the man wanted out from under Dixon Down and Dirty before something similar happened to him.
By the time the dinner was over and the last manager was leaving the restaurant, Dixon was in a mood.
He messaged Whistler to pick him up, paid the bill with a hefty tip, and headed for the exit, half hoping Whistler would be delayed and give him something to complain about.
But Whistler was there, standing by the limo, waiting to open the door.
He glared as he got in. “Have you been eating in my car?”
“No, sir. I stood outside in the dark and ate standing between the two cars I’d parked behind, threw my trash in a garbage can, and sprayed my uniform with the lemon scent you prefer so no food odors would be evident.” Then he closed the door and got into the driver’s seat.
Dixon’s eyes narrowed. Whistler was making no attempt to disguise what was obviously a very passive-aggressive attitude.
“Are we going home, sir?” Whistler asked.
“Yes,” Dixon said and sat back as they left the parking lot.
* * *
As soon as they were home, Dixon got out and went inside, leaving Whistler to park and go home. He knew Reggie and Linda, the husband and wife who lived on-site, had already retired to their quarters.
Whistler parked the limo, got into his truck, and drove away.
But he went less than a block before parking in an alley out of sight and running back to the property.
He slipped in a back gate, then into the house, guessing Dixon would go straight to his office to check what was happening on the stock exchange before he retired for the night.
He stood at the foot of the stairs, still wearing his uniform and driving gloves while eyeing the closed doors on the landing above, then doubled his fists and started up.
As suspected, there was a light beneath the door of Dixon’s office.
It was time to get down to business. He pulled a gun from the waistband beneath his jacket and walked into the office without knocking.
The look on Burgess Dixon’s face was a mixture of shock and anger, but when he saw the gun aimed at him, he panicked. That was his gun! The gun he kept hidden beneath his desktop.
“What the hell?” he cried.
“You are planning to get rid of me,” Whistler said.
“That’s not true! I never—”
“Shut it, Dixon. I’m not stupid. The day you shut the door in my face was all the warning I needed. And since I know where all the bodies are buried, I don’t see you giving me a gold watch as a send-off.”
Dixon’s gut rolled. All that rich food and wine from his dinner suddenly felt like an anchor. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t move.
“I wasn’t trying to replace you, I swear. I’m down two men, and you know who and why.”
Garza and Letourneau? Whistler shook his head.
“Bullshit. You don’t need privacy in this house to hire replacements for them.
You have contacts far beyond the borders of this state.
I’ve seen the way you look at me and the derision in your voice when you shout out orders, and it all began after that cop caught me by surprise.
So, here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to do you a favor and quit on my own.
I always wanted to see Mexico. I think it’s time to check it out.
But because I don’t trust you not to hunt me down later, I’m going to be needing a little insurance. ”
“Like what?” Dixon asked.
“How about the names of your cop informants. That way I’ll know who to look for should you decide to use one to take me out.
They’d easily get away with it under the auspices of a justified shooting.
I want a list titled INFORMANTS, and then the names and contact numbers of every cop who has been feeding you information. ”
“That’s absurd,” Dixon said. “That won’t—”
Whistler moved to the front of Dixon’s desk and shoved the barrel of the gun between his eyes. “I get the names now, and I’m gone, or I shoot you now and leave anyway,” he said.
“Yes, yes, fine. The names and then you’re gone, right?” Dixon said.
“Right,” Whistler said.
Dixon pulled some paper from an open ream on the shelf behind him and started writing, beginning with INFORMANTS as the heading, then one name after another, from different precincts and adjoining suburbs in the entire Dallas/Fort Worth area, until he listed them all and the contact numbers.
“That’s it,” he said and pushed the list toward Whistler.
“Fair enough,” Whistler said. “And here’s your gun. No hard feelings?”
Dixon breathed a sigh of relief as he reached for it, and the moment Dixon took it, Whistler grabbed his hand and shoved the gun to Dixon’s temple.
“No… Don’t… You said—”
Whistler squeezed Dixon’s hand and trigger finger, just like he’d done with Garza and Letourneau. The little handgun went off, splattering blood and brains from the exit wound all over the left side of the desk and onto the floor.
Dixon slumped forward—his forehead hitting the desk with a thump—still holding the weapon.
Whistler carefully inched the informant list away from the spreading blood and stepped back to eye the scene, then nodded. Damn, I am good. How sad. Dixon just committed suicide.
But instead of a suicide note, it now appeared that Dixon had left an incriminating list behind instead, maybe as a last dig at the cops who tried to put him away. He was gone, but his intention was to take them down with him.
Satisfied by the look of the crime scene, he quickly exited the office, closing the door as he went, and ducked down the hall to the room housing the estate security system.
He quickly pulled up the video feed and deleted everything that had been recorded right after Dixon walked into the house and Whistler was seen driving away.
Then he turned off the entire camera system and hustled down the stairs.
As he was going out the back door, he reset the house security alarm, then ran through the alley to get to where he’d parked, and drove himself home.
Gunpowder residue would be on the sleeve of his chauffeur’s uniform, and blood could likely be on his glove and shoes.
So as soon as he got home, he tossed the shoes and driving gloves into his kitchen trash, dumped some leftover Thai food on top of it, and carried it to the dumpster.
Then he gathered up his uniform, dropped it off at an all-night cleaners, and went home.