OLD MISTAKES

Bill O’Shea walked behind his condo building to feed a wild groundhog he had affectionately named Mr. Chips. When Bill entered the grassy area next to the ridge, he noticed his neighbor Phyllis Spooner—a woman in her mid-seventies—standing close to the mountain’s steep slope. Phyllis was sure-footed so Bill didn’t worry about her falling.

Bill absorbed the view. In the distance, puffy clouds hovered over the rounded tops of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Below the ridge where he stood, ski runs cut through forested hillsides. As expected for that time of the morning, Mr. Chips stood near his burrow entrance nibbling on greens plucked from the lush lawn. Bill knelt ten feet from Mr. Chips and offered him a fat beefsteak tomato. The groundhog cautiously approached Bill, grabbed the tomato, and scampered a few yards away before gnawing at the fruit.

“Nothing like a juicy tomato, eh, Mr. Chips?”

Bill made to leave but then saw that Phyllis Spooner was standing in the same spot. Odd. He had never known her to stand still for more than a few moments. If anything, she had inched closer to the edge. Bill approached Phyllis. Judging by her expression, her mind was miles away.

“Phyllis?” he said.

She startled, and her head jerked toward him. “Oh, Bill, it’s you.”

“Is everything okay?”

Phyllis’s eyes searched Bill’s. They knew each other casually but were not close friends. Bill had retired to Wintergreen, Virginia, recently and was still getting to know his new community.

“No, everything is not okay. If this slope were steeper, I might jump.”

Bill glanced at the hillside. A jump from that point might earn a broken limb but not much more. Nevertheless, there were other overlooks in Wintergreen, steeper, more dangerous locations from which a jump would prove fatal.

“Did you ever do something terribly stupid?” Phyllis asked.

“Definitely. Hasn’t everyone?”

She shook her head. “Not like me.”

Before Bill could prepare a thoughtful response, Phyllis turned on her heel and marched away.

Back inside his condo, Bill poured a second cup of coffee and stared at the wall. The longer he considered his conversation with Phyllis, the more it bothered him. No, he couldn’t let that stand.

Ten minutes later, he knocked on Phyllis’s door. She wore the same outfit, nice jeans, and a light sweater.

“Maybe you should tell me what’s going on,” he said.

She heaved a sigh and shook her head.

“You know what I did for a living, right?” said Bill.

Bill had worked as a police officer for three decades in Columbia, South Carolina, and had spent most of that time investigating homicides.

He said, “I promise you I’ve seen a lot worse than whatever you did. Invite me inside, and we’ll talk it over.”

Eventually, Phyllis decided that talking with Bill was no worse than her other options, and they were soon settled at her dining table with glasses of water.

Her story began in the nineteen sixties.

“You’re too young to know what that was like,” she said. “I turned nineteen in the Summer of Love. Those were free-spirit days, and I signed up for the whole program. Rock ’n’ roll. Protests. Drugs. Free love. I lasted one semester at Mary Baldwin in Staunton and then high-tailed it for Southern California.” A gleam entered Phyllis’s eye, as if she retained fond memories of that long-ago fantasy world.

“Of course, it wasn’t all fun and games. I had to eat and have a place to sleep, and that meant I needed money. I worked as a restaurant server, which kept me alive, but it was paycheck to paycheck. Then I lost a job and couldn’t find another, and the money ran down to nothing. That’s when I made my mistake.”

Where were Phyllis’s parents when all of this was happening? Were they in touch with Phyllis, or did they spend every night in fear of bad news?

Phyllis ran a hand over her face. “A friend of mine had found a legal way to make a lot of money fast. A few days’ work in front of a camera for two thousand dollars. A low-budget production. Perhaps you can guess what kind of film they were making.”

“I can.”

“Anyway, it was stupid, and I did it.”

After making the one film—an experience she detested—Phyllis decided she would never do that again, and the next time her money ran short, she called her parents.

Phyllis returned to finish school at Mary Baldwin, worked as a teacher, and met and married her husband. They had children who eventually had children of their own. Throughout those years, she never told anyone about the film, not her parents, not her husband, and certainly not her children or grandchildren.

Phyllis never heard about the movie again. Her husband died five years earlier, and Phyllis had come to believe it was a mistake successfully buried in the past.

But the secret came to life, thought Bill, and that’s why you were standing at the cliff’s edge.

A man had contacted Phyllis and demanded a cashier’s check for fifty thousand dollars. If she didn’t pay, he would post the film on the internet and send links to her children and friends. Everyone she knew would see the film. The man knew the names of her children, her grandchildren, her friends in Wintergreen, and the people she knew at church. It was no big secret how the man found the names—social media. Phyllis was active on two popular platforms.

Phyllis had paid the man. She had a fixed income and savings enough to cover it. A month later, the man contacted her again. He wanted another thirty thousand dollars. At least the number was smaller. She paid him again. Now, six weeks later, he had demanded another thirty thousand dollars.

“Are you sure he has the movie?” said Bill. “Have you seen it?”

“No, and I don’t want to see it. But he has the film.” Phyllis nodded with confidence. “No question. He knows things he could only know from watching my scenes.”

“How did he connect you with the movie? Did he tell you?”

“No. I asked, but he said that was his business. I have no idea how he found me. I never gave the producers my real name or address. They paid me in cash.”

“Was this a well-known film?”

“No. I don’t even know if the producers ever released it.”

Bill scratched the back of his head. He detested blackmailers. They struck like a virus with the potential to ruin an otherwise happy life. But every blackmailer had a weakness.

“What do you want to do?” he said.

Phyllis threw her hands up in frustration. “I’m at a loss because I don’t have the money. I’d have to sell the condo, and if I do that, my kids will know something’s up. I’d have to tell them.”

Bill pulled on his chin. He liked having Phyllis Spooner as a neighbor. She knew a lot about the natural world and had shared some of her knowledge with him.

“Maybe I can help,” he said.

#

Back in his condo, Bill sat on his couch to think. How on earth had this guy connected an obscure low-budget film made over fifty years ago with Phyllis Spooner? She hadn’t used her name and didn’t know anyone associated with the film. If someone knew Phyllis made the film, why didn’t they blackmail her long ago? Why wait until now? Perhaps someone had recently stumbled upon the film and recognized Phyllis. That seemed unlikely. People’s faces aged a great deal in fifty years. Skin sagged. Hair thinned out, grew brittle, and turned gray. Though she remained an attractive woman in her seventies, her appearance must have changed a lot from the twenty-year-old Phyllis.

How did anyone make the connection? No matter. Someone did.

If Bill was to help, he needed a partner. He had worked with the FBI on special projects several times over the years. One guy owed Bill a rather large favor. He called Skip Forrester and explained the situation.

“No,” said Skip, “this is small-time stuff for us. I couldn’t get the resources. Maybe the state guys can help.”

“I’d rather work with you.”

“Sorry.”

“I’ll do the legwork,” said Bill. “You don’t even have to pay me.”

“Who said anything about paying you?”

“Come on, Skip. You guys hire freelancers all the time. You don’t even have to get budget approval if you use me. And you’ll get all the credit. I just need a little help with the paperwork.”

#

Bill parked his Mazda CX-5 in a small parking lot used by day hikers to access the Appalachian Trail. Bill knew from previous hikes that this section of the trail ran parallel to the Blue Ridge Parkway. He grabbed a small backpack and headed north on the trail.

Phyllis and the blackmailer—who called himself Dan—had met before at the Three Ridges Overlook less than a mile north on the parkway. Bill and Phyllis had rehearsed her lines for an hour, and then Phyllis contacted Dan to request a meeting.

The Appalachian Trail crossed the parkway next to the overlook. Though the day was warm, Bill wore jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt. He timed his hike so he could venture into the brush near the overlook before Dan arrived. Shortly thereafter, a Toyota RAV4 drove into the scenic stop, and a tall thin man who matched the description Phyllis had given Bill got out. He was five minutes early. Bill read the license plate through binoculars and entered the number into his phone.

Phyllis arrived right on time. The reception from the microphone Phyllis wore was a bit scratchy, but Bill could hear well enough to understand the conversation. Phyllis was nervous, of course, but Bill considered that true to character. Who wouldn’t be nervous talking to a blackmailer, particularly when you needed more time to raise the money?

“What do you mean?” said Dan. “Why did you ask to meet if you don’t have the money?”

“I wanted to explain it to you in person. Also, I can’t raise thirty thousand dollars.”

The two of them faced off in front of Phyllis’s sedan. Dan lifted his shoulders and hands as if he were confused.

“You’d better raise it,” he said, “or your skin flick will be the main attraction at your next family reunion.”

“That w-would be horrible. But I still can’t raise the money.”

This part of the conversation was necessary. Phyllis had to convince Dan that he’d tapped her for every dollar he could. All blackmailers faced the same risk—what if the target said no? Dan could release the film, which would harm Phyllis but would also harm Dan. He’d lose his leverage, plus, with her secret exposed, she might now involve the police. Of course, Dan knew all of this.

“How much can you raise?” he said.

“I can get ten thousand. Maybe twelve thousand.”

Dan heaved a sigh that Bill heard in his earbuds. “Let’s call it ten thousand. I don’t want to take your last dollar.”

What a nice guy. Bill got the impression that Dan was relatively new to this line of work. He was a low-rate criminal, for sure, but not a tough guy.

Phyllis said she could raise the ten thousand in about a week. Dan told her to contact him when she had the money and then left.

Bill hurried from the woods to join Phyllis. Now that the meeting was over, she appeared as if she might collapse. Bill gave her an encouraging smile.

“You were awesome. Just awesome. And your part is over.”

#

Later that night, Bill drove forty minutes to an apartment complex in Waynesboro and circled the parking lot to find the Toyota RAV4. Dan’s real name was Spencer Quarles. Forty-three. Spotty job history. Spencer had tried many occupations but had not been successful at any of them. He’d moved to Waynesboro from upstate New York shortly before he first contacted Phyllis.

Bill parked ten spaces down from the Toyota and waited five minutes to get a feel for foot traffic. When the coast was clear, he meandered over to the Toyota, dropped to the pavement, and attached a GPS tracker to the car’s undercarriage.

Back at his condo, Bill pulled up the security subscription service. Spencer Quarles’s car had moved from the apartment complex to a parking lot on Lew Dewitt Boulevard. Bill played around with Google Maps to see what businesses were there and guessed that Spencer had gone to see a movie.

For the next week, Bill regularly tracked the Toyota’s movements. After a few sessions, Bill learned to analyze a day of Spencer’s activity in about five minutes. Not that Spencer moved around much. He spent a lot of time at his apartment and visited certain locations frequently: a strip center with a Buffalo Wild Wings restaurant, a movie theater, and fast-food establishments.

Spencer made three other trips. First, he drove ninety minutes on I-64 East to Richmond, then took I-95 South to a Civil War park commemorating the Battle of Peterburg. Spencer’s car stopped in a circular drive overlooking a national cemetery, where it remained for almost an hour. Then he returned to Waynesboro. That afternoon, Spencer drove to a storage facility on the edge of town and stayed for twenty minutes.

At eleven the next morning, Spencer left his apartment complex and drove thirty minutes east to Charlottesville. Once there, he stopped at a small commercial building on Route 29 north of the city. After an hour, he returned to Waynesboro and parked next to the Buffalo Wild Wings.

Late that afternoon, Bill poured himself a Diet Coke over ice and zoomed in on the commercial building in Charlottesville. As his cursor hovered over the building, the logos of several businesses popped up: a law firm, a skin and body spa, a financial services firm, a technology consulting firm, and a real estate appraisal business.

Frowning, Bill leaned back and considered the probability that Spencer had visited one of those businesses. The spa? No. The financial services firm? Outside of his blackmailing proceeds, Spencer was a man of small means, and he wouldn’t want a financial planner poking into his income sources. The real estate appraiser? It seemed unlikely that Spencer was in the market to buy real estate, but not inconceivable. The law firm? He would definitely need a lawyer at some point, but this particular firm specialized in patent law, which seemed a far distance from Spencer’s line of work. The technology consulting firm? No. That seemed as likely as Spencer growing wings.

But then Bill pondered the question of how Spencer had connected Phyllis to the film. He pulled up the technology consulting firm’s website and read their story. Five engineering students from the University of Virginia had worked for various technology companies around the country and then returned to Charlottesville to form their own freelance consulting firm. The tagline: Doing Work We Love for Clients We Admire. The website specified each partner’s area of technical expertise. When Bill read Adam Trapp’s bio, he knew he had the right guy.

#

Sitting across from Adam Trapp in the Charlottesville office, Bill guessed the engineer was in his early thirties. He was a clean-shaven professional dressed in a casual buttoned shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. The contemporary desk was free of clutter. Two monitors and a keyboard stood to one side, ready for action.

After pleasantries, Adam said, “Your email referenced a documentary on the Vietnam War.”

“That’s right,” said Bill. “The goal is to show how certain events of the war shaped the future lives of US soldiers. We have a sizable grant from a historical foundation.”

“Sounds like meaningful work.”

“Very much so. Here’s the thing. We have hundreds of hours of newsreels capturing images of soldiers we want to include in the documentary. But it’s proving difficult for us to track down soldiers’ names.”

Adam Trapp nodded agreeably.

Bill continued. “One of our team members came up with the idea that perhaps we could use facial recognition technology to identify the soldiers. It seemed like a long shot to me, but our other approaches are taking too much time and effort, so I did an internet search for specialists in Charlottesville and found you.”

“It’s a good thing you came to me,” said Adam. “Very few people focus on this specific task.”

“So you can actually do this?”

“Yes, we’ve done it before.”

“How does it work?”

Trapp went on to explain that while human faces changed with age, most of the characteristics used for facial recognition changed in predictable ways. Adam would analyze the faces of young soldiers from the old newsreels and then compare them with current data to find matches.

“Where do you get the current data?” said Bill.

“Buy it. There are various sources for facial biometrics by name. In this case, we want all veterans who served in Vietnam. I’d have to do some research, but I’m sure we could find a reliable source. It’s perfectly legal.”

“I see. And you’ve done this kind of work before? Used your technology to identify people in old newsreels?”

Adam shifted in his chair and then reached for a pencil. “Your sort of project is uncommon. Most of my FRT projects help clients identify individuals in live video feeds.”

“How do you know it will work with a fifty-year-old newsreel if you haven’t done it?”

“I have done it,” Adam asserted. “Not with newsreels, but with other kinds of films.”

“Excellent. Give me a proposal. Also, I need to have a reference call with your other client.”

Adam squeezed the pencil eraser nervously. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible. That other project is highly confidential.”

Bill didn’t know how deeply Adam was into the scheme. Blackmailing widows seemed out of step with the immaculate office and the engineering credentials.

“Why would it be confidential?” Bill asked. “What sort of films did you analyze on the other project?”

Adam swallowed and said in a weak voice, “I can’t share that information.”

Bill leaned forward. “I can’t imagine why. Unless you’re processing adult films for Spencer Quarles.”

The blood drained from Adam’s face.

Bill said, “I’m hungry. What do you say we get some lunch?”

#

Bill and Adam Trapp sat across from each other at a Chick-fil-A not far from the office. A mother and three young children consumed lunch in an unruly fashion nearby. Bill had the grilled chicken sandwich, waffle fries, and a lemonade. Adam had little appetite and nursed a Dr. Pepper. He continued to assert that the work he did for Spencer Quarles was legal.

Bill said, “I like your group’s tagline: Doing Work We Love for Clients We Admire. This is the kind of work you love?”

“No. Of course not. We don’t always get to pick the work.”

“And Spencer is the kind of client you admire?”

Adam grimaced.

“You should give me the full picture,” said Bill. “Otherwise, I’ll post a review that specifies the exact nature of this project. It’ll make quite a story in Charlottesville. But it won’t help your business.”

Adam’s eyebrows furrowed. “Are you with the police?”

Bill chewed a waffle fry, swallowed, and said, “Everyone has an angle, and I have mine. Tell me everything, or I’ll post that review.”

Adam heaved a sigh and told his tale. Spencer Quarles had contacted Adam three months earlier. Spencer’s grandfather had died and left Spencer a collection of adult films made in the seventies. According to Adam, Spencer said his grandfather had also left him two million dollars to pay as accrued royalties to the actors in the films. Spencer needed Adam’s help to identify the actors’ names and current whereabouts. The terms of the deal were that Spencer would pay Adam one thousand dollars for every living actor identified with a bonus of five thousand dollars for any who lived in Virginia, Maryland, North Carolina, or DC. Spencer had delivered the first ten movies on 8mm film. Adam had found a vendor in town to convert the movies into a digital format, and then Adam had worked his magic and identified twenty-three actors. Two lived in Virginia, and one lived in North Carolina.

“Is that all? Ten films?”

“No, Spencer dropped off ten more films yesterday. Apparently, he has hundreds of them.”

“Where are the films he gave you yesterday?”

“My office. I will deliver them to the video specialist this afternoon for conversion to digital format.”

“But you’re giving them to me instead.”

“I can’t do that.”

“You’re on shaky ground, Adam. You know why Spencer is paying you a bonus for names who live within driving distance. It’s so he can see them in person. And he’s not paying them royalties.”

#

As he had earlier, Bill waited on the Appalachian Trail for Spencer to arrive at the Three Ridges Overlook. Spencer pulled up in his RAV4, got out, and leaned on his front hood to enjoy the spectacular view of Rockfish Valley. He wore jeans and a sweatshirt. Dark gray clouds threatened rain. Bill waited ten minutes, long enough for Spencer to grow anxious about whether Phyllis would show. Then, Bill sent a text message.

Going in now.

Bill exited the trail and marched across a grassy section to where Spencer Quarles stood. Bill turned to gaze at the majestic valley.

“Heck of a view,” said Bill.

Spencer frowned. “Can I help you?”

“We need to talk. Phyllis isn’t coming.”

Spencer’s frown grew more pronounced. “Who are you?”

“Bill O’Shea. Phyllis has engaged me to negotiate on her behalf.”

“Negotiate? There’s nothing to negotiate.”

“Settle down and listen to this.” Then Bill touched buttons on his phone to play the conversation he had recorded earlier between Spencer and Phyllis. Spencer’s expression progressed through a range of emotions: first fear, then anger, and finally, determination. Spencer eyed Bill’s phone with fierce desire. Bill held up a cautionary hand. “Now, before you grab my phone and run, let me assure you the recording is in the cloud. Right?”

Spencer scowled.

Bill said, “We need to have a conversation, Spencer. Can I call you Spencer? Or would you prefer Mr. Quarles?”

Spencer’s face grew puzzled. He had told Phyllis his name was Dan.

“Your license plate,” said Bill. “It’s registered to Spencer Quarles. I’ll give you a minute to catch up.”

Spencer thought about it for a few moments, then stood and studied the license tag on his front bumper. He wasn’t the sharpest player on the team.

“I’ll give you points for initiative,” said Bill, “but you lose them with poor execution. If you had disappeared after Phyllis paid you the first fifty thousand, you would have made it home clean and dry. But you’ve bled her to the point where she had to engage someone like me. You’re lucky she didn’t go to the police.”

“What do you want?”

Bill shrugged. “What do we all want? More of everything, right? First up, we have to take care of Phyllis, which means returning the eighty thousand she gave you and giving her the film. But there’s an upside.”

“No chance.”

“The way I see it, you have no choice. She goes to the cops. You go to prison.”

Spencer stood to his full height. “Or maybe I get the bat I keep in the backseat and beat you senseless.”

Bill bobbed his head as if to acknowledge that Spencer had made a valid point, but then he said, “You might want to turn around first.”

Spencer looked over his shoulder in time to observe a Wintergreen Police cruiser drive into the overlook and park fifty feet away. Spencer flinched.

“Who is that?” Spencer said.

“A friend of mine, but it’s cool. So long as everyone remains calm, he’ll stay in the car.”

“Are you with the police?”

“Not anymore,” said Bill. “I’m an ex-cop, and guess what I’ve figured out. Ex-cops can make more money than cops. If it’s all right with you, I’d like to get back to the upside I mentioned. Okay?”

Spencer’s head darted from Bill to the squad car and back again. His left eye twitched. Bill gave him a few moments to process the new developments and then forged ahead.

Bill pointed back to the trail. “I was hidden in the brush over there when I witnessed your shakedown with Phyllis. Afterward, I wondered how in the world you had found an obscure adult film made fifty years ago. Then, I asked myself, ‘What if there is more than one film? What if there are a lot of films?’”

Bill paused to make certain Spencer was still with him. He wouldn’t tell Spencer he had already met Adam Trapp—not yet anyway.

“It wasn’t hard to figure out how you got Phyllis’s film,” said Bill. “An internet search on adult films and the name Quarles led me to your grandfather. I gather he was quite the mover-shaker in the seventies’ erotic art scene. He even has his own Wikipedia article, which I read with great interest. He must have thought a lot of you to leave you his collection.”

Spencer’s shoulders sagged.

Bill smiled broadly. “Don’t be upset, partner. This is where we get to the upside. On your own, you might make a few bucks here and there from the likes of Phyllis. But by working together, you and I can make a lot more from your grandfather’s collection.”

“How’s that?” said Spencer.

“You’ve got the films. I assume you’ve already hired someone to do the facial recognition analysis.”

Spencer seemed surprised that Bill had figured out the technology angle, but he kept his mouth shut.

“And I’ll handle the collections,” said Bill.

Spencer raised an eyebrow, interested for the first time.

Bill explained that he had a few trusted colleagues dispersed throughout the US who could easily handle this sort of assignment. They would make one pass at each target, take them for what they could, and move on to the next target. Bill figured they could average twenty-five thousand per name.

“I doubt it,” said Spencer. “I’ve had some folks laugh in my face. One woman said she’d be thrilled to share the film with her friends.”

“Bring ten names from across the country to our next meet,” said Bill. “I’ll show you what I can do, but don’t forget that I need to take care of Phyllis first. Bring her film and whatever digital copies you have, plus a cashier’s check for eighty thousand dollars.

Spencer frowned, still not convinced.

“It’s that or the police,” said Bill. He tilted his head toward the Wintergreen squad car and said in a low voice. “We could make a million dollars each. Don’t mess this up.”

#

They met two nights later at Buffalo Wild Wings. Bill arrived early, sat at a table in the bar area, and ordered ten wings with medium-spicy sauce and a draft IPA. He was working on his third wing when Spencer came in carrying a small paper bag.

“I’d shake your hand,” said Bill, “but these things are a mess.”

The restaurant was slow, and the server came right over to take Spencer’s order. She recognized Spencer, and while they chatted, Bill wiped his hands on a napkin and then inspected the contents of the paper bag—an 8mm film canister and a thumb drive. The canister was labeled From Night ‘til Dawn. Very clever.

“And the cashier’s check?” said Bill, after the server left.

Spencer pulled a folded paper from his shirt pocket and reluctantly handed it over. Bill inspected the check and put it in his wallet.

He breathed deeply and nodded toward the wings. “Help yourself. I can’t finish them all.”

“No, thanks. I’m good.”

Bill’s chest felt light. The wings were tasty, and he proceeded to eat three more without saying a word. Spencer eyed him with growing impatience.

After the third wing, Bill reached for his beer, and Spencer said, “Are you going to stuff your face all night or talk business?”

Bill swallowed and said, “Absolutely. Did you bring the ten names?”

“I want to talk about the split first. If you collect the money, how do I get paid?”

Bill realized he should have come earlier so he could finish eating before they got to this part of the conversation. So be it.

He nodded and said, “It’s a reasonable question. I figure it’s forty-forty-twenty. Let’s assume we net two hundred and fifty thousand from your ten names. You get a hundred thousand, I get a hundred thousand, and the collection network keeps fifty thousand. After we do that ten times, you have a million, and I have a million. At that point, I’m out. Never run a game past its prime.”

Spencer folded his arms. “I like fifty-fifty better.”

“How do you figure?”

“We each get one hundred and twenty-five, and you pay the collectors out of your end.”

Bill laughed. “What’s wrong with a million dollars? Do you plan to buy an island or something? Be reasonable.”

Spencer shook his head. “Fifty-fifty.”

Bill reached for another napkin and made a big display of wiping his hands. “Don’t be greedy. You know what happens to pigs in these situations.”

“I’ll find someone else. You’ve got nothing without the names.”

“Listen to yourself,” Bill said, his voice rising. “I’ve got nothing? Try to use your mind. Think this through.”

Spencer snorted. “I’ve given this all the thinking it needs. It’s fifty-fifty or nothing.”

Bill leaned toward Spencer. “How about I give you nothing?” he said. “How about I steal the films, hire my own engineer, and keep all the money?”

Spencer’s eyebrows furrowed. “Steal from me?”

“Yeah. What are you going to do? Go to the cops? I have the cops on my side.”

The blood drained from Spencer’s face.

At that moment, the server brought Spencer his beer. He didn’t notice her.

“Can I get you guys anything else?” she said.

“No, thank you,” said Bill. “We’re fine.”

Bill considered his remaining four wings. With some reluctance, he made the decision that it was time to leave. Still, he drained his beer.

“You’re slow,” Bill said. “I already have the ten names. I got them from Adam Trapp three days ago.”

Spencer’s mouth dropped.

“Yeah,” said Bill. “The engineer you hired in Charlottesville. I threatened him, and he gave me the names. He gave me ten films too.”

“But I have the rest of the films hidden.”

“I’ve run circles around you. What makes you think I haven’t stolen the films already?”

Spencer blinked rapidly.

Bill laughed and stood. He pulled two twenties from his wallet, threw them on the table, and walked out.

#

“Do you think he’ll come,” said Skip Forrester.

“I give it an even chance,” said Bill.

Bill and his FBI contact sat in Skip’s parked car in a lot across the street from the storage business. Three agents were placed at key vantage points throughout the facility. Bill and Skip had discussed it and decided there was a high probability Spencer kept the adult film collection in his storage unit, but they didn’t yet know the right number.

Bill pulled the canister holding Mrs. Spooner’s film from the paper bag. “What should I do with this?”

“Give it to me. I’ll put it with those you got from Adam Trapp and whatever we secure tonight. I can pretty much guarantee those films will never see the light of day.”

“How can you be sure?” said Bill.

“We’ve got Quarles on two counts of extortion in Virginia, one count in North Carolina, and federal charges as well. One or more of the prosecuting attorneys will include an agreement that the films be destroyed as part of a plea bargain. Even so, I expect he’ll serve time in a Virginia prison.”

Bill imagined Phyllis Spooner’s smile when he told her the news. He looked forward to seeing the spring in her step.

“Adam Trapp has proven most cooperative,” said Skip. “He brought a lawyer with him to the meeting.”

“I’m not surprised.”

Skip said, “The true irony in this whole case is that Quarles could have accomplished the same goals legally.”

Bill pursed his lips. “Seriously? How?”

“By selling the films to the actors in arms-length transactions. He legally owns the film rights, and I suspect if he had told Mrs. Spooner he intended to sell the film to the highest bidder, she would have paid dearly to keep it off the market. By repeating that process for each film, Quarles would have made a lot of money without going to prison.”

“Sheesh.”

“He’s not the dumbest criminal I’ve come across,” said Skip, “but it’s a close contest.”

A Toyota RAV4 rolled up the street and pulled into the storage facility.

“Bingo,” said Bill. “That’s his SUV.”

The radio came to life as agents reported Spencer’s progress. Spencer parked next to a unit in the back of the facility. After he opened the unit, the agents moved in, and Skip started his car.

Spencer Quarles was cuffed by the time Skip and Bill reached him. Quarles glared at Bill.

“You’re a damn liar,” he said.

“I beg your pardon,” said Bill.

“You said we’d be partners and earn a million dollars each.”

“Yeah, okay, I lied about that part.”

THE END

Thank you for reading Old Mistakes. If you enjoyed Bill’s latest adventure, you’re in for a real treat when you read The Wintergreen Mystery Series.

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The Mountain View Murder (Book One)

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KOBO ebook: https://bit.ly/3ao92oY

The Overlook Murder (Book Two)

Amazon ebook: https://amzn.to/3xwNBJw

Amazon paperback: https://amzn.to/3Nmjyei

Apple ebook: https://apple.co/3Q5DEes

Barnes & Noble ebook: https://bit.ly/3NkbFGx

KOBO ebook: https://bit.ly/3SxWJr9

Murder in White (Book Three) and Murder at Dawn (Book Four) are available in the same stores.

COPYRIGHT STUFF

Mrs. Spooner’s Free-Spirit Days. Copyright © 2022 by Chaparral Press LLC

Back When Cars Were Cars. Copyright © 2022 by Chaparral Press LLC

A Merrier Terrier Christmas. Copyright © 2022 by Chaparral Press LLC

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information contact Chaparral Press LLC, 2402 Sutherland St., Austin, TX 78746.

Published in ebook by Chaparral Press LLC.

This is a work of fiction. Some of the locations, restaurants, and other places referenced in the novel are real; however, the names, characters, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or events at a particular locale or to persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.