“Two-thousand-square-foot condo, one of four units. The other three are weekend places and seldom used, especially in cold weather. My contact will get drawings, plans, photos, whatever. Miss Getty and her boy are under surveillance so we’ll know when they retire to the mountains.”
“You said your contact was the client of a friend, or the friend of a client. That’s pretty vague.”
“It’ll have to stay that way. I’ll never meet Mr. Getty. As I understand things, he’s a client of a friend who’s in this same business. Private work.”
“And who knew my name?”
“I can’t answer that.”
“Fair enough. Two high-profile targets is worth a lot more than fifty grand.”
“I don’t have the authority to negotiate, Mr. Taylor. I’m just relaying messages.”
“A hundred grand.”
Gross flinched a bit and gave a frown, but recovered like a pro. “Don’t blame you at all. I’ll pass it along.”
“What’s the time frame?”
“Sooner rather than later. Mr. Getty has plenty of security and he’s watching them closely. He is obviously concerned. Also, as warm weather approaches this spring the resort will get busier. He thinks the best time is between now and early April.”
“I’ll have to check my schedule.”
Gross shrugged, wasn’t sure how to respond.
“Get me the drawings and photos and I’ll take a look.”
* * *
The trackers and listeners tightened the net around Taylor.
He left home in his pickup on Saturday, January 22, and drove three hours to Nashville where he met Gross in the parking lot of a shopping center and took a folder with the necessary info. From there he drove four hours to Pigeon Forge and checked into a budget motel in the shadows of the Great Smoky Mountains. He paid twenty-four dollars in cash for one night and used a bogus driver’s license as an ID. He walked next door to a grill, ate a sandwich, and drove eight miles to Gatlinburg. He got lost in the steep, winding roads but eventually found the resort at dusk.
While he was away, a team of FBI technicians entered his motel room, tapped the phone, and planted six listening devices.
Taylor had been assured by Gross that the condo would be empty during the weekend and there was no alarm system. He left the resort, drove to a diner, and killed some time drinking coffee. At nine, he returned to the resort, which was virtually deserted, and crept in the darkness to the condo. With little effort he jimmied the lock and went inside.
The FBI trackers were impressed with Taylor’s ability to move around without being noticed.
He returned to the motel at 11:00 p.m. and called J. W. Gross. They agreed to meet Sunday morning at a truck stop on Interstate 40 east of Nashville. He made no other calls and went to bed.
Sleet was falling and the truck stop was packed with eighteen-wheelers trying to get off the road. Gross found Taylor’s pickup parked near the restaurant, but Taylor was not in it. He waited a few moments as 11:30, their agreed-upon time, came and went. Taylor appeared from the restaurant, walked over, and Gross nodded to get inside where it was warm and dry. Taylor got in the passenger’s side and said, “Place is packed in there. Couldn’t get a table.”
The cab of the truck was wired. The listeners, already on high alert and hiding about fifty feet away, held their breaths. What a lucky break. What a dumb move by Taylor.
Gross asked, “You found the condo?”
“Yes, it was easy,” Taylor replied smugly. “I don’t see a problem, other than timing. I’ll need at least three days’ notice.”