The Samoa Seduction

by Alan L. Moss

  He would send no e-mails to the kids. They knew who he was and how much he loved their mother. They would be puzzled by these developments, but they would maintain their faith in him.

  He packed a few clothing items in his suitcase, but left most of his toiletries where they were. No need to let the police know he left town. These first few hours would be key to his survival. He must make the right choices, throw the police off his trail, and move in the right direction, whatever that was.

  Where should I go and with what purpose?

  With adrenalin pumping through his veins and his mind racing, his future became clear. He would not establish a new life. Instead, he would find Karen’s killer and unravel the puzzle that dominated his existence since Samoa.

  Stephanie and her husband were part of that puzzle and the 2001 minimum wage hearings had to be central; but how were they related and who pulled the strings? He would have to solve these mysteries if he was going to fight back.

  As he prepared to battle for higher wages in Samoa, Stephanie fed him Ava that left him unconscious and led to their affair. When he threatened to overturn the outcome of the minimum wage hearings, she struck him down with a debilitating drug mixed in a bottle of champagne. Then, when he documented the fraud and abuse in the wage hearings, someone sabotaged his car, killing Karen.

  The only person who revealed knowledge of the behind the scenes forces was Sammy Finn.

  I’ll track him down and find out what he knows.

  Packed and walking down the stairs as quickly as he could, Michael knew, if necessary, he would spend the rest of his life identifying and punishing the people responsible.

  He stopped in the living room and picked up a picture of Karen from an end table. For a moment, her soft blue eyes, blond hair blowing in the breeze, and the Atlantic Ocean in the background submerged his thoughts in his lost love, his lost life. Michael slipped the picture into a pocket of his suitcase. Then, he forced himself to persevere.

  He had to find a way to flee and circumvent the pending police manhunt, and he had to find Sammy Finn.

  Jim and Anne Green, an older couple originally from Cherry Hill, New Jersey, lived next door to the Blooms. For many years, Jim sold radio and TV commercials and Anne taught elementary school. The couple loved Long Beach Island and retired there three years before Michael and Karen arrived. While the two couples didn’t socialize much, they considered each other good neighbors.

  They regretted asking Michael for a favor so close to the loss of his wife but had no choice. With plans for a one-month stay in Boston to visit family, they gave their house and car keys to him, and asked if he would bring in the mail and start their Buick to make sure the heat didn’t drain the battery. Michael decided he would do better than that; he’d drive the Buick to the Newark Airport, charging the battery all the way.

  The Greens also provided Michael with the financial means to pursue his still unknown enemies. The money from Karen’s insurance had been deposited into a savings account and Michael had close to three-thousand dollars in his checking, but Michael knew as soon as he made any withdrawals, it would alert the police to his location and they would be on his trail.

  Michael remembered seeing an envelope in the Greens’ mail with a Delaware return address and the hard outline of a credit card inside. Before his departure, he raced into the Green’s kitchen and found the letter in the middle of the neat pile of mail he assembled on the counter. He tore it open to find two freshly minted American Express platinum cards. Quickly, he picked up the telephone and called the activation number.

  “Welcome to the American Express activation line. Please enter your fifteen-digit credit card number.”

  Michael entered the number and waited for the next instruction, hoping it wouldn’t be a request for the maiden name of Green’s mother.

  “Now, please enter your five-digit zip code.”

  Relieved, Michael complied and was informed that his credit card was now activated. He hung up, walked into the den, and turned on the computer.

  Michael googled Sammy Finn.

  It seemed Sammy moved up since Samoa. Instead of basing his retail operations in one of Samoa’s rundown neighborhoods, now he made and sold his jewelry in Molokai, Hawaii. Perhaps he had first-hand knowledge of what transpired in Samoa and shared in the profits, which confirmed Michael’s decision to make Sammy his first target.

  Ready to get moving, Michael headed to the garage, started the Buick, and backed out into the driveway, only to slam on the brakes. The credit card would do him little good at the airport without a corresponding I.D. Although Jim Green and Michael were far from look-a-likes, a poor passport photo might support his deception. He shoved the transmission into park, left the motor running, and ran back into the house with sweat dripping down his face.

  He knew the couple traveled to Paris last year. Somewhere in that house Jim had to have a passport. Michael rummaged through his desk without any luck, but hit the jackpot in a small leather box in the top drawer of his neighbor’s dresser. Before returning to the car, he went back into the kitchen and decided to take and later dispose of all the old mail. If the police entered the house, why tell them the couple was out of town?

  Back in the Buick, Michael made sure to close the garage door. Then, he headed to Route No. 72, where Karen met her end. That road, where he lost the best part of his life, would lead him to the Garden State Parkway, Newark Airport, and the beginning of his flight for vengeance.

  Driving north up the Garden State Parkway at three thirty-six A.M., Michael Bloom was on his way to becoming a fugitive. He would be wanted as a person of interest in his wife’s murder. Eventually, charges would be filed for the theft of his neighbor’s car, as well as credit card and identity fraud.

  ***

  At five-thirty in the morning, they assembled behind LBI’s modest police headquarters with six local squad cars and two state police cruisers. In thirty minutes, sixteen officers would descend on the Bloom residence, secure the house as a crime scene, and bring Dr. Bloom in for questioning.

  Under the best scenario, their tough questioning would extract a confession from Bloom and the case would be turned over to the District Attorney. Bloom would be transferred to the state penitentiary and that would be that. Chief Warren, Officer Kiley, and state police detective Kite would brief the press

  For Warren and Kiley, the real satisfaction would come from the boost to their reputations. Instead of being viewed as beach traffic cops, the public would learn of their capabilities to perform complex police work and secure arrests for serious crimes. While neither man wanted a steady diet of such cases, they foresaw at least one easy pay raise as a result of their increased status.

  At five fifty-five, with Chief Warren in the lead, the parade of police cars quietly moved into position. The Chief and Officer Kiley climbed the porch stairs to Bloom’s front door, knocked forcefully, and heard no response. Officer Kiley spotted an open living room window. He walked over to it, pushed it and the screen up, and stepped inside. Standing in the middle of the living room, he called for Dr. Bloom, thinking their suspect might still be asleep.

  Again, he heard no response and opened the front and rear doors, letting in the rest of the team. With guns drawn, a room-to-room search yielded nothing.

  Warren, Kiley, and Kite met on the front lawn to adjust their strategy.

  “So someone tipped him off and our bird has flown the coup,” Kite observed.

  “I don’t think so,” Kiley countered. “We’ve had him under light surveillance since Monday. Unmarked cars rode by each day to make sure he’s around. They spotted him at home. No unusual movements.

  “Maybe he couldn’t sleep and took a walk on the beach or maybe he’s visiting someone. He still has a closet full of clothes and I saw his razor in the medicine cabinet. My guess is he’ll come strolling up this walk before the morning’s done.”

  “Fine,” Kite said. “Let’s rope off the area, begin our forensic te
sts, and post a sentry to spot him if he returns. If he comes home, we’ll bring him in for interrogation. If we don’t see him by five o’clock this evening, I want you to issue an alert.

  “I know the guy’s rental car is in his driveway and it looks like he’s still around, but we might be dealing with a clever character. After all, if you hadn’t examined the underside of the car when you did, the accident-heart attack theory might have been accepted without further verification.

  THE BEGINING

  May 27, 2001 – June 1, 2001

  CHAPTER 8

  THE WAY BACK

  May 27, 2001

  Ellicott City, MD

  Michael approached the stairway to the family room below. The lights were on; she would be waiting. He hesitated and started down.

  Awake since three forty-five A.M., he had yet to see her. In spite of his fatigue, Michael’s six-foot frame, crisp khakis, and blue-and-white checkered sports shirt conveyed a sense of energy.

  He spotted her halfway down the staircase, sitting on the couch, knees under her chin, arms wrapped around her legs. Cinnamon, their Yellow Lab, snuggled against her.

  No matter how desperate things got, Michael found her alluring. The blond hair, soft blue eyes, and trim figure were as inviting as ever.

  He reached the family room and stopped, a laptop suspended from his left hand, a briefcase from his right. His luggage, loaded the night before, waited in the car.

  Michael aimed his intense blue eyes at the woman who had been his partner for so long.

  “Honey, you didn’t have to get up. Go back to bed and I’ll call when I arrive in American Samoa. Everything will be fine. My itinerary’s on the kitchen counter. I’ll be back in two weeks and we can focus on us again.”

  She didn’t move, looking past him.

  “When you return, we’re going to sit down and talk about our future,” she told him. “I don’t think I want to live with you anymore.”

  Tears fell from her eyes. Her left hand found its way to Cinnamon’s head and she began rubbing their pal.

  Her words crushed his confidence, creating a painful space in the pit of his stomach, but it was too late, they had gone over it a hundred times.

  “I love you,” he said.

  Then, he walked out into the garage, got in the car, and drove away.

  ***

  Michael sat in an aisle seat of a DC-10 headed for Honolulu. He remembered Thursday night’s dinner on their covered front porch. Karen’s words refused to leave him.

  “How can you risk your health and our future? I researched American Samoa this afternoon. Damn it, Samoa’s water is polluted with animal urine. There are no real medical facilities. There are drug-crazed hoodlums known to slit the throats of visitors who wander into the wrong neighborhoods. What are you thinking? If something happens, if you wreck your only daughter’s wedding, I’ll never forgive you.”

  For several years Michael suppressed the realization that all was not well with their marriage. For long stretches, Karen seemed bored with life, just going through the motions. At times he would have to argue just to get her to go out with him. Once out, she would remain silent for the entire evening.

  Karen’s job as a high school psychologist kept her working late at night, so involved in student problems she had no emotions left for their life as a couple. When Michael complained, she delivered long recitations con-cerning the sad state of her students’ lives and how only she had the chance to make things right.

  Michael’s strategy centered on working toward retirement. Once they could leave their careers behind, they would renew their passion. Now, it looked as if their marriage wouldn’t survive that long. He told her that government economists traveled to Samoa for years with no problems, but she refused to listen.

  The pressure of her threat, the exhaustion brought on by sleepless nights, and the worry about the public hearings he would administer in Samoa was too much weight. In the air or airport terminals for more than eleven hours, he was completely drained.

  Needing to escape, he called for a flight attendant and ordered a double. He poured the vodka from both bottles into his glass and gulped it down.

  CHAPTER 9

  ARRIVAL

  May 29, 2001

  Pago Pago, American Samoa

  After a one-night layover in Honolulu and a five-hour flight on Hawaiian Airlines, the captain announced their arrival in Pago Pago. The plane banked to the right and Michael looked past his neighbor and out the window. The bright sun made it easy to see the Island’s silhouette against the Pacific. Steep, green mountains ringed the Island of Tutuila diving directly into the sea.

  The plane hit the runway, bounced once, and continued until the pilot slowed down and pulled to a stop near the terminal building. Hundreds of Samoans ringed the one-story structure, low and poorly maintained. With only two flights from Honolulu per week, the planes were filled to capacity. A beehive of activity met travelers outside the terminal. Each averaged three or four greeters.

  Pulling down his briefcase and laptop from the overhead compartment, Michael got in line, waiting to leave the plane. The way he saw it, he had a two-week assignment to raise the wages and standard of living of many of the Island’s inhabitants. He would make all that he could of the opportunity to improve their lives.

  Once off the plane, he followed the line into the terminal. It had a strong musty odor. Passengers crowded into an area the size of half a football field. Customs officials examined passports and luggage near three metal detectors and tables at one end; airport personnel unloaded and stacked bags at the other.

  Travelers formed a line to pick up their belongings and proceed to customs. The lucky few who had carry-ons only, moved directly to customs and exited to the throng waiting outside.

  After twenty minutes, Michael spotted his luggage, made his way to the receiving point, and got in line for customs.

  “Quite a system they have here.”

  Michael turned in the direction of the voice and saw a short, portly man dressed in linen slacks and a white Hawaiian shirt decorated with tan flowers.

  “I guess with just two flights per week, it’s tough for them to handle the crowds,” Michael said.

  “Don’t kid yourself. These birds make the same mistakes over and over. They never learn. They insist on being quaint and obsolete.”

  Michael held out his hand and introduced himself. He added that he was on-Island to administer hearings on the minimum wage.

  “Malo, I’m George Partain, an investigator working with the U.S. Attorney’s Office in Hawaii.”

  George looked-up at Michael, tall with an athletic build and a full head of well-groomed, thick brown hair. He could have been a retired athlete.

  “Well, I assume you’re familiar with the Billy Hay case,” Partain said. “I’ve got a contract with the Justice Department to help with the prosecution.”

  Michael knew the case. Hay, a Chinese businessman, had built a textile plant in Samoa and imported Cambodian labor to run the factory. As with tuna, the owners schemed to get out from under U.S. tariffs imposed on foreign exporters. By shipping the goods from Samoa, an American Territory, millions of dollars in tariff charges could be avoided.

  A similar effort in the Northern Mariana Islands made millions for the Chinese owners of garment factories erected there, but the textile scheme in Samoa ran into trouble. Workers reported to the Samoa Press they were being held as slaves and not paid the required minimum wage of two dollars and sixty-cents an hour.

  The Labor Department’s Wage and Hour Division sent two investigators, but before they completed their initial study, one Cambodian had been stabbed in the eye by a plant supervisor and another drowned not far from the plant. That brought the U.S. Attorney’s Office into the case.

  “I heard Hay’s in custody in Honolulu,” Michael said.

  Partain wiped a thin layer of sweat from his brow.

  “Yeah, the son-of-a-bitch will never see the light of day
. By the way, Michael, any chance you’re a golfer?”

  “Sure. There’s supposed to be a pretty good course on the Island.”

  Partain rubbed his hands together and projected a crafty smile.

  “I’m organizing a game on Thursday afternoon. Any chance you could join us?”

  Michael didn’t know what to make of this little man, but it comforted him to know Partain worked for the right side in the Hay debacle.

  “That sounds like a plan,” Michael said. “Just give me a call at the Parrot and Porpoise Lodge, let me know the details, and I’ll be there.”

  As soon as the customs official saw Michael’s federal I.D., the rest of the process was a breeze. Released, he waved to Partain, who retreated to another section of the terminal. Michael walked outside into the crowd of men, women, and children waiting for their loved ones.

  CHAPTER 10

  RECEPTION

  May 29, 2001

  Pago Pago, American Samoa

  Organized chaos came to mind as hundreds of Samoans clamored about, searching for family or friends. Little girls sold flower necklaces placed on arriving passengers as a sign of affection. These people didn’t look like the child abusers and thugs described by several reports Michael read.

  He moved his luggage to the curb and waited to see if anyone in the crowd was there for him. After five minutes, he decided to look for a cab.

  Michael was still searching for a taxi when he heard a faint, high-pitched voice from behind asking if he was Dr. Bloom.

  “I am,” he answered, not seeing to whom he was speaking.