Family Ties Mystery Series Box Set

by James Kipling

  Mrs. Warren sat. “How can I help you, Detective?”

  “We have the man responsible for your husband’s death. I wanted to make sure you knew.”

  “I heard through the grapevine,” she said. “But, it is gracious of you to make it official.”

  “Alexander knew the risks of being a security guard,” she said. “He knew…”

  “Very sorry for your loss, ma’am.”

  “Detective,” she said, “I know a lot of cops…ah…officers. Very few would go above and beyond like you. I am grateful.”

  “Just doing my job.” Clyde had a hard time looking at her.

  Mrs. Warren continued with the thanks for a while. When she took a breath, Clyde excused himself and left. I wish I deserved all that, he thought.

  As he drove off, he could see – in his mind – Mrs. Warren, taking care of her two children, alone. And he silently pledged to do more.

  ***

  The Bombardier Challenger touched down Teterboro Airport at noon. A gaggle of reporters and officials from the United Nations stood by the terminal door. Hassan Radha and his delegation from Kashmir came through the portal and made a beeline for an awaiting limousine. Questions flew like popping corn, but Hassan simply waved and followed his daughter into the backseat. A cordon of police officers interrupted the reporters’ charge.

  “What time is the news conference, Father?”

  “Thirteen hundred, my dear,” he said.

  “Will I have time today to see the city?”

  “A promise is a promise, Kitten. Just be careful. Do not get into any trouble.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  He stared out the window.

  “A penny for your thoughts,” Katrina said.

  “Listen to you,” he said, “Using western idioms.”

  “I have studied hard, Father. I want to stand on the world stage like you do.”

  “It’s not a glamorous life, child,” he said. “I am an old man and I have not come close to accomplishing what I want.”

  She thumped him playfully on the shoulder.

  “Fifty-six is not old,” she said. “Fifty is the new twenty.”

  “Tell that to my knees and my back,” he said.

  “Quit playing rugby and you will last longer,” she said.

  “What good is life if you stand on the side lines,” he said.

  Katrina smiled. “You are making my point for me.”

  He laughed. “You have always been too smart for your own good.”

  The silence did not last long.

  “Do you think you can bring about peace?” Katrina asked. India and Pakistan despise one another – have for a long, long time.

  “It is my fondest wish, daughter,” he said. “I have tried to be honest and open. Perhaps, this time, someone will listen.”

  Katrina stared out the window at the Manhattan skyline. Hassan appraised her as objectively as possible. She was stunning – and that was not a father’s opinion. She’d been what Americans call “a traffic stopper” since she was five. At 5’6”, she exhibited the grace of a gazelle. Witty and kind-hearted, her school work was exceptional. Her only flaw was her love of nice things.

  That’s my fault – I have spoiled her.

  Still, she was passionate about her father’s humanitarian causes, and spent a lot of her free time helping people all around the world. Someone who could have been naïve and flighty was informed and compassionate. Hassan was proud.

  She’d begged to come on the trip the minute it was announced. Her secret aspiration – not really a secret because she told everyone who seemed interested – was to become a fashion model – the next Noyonika Chaterjee. Radha had finally relented after tripling his security detail. Katrina was smart but not savvy – a place like the Big Apple was a potential minefield.

  “Father,” Katrina said, “When will you let me go out?”

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Katrina,” he said with an indulgent smile. “First we have to get to the hotel and see to the security, and then we will discuss your program.”

  “You promised to let me go to the fashion convention. Fashion Week is the biggest event of the year,” his daughter said. The whine was starting. He hated the whine.

  “And you will go, but only when I am sure that you will be safe.”

  “Thank you, Dad!” she said. She slid across the seat and planted a soft kiss on his cheek.

  “You are such a baby,” Hassan said, and smiled lovingly before he returned to the document he was reading.

  -4-

  On the fifth floor of The Hoover Building in Washington. DC, Special Agent Scott Ferguson looked at himself in the mirror, patted his slight beer belly, and grinned. Nice job, Chubs!

  Ten years…ten years for some recognition. His heavy frame made it hard to keep the weight off – and made people think he was lazy. The fat, lazy guy – that’s me.

  Scott scowled into the mirror. Lazy my ass.

  Born in Baltimore, he’d attended Maryland, then George Washington Law. He’d turned down several scrumptious offers with big firms and enrolled in the FBI Academy where he finished third in his class. I’d have been first – but they hadn’t looked at me and thought I was the fat, lazy guy.

  He looked at the mirror again and stuck out his tongue. Very mature, Special Agent.

  Once in the field, however, any doubts about his ability evaporated. He’d moved ups steadily, always hearing his father’s voice encouraging him to, “Climb that ladder as fast as you can, son.”

  It had been a good year. A very good year.

  He made a final adjustment to his tie as Alan Rupart came through the door.

  “Hello, Special Agent of the Year,” Rupart said.

  “There’s no such thing and you know it,” Scott said.

  “I know, man, but The Distinguished Service Award is tantamount to the same thing.”

  Scott waved the back of his hand in dismissal. “You stay around long enough, they have to give you something. And they sure aren’t going to hand me the keys to a Ferrari.”

  “Shut up, buddy. Let’s review. Six major arrests…three of them busting up terrorist attacks. You solved a murder that’s been on the books for eighteen months…and twenty other men and women were nominated for this thing, you know.”

  “Okay,” Scott said. “You convinced me. I am Agent of the Year…maybe the decade…maybe the century.”

  Alan laughed. “Shut up and get inside.”

  The ceremony went well. Accolades…a citation…a plaque…a speech…the usual FBI show. The audience responded well to his remarks. Afterwards, there was a nice – alcohol-free – reception and a few pictures with the Deputy Director and some other dignitaries.

  No one would ever publicize the award, but Scott’s fellow agents knew … and the bosses knew … and, most important, he knew.

  The Glenlivet went down smooth that evening.

  Life was good for Special Agent Scott Ferguson.

  ***

  Scott took the steps two at the time, impatient to see Alisa. She had surprised him with an unexpected invitation to a picnic in the house. Cheesy or not, Scott was excited by the idea of spending the whole evening with Alisa – alone.

  Alisa heard the knocking at the door and hurried to open it. Scott stood with a beautiful smile on his lips and a bottle of wine in his hand. She let him in, then closed and locked the door. Heavy curtains blocked the light from outside. She’d turned off her phone.

  Tonight was about Scott … about lust … about sex.

  Scott stood in the middle of the living room – perplexed.

  “Where’s the picnic?” he asked.

  Alisa smiled. She walked over, looked into his eyes, and ran a long finger over his face, his cheeks, his lips. Scott shuddered. Alisa took his hand, walking towards the stairs.

  The bedroom was bathed in soft light, muted by silk scarves draped over the lampshades
. The bed was covered in a single black, silk sheet. Near the bed, multiple dishes stood on a small table. A bottle of champagne was chilling in a bucket full of ice.

  “Do I smell barbeque?’ Scott asked.

  Alisa pushed him onto the bed and bent to remove his shoes and socks. Then, she started on his shirt, one tantalizingly slow button at a time. He’d never seen anyone take more time with a zipper, but finally, his pants slipped off his ankles.

  Lying in his boxers, Scott moved as Alisa’s hands instructed. She centered him on the bed with a pillow under his head. Alisa stripped with calculated movement – a choreographed tease – finally standing in front of him naked and glistening.

  He reached for her. She gently pushed his hand away.

  “What’s going on?’ he asked.

  “It’s a picnic, silly,” she answered.

  She picked up a piece of fruit and held it between her teeth. Bending over, she held the fruit just outside his mouth. When he moved toward it, she backed away until he was straining. Finally, she stopped her retreat and let him take it from her mouth. But, she was careful not to let his lips touch hers. She continued with more fruit of different varieties, each time making him work for them – and never letting him kiss her completely.

  She dipped a piece of pulled pork into a ramakin of sauce and placed it between her teeth. Scott began to lean forward, but she dropped the meat on his chest, directly on his right nipple. She repeated the process again…and again…building a trail from down his chest to his navel. She bent over and sucked a piece into her mouth. He heard a moan – was that her or me?

  It didn’t matter. Scott could barely breath. He reached for her again. She pushed him away – a little harder this time.

  “Don’t make me tie you up,” she said.

  She fed him a small piece of pineapple, then placed fruit all over his belly and down his legs. She took her time devouring her creation.

  “Turn over,” she commanded.

  She repeated the process on his hairless back – between the shoulder blades, all the way to the elastic band of his boxers. He felt her slip his underwear off. He could not help himself, he reached for his groin.

  “Bad boy,” she said, slapping his hand.

  The fruit disappeared, one agonizingly pleasurable morsel at a time. He could not see anything, but he could smell the pineapple as she munched it from his shoulders, the mango from the middle of his back, the orange slice from his waist, and the cherries from his butt cheeks. He pushed himself into the silk sheet, desperate for relief.

  She rolled him back over.

  “My, my,” she said. “You are a very big boy.”

  Her face was inches from his, but he did not want to break the spell. He did not move.

  Her tongue slipped across his lips and into his mouth. He had never felt such ecstasy. They kissed for several minutes, but his arms stayed at his sides, even when her breasts brushed across his chest, then across this face.

  He gasped for air.

  “What’s the main…main course,” he said.

  “Well, silly,” she said. “You are.”

  This time, there was not erotic dance, no tantalizing delay. Her head was between his legs, bobbing up and down in practiced precision. Scott breathed in shallow gasps.

  She looked at him. “Don’t even think about it, Mister,” she said. “If I don’t get mine, I am going to be pissed.”

  She continued her oral massage for several minutes, then mounted him in a single, quick movement.

  “Go,” she said, “And do not stop until I scream.”

  The shriek came three minutes later – after a fusillade of dirty talk and frantic thrusts.

  She collapsed on top of him, her tongue gently probing his mouth.

  They lay motionless for about a half hour. Slowly, they came back to the real world. Scott popped the cork on the champagne and they nibbled a little, drank a little, and kissed a lot.

  “So, this is a picnic at your house,” Scott said.

  “I thought you might like it,” she said.

  Scott kissed her on the forehead. “You have no idea,” he said.

  “Interested in a little dessert,” she asked. “I have ice cream in the freezer that’s just dying to make an appearance.”

  -5-

  Tango Cash was busy. Running a criminal enterprise took time.

  Today, it was time to collect.

  “Clarissa, baby, tell these stupid men what’s the best way to win a man,” he said. He spoke loudly – this was not intended as a private conversation. It was a performance.

  “Money and power, babe, money and power,” the young Africa-American girl said. She staggered a little.

  “Damn, girl,” Cash said. “A little early to be this high, ain’t it?”

  “Just a little tweak, baby. Gotta take the edge off, you know.”

  I know no junkie ho gonna be my bitch long, he thought. You fine and all – and a monster in the sack – but I don’t need nobody OD’ing on my ass.

  Clarissa was his fifth girlfriend in the past six months…or his ninth…or twelfth. He never bothered to count. He was easily bored, so he rolled through women like most guys changed underwear. This one, leggy and chocolate brown, had been with him about four days. She was already irritating – and using way too much product.

  “That is right, baby,” Tango said. He stopped on the sidewalk, grabbed her ass, and kissed her hungrily. She wasn’t the brightest bulb in the box, but the girl could suck some serious face.

  “Hello, Roland,” Tango said as he entered the neighborhood hardware store. “Where you at?”

  “Right here, Mr. Cash,” an older man said.

  “What’s with ‘Mr. Cash,’” Tango said. “Ain’t we friends?”

  “Friends don’t require protection money, Mr. Cash. But, here’s your five hundred – first of the month – like always.”

  “Good man, Roland,” Tango said tucking the money into his hip pocket. “I can always count on you.”

  “You can always count on my not wanting my store to catch on fire, Mr. Cash,” Roland said. He was smiling, but his voice carried no humor.

  Tango turned to his girl. “Clarissa, you see how my friends love me?” he asked.

  “Sure, baby,” she said. Then, in a lower voice. “Baby, you holdin’? I need a little something.”

  He slipped her a twenty. “You know I don’t carry, baby – ever.”

  As soon as they walked out, Roland closed the shop – just like he always did after one of Cash’s visits. He needed to go upstairs to his apartment – for a shower.

  Tango continued his rounds.

  “Tango.” It was Reggie. “Why we doin’ this, man? You scored big enough the other night to last us forever.”

  Cash whirled and slammed a forearm into Reggie’s throat. “Shut up, fool,” he said. “What I do or don’t do is my business – and only mine. You dig it?”

  “Sure…sure…ah…boss. Sorry.”

  Tango turned and strutted down the street. “Ain’t no big thing,” he said.

  He motioned for Crazy Eddie. The tall, muscular young man trotted to Tango’s side.

  Tango spoke in a low voice. “Reggie needs to disappear,” he said. “His mouth just wrote a check his ass is gonna have to cash. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I mean disappear – nothing floating in the Hudson tomorrow.”

  “Got it.”

  Crazy Eddie turned. Tango put a hand on his shoulder.

  “One more thing,” he said.

  “Yes, sir?”

  Tango jerked his head subtly toward Clarissa. “Make sure the bitch disappears with him. Girl’s a pain in my ass.”

  ***

  Tango was both feared and respected, and he maintained his empire with an iron fist. He was 6’2”, powerfully built, and ruthless. He’d started as a numbers runner, then spent time as a lookout. After that, arrests
and deaths created a lot of vacancies in the upper regions of the ‘hood’s food chain. Tango moved from small-time dealer to distributor, and now, boss. If Biggie K ever got out of prison, Tango would have a war on his hands, but the dude was serving consecutive life sentences. Tango wasn’t worried about the future.

  Everyone knew Tango – even the police. But, even though he was under-educated, Tango wasn’t stupid. He never got his hands dirty and he never told too many people anything. His path to incarceration almost always ran though only one person – and one person could always be eliminated. He paid his people twice the going rate – they were loyal. More importantly, they were afraid of him.

  He’d grown up in the Marcy Projects – he was not afraid of anything. And, he could spot a set-up or a sting operation from miles away.

  The evening news was the usual crap – murder, rape, terror, and stupidity from the white men in Washington. But, at the end of the broadcast, the blonde with the nice rack and the hair helmet said something interesting.

  “One final note,” she said in a voice just like those of every other person on television, “Hassan Radha, a diplomat from Kashmir, took a moment away from a United Nations Peace Summit to show his daughter the city today. Rumor has it that Katrina Radha is interested in working the fashion runway when she gets a little older. Looking at these pictures of the young woman modelling some clothes for the daddy, it won’t be long before you see her name in Vogue. Well, that’s it for our broadcast tonight. Stay tuned for Wheel of Fortune. Good night.”

  Tango picked up his phone, opened the browser, and Googled Hassan Radha.

  This dude is worth some serious coin.

  Tango’s practiced eye had noticed the security presence around Radha and his daughter. A plan started to form.

  “Jordy,” he said.

  “Yo.”

  “Your brother still working in that fancy hotel?”

  “Yeah,” Jordy said from his place at the poker table. “He works the elevator the fancy, rich assholes who can’t figure out which button to push.”

  “Good.”

  Tango pursed his lips and steepled his fingers. This one – this one can get me out of the business for good.