“Thanks for doing so, Ms. Bradley.”
It would be some time before Lotello could fully process all this. He would keep it to himself until he did. Perhaps longer.
CHAPTER 142
Friday, September 18, 6:00 p.m.
LOTELLO WAS ABOUT TO leave to meet Klein for dinner. They had shared several meals in the past few weeks, since his release from the hospital. Each one at a popular D.C. restaurant. This was the first dinner Klein had offered to prepare. Her idea. She had said to dress casually.
He had offered to make the salad. He’d picked up the ingredients and a nice bottle of wine on the way home from an earlier meeting. He had been in a coat and tie for that meeting. He wanted to shower and change his clothes.
Lotello was anxious. One of the things he had done right after getting out of the hospital was to visit Klein. To apologize again for using her in his scheme to unhinge and ferret out Hollister and Thomas. Getting her to subpoena them to the Norman trial without an established evidentiary basis to do so.
Hollister and Thomas were not Boy Scouts. He wasn’t going to shake them up with tea and cookies. He needed those subpoenas to get their attention. He had taken advantage of Klein’s trust. When he didn’t come up with the goods before she had to rest her defense case, it damaged her standing with Brooks. Not a good thing to have done.
While Klein’s ire seemed to be thawing, as evidenced by tonight’s invitation, Lotello was still just a little nervous about the evening. He was getting some last-minute advice from his most devoted advisor. “You’re looking pretty good, Daddy. And you smell nice, too. I like her, Daddy. She’s very nice. And very cool. Don’t forget to get her some flowers. Ladies like it when guys remember to do that. And it’s okay if you don’t make curfew.”
“Thanks, honey bun. I know you and Charlie will hold down the fort with Elena while I’m gone.” Charlie had finished his homework. Or so he said. And was playing computer games. He knew where their dad was going, too. Although he pretended he didn’t.
As Lotello drove through the Friday evening traffic en route to Klein’s home, his mind wandered back to the reason for his coat and tie that afternoon. His meeting with Judge Brooks.
Lotello hadn’t really expected to meet with Brooks again. It was Brooks’s doing. Of course, matters involving Brooks usually were Brooks’s doing.
Lotello had received a call from Brooks’s clerk requesting one of those command performance meetings. This one was called for Brooks’s chambers. Lotello was prompt. In his own special way, Brooks had apologized to Lotello for getting him involved in the case in the way he had. Brooks said he had been very upset about what had happened to Bernie Abrams. He professed that it had clouded his judgment.
This was one of the few times Lotello had disagreed with Brooks. “I appreciate what you say, Judge. But I’m not buying it for a minute. What it all comes down to is that we used each other. Without me, you might not have known where we needed to go. Without you, I couldn’t have gotten us there.” I’m honestly not so sure about that. But Brooks needs and deserves to feel less guilty about his actions. And what happened to me. I would take another bullet for this man. Well … maybe I would. If the circumstances called for it. And I was wearing a bulletproof vest. And it was a small-caliber gun.
Brooks hadn’t really responded. He seemed momentarily lost in his own thoughts. Lotello decided to take advantage of the slightly awkward silence. He hadn’t really intended to do it. But he unloaded the whole Ayres saga on Brooks.
Brooks just listened. He didn’t interrupt. He didn’t ask any questions. “What do you think we should do with this, Judge?”
“We? Do with what, Detective? You’re the investigator. Not me. But if you’re asking: Right now, ‘we’ have a lot of politicians worried about who may be next. If I were you, I’d be asking myself if I really wanted to let them know they don’t have anything to worry about any longer. That the real killer is dead. All anyone knows right now is that the authorities couldn’t convince the jury to convict Norman.”
Lotello thought about that. He knew Brooks wasn’t looking for his answer. Nor had he given Lotello time to formulate one.
“I’m glad to know you’re mending, Detective. I hope this won’t be the last time you and I run into one another. By the way, you ought to take notice of that Leah Klein. She’s a keeper. And I think she might just have an eye for you. Thanks for stopping by.”
That was it. Lotello was thinking of an appropriate comeback when Brooks started shuffling some papers on his desk. Their meeting was over. Lotello shut the door on the way out.
Lotello pulled up in front of Klein’s place. He had just one more base to cover first. It’s me, Beth. Things have pretty much settled down. The kids seem to be doing well. My shoulder’s healing. Really. Another week and my paid leave will be over. I’ll be back to the grind. Thankfully. But you know that. Oh, by the way, uh, about Leah. Uh, I hope you’re okay with this. You were first, Beth. You always will be.
* * *
BETH WAS FINE WITH IT.
CHAPTER 143
Monday, September 28, 7:00 p.m.
THE LATEST MEETING OF NoPoli, The National Organization for Political Integrity, was called to order. The first order of business was to acknowledge the graciousness of an anonymous benefactor who had contributed sufficient funds to underwrite NoPoli through the next round of national elections. The second order of business was the election of new officers. On motion made, seconded, and unanimously carried, Cliff Norman was elected honorary chairman of the board and Steve Kessler was elected chief executive officer.
In addition to Norman and Kessler, also elected to the board of directors were Cyrus Brooks, advisory chairman emeritus, Leah Klein, director of legal affairs, and Paige Norman, director at large.
When he was first approached about accepting this position, Brooks was concerned about how it might be perceived. A sitting judge to be on the NoPoli board of directors. He passionately wanted to do it. For Bernie Abrams. Ultimately, it was Eloise Brooks, in her simple, grounded, compelling wisdom, who persuaded her husband there would not be anything ethically inappropriate about this. So long as Brooks recused himself from any cases in which NoPoli might have an interest or might otherwise be involved. It also didn’t hurt matters any when the board decided that Bernie Abrams would posthumously be the first recipient of the annual NoPoli Medal of Honor. To be awarded each year to the person recognized as currently making the greatest contribution to the cause of exemplifying honorable public service. And eradicating political corruption and greed in the United States.
* * *
CLIFF NORMAN WAS GRADUALLY finding his way back to normal productivity. He had strategically determined not to reveal to anyone during the trial when he began recovering his mind. And had become fully aware of his original actions. Continuing to draw attention to political corruption in the U.S. in that fashion was then the only way he knew how. He now realizes there are much better, healthier ways to pursue this vital cause. He and Paige are back together, approaching their new lease on life. Working to build NoPoli with the same enthusiasm and skill they had brought to the table when they started their first family business together.
What goes around comes around. Cliff recently summed it up best: “You got us. Now we’re going to get you.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
WRITERS DO THEIR thing in what only can be described as a “lonely space,” especially in the case of those who are relatively new to it.
Fortunately, there are some exceptions. I’d like to thank a few of them, whose support means more to me than I can possibly express (writer that I nevertheless strive to be).
In no particular order, and with apologies to any I may inadvertently overlook:
The “other” writers—J.D. Barker, Sandra Brannan, Lee Child, Liv Constantine, Anthony Franze, Andrew Gross, Adam Hamdy, K.J. Howe, Barry Lancet, Jon Land, John Lescroart, Paul Levine, Jason Silverman, and Yigal Zur—the ones who alr
eady know how to do it. Read their books if you haven’t already done so, and you’ll see for yourself. Writing is an incredibly busy profession. For those who generously and graciously took the time out from their demanding schedules to read my manuscript and favor me with their praise and encouragement, and their fraternity, what could make a wannabe feel more grateful, and welcome? Not much.
The editors—formally David Corbett, Al Giannini, and Lisa Wolff, but others informally as well—who beat me up, over and over. And who put up with me when I resisted. But who through it all somehow make me a better writer. And this work a better story. (Hey, clipped sentences really are okay. Sometimes.)
The professionals—Keri Barnum, Amy Collins, everyone at Gander House Publishers (they know who they are), Eileen Lonergan, John Lotte, Jeffrey Michelson, Jaye Rochon, and Gwyn Snider—have all helped me to get my message out there and to make sure this book actually looks like a book, inside and out, and that you’d know this story exists, and how and where to find it, and why you just might want to read it, and to assure that my website and social media platforms are worth visiting. And dear Eileen, one of the most devoted and supportive of all, who, doggonit, left us way too soon.
And finally, but not really finally, all the members of my family, who have provided me with their very own special kind of sustenance. Barbie—I call her the Goose, tit for tat, when I’m not calling her The Wife—who has egged me on when I needed eggs, and who has done lots of stuff no one else wanted to do, including me. Gregg, The Brother, who is always supportive and has been from my earliest days, before I ever dreamed of being a writer. And Mark, the Son, who can do anything he chooses to do, and do it well, and who never ceases to amaze his mom and dad. Who props up my computer and my writing whenever needed.
AUTHOR NOTE
THANK YOU FOR reading THE PUPPET MASTER. I hope you enjoyed it. If you did, I think you’ll also enjoy two more in the Brooks/Lotello series, THE AMENDMENT KILLER, on sale now wherever books are sold, and PAYBACK, sequel to THE AMENDMENT KILLER, due out in Fall 2019 or Spring 2020. Pick your “poison,” hardcover, trade paperback, ebook or audiobook. Hopefully titillating samples of these two additional novels appear for your reading pleasure at the end of this work.
If you are not yet among my growing reader community who have already done so, please sign up for my newsletter at www.ronaldsbarak.com to learn everything exciting about … me (well at least my writing), including when and where my books can be purchased. Hey, what’s another occasional email in your Inbox?
If you did enjoy THE PUPPET MASTER, I will be eternally grateful if you will spread the word however you can. Please tell a friend, or ten, and post a brief online review. It’s easy, and fun. Honest. Simple instructions on how to post online reviews can be found at www.ronaldsbarak.com/how-to-leave-an-online-review. Besides growing my fan base, it will impress my family and friends, who wonder why I do all this.
Thanks for connecting, and for all your support.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
RON BARAK, Olympic athlete, law school honors graduate, experienced courtroom lawyer, is uniquely qualified to write this suspenseful novel that will appeal to all political and legal thriller aficionados. Ron and his wife, Barbie, and the four-legged members of their family reside in Pacific Palisades, California.
To learn about preorder availability, new book launches and limited time
discounts, please connect with and follow Ron by visiting:
www.bookbub.com/authors/ronald-s-barak
www.ronaldsbarak.com
www.facebook.com/ronaldsbarak
www.twitter.com/@RonBarakAuthor
www.instagram.com@RonBarakAuthor
To book Ron to speak, please contact [email protected].
MORE … BROOKS AND LOTELLO
Want more of Brooks and Lotello?
Please check out the following sample scenes from
THE AMENDMENT KILLER, the next thriller adventure of Brooks and
Lotello, on sale now wherever books are sold, and PAYBACK, sequel
to THE AMENDMENT KILLER, due out in Fall 2019 or Spring 2020.
WE HAVE YOUR GRANDDAUGHTER. Here’s what you need to do.
Thomas T. Thomas III reviewed the language. Again. He closed the phone without hitting send. Yet.
He stared through high-powered binoculars from atop the wooded knoll. As always, the girl hit one perfect shot after another.
Cassie Webber. Age 11. He’d been tailing her for three months. It seemed longer.
She was chaperoned everywhere she went. Two-a-day practices before and after school. Her dad drove her in the morning. He watched her empty bucket after bucket and then dropped her off at school. Her mom picked her up after school, ferried her back to the practice range, and brought her home after daughter and coach finished. Mom and daughter sometimes ran errands on the way, but always together. Even on the occasional weekend outing to the mall or the movies, the girl was constantly in the company of family or friends. Having someone hovering over me all day would have driven me batshit.
His childhood had been different. When Thomas was her age, he walked to school on his own. And he lived a lot farther away than the girl. His daddy had never let his driver chauffeur him around. Wasn’t about to spoil him. Spare the rod, spoil the child. Didn’t spoil me that way either.
He kept telling himself patience was the key. But his confidence was waning. And then, suddenly, he’d caught a break. The girl’s routine had changed.
She started walking the few blocks between school and practice on her own. Dad dropped her off at morning practice and Mom met her at afternoon practice instead of school. Only a ten minute walk each way, but that was all the opening he needed.
Everything was finally in place. He would be able to make amends. He would not let them down.
This time.
She completed her morning regimen, unaware of Thomas’s eyes trained on her from his tree-lined vantage point. No doubt about it, he thought to himself. She was incredibly good. Driven. Determined.
And pretty.
Very pretty.
He relieved himself, thinking about her. A long time … coming. Haha! As the girl disappeared into the locker room, he trekked back down the hill, and climbed into the passenger side of the van. He returned the binoculars to their case. He removed the cell from his pocket, and checked the pending text one more time.
Moments later, the girl emerged from the locker room, golf bag exchanged for the backpack over her shoulders. She ambled down the winding pathway, waved to the uniformed watchman standing next to the guardhouse, and crossed through the buzzing security gate. She headed off to school.
Without taking his eyes off her, Thomas barked at the man sitting next to him. “Go.”
* * *
CASSIE LEFT THE PRACTICE RANGE, looking momentarily at the clock on her phone. School began at eight. She had plenty of time.
She strolled along the familiar middle-class neighborhood route to school, sticking to the tree-hugged, concrete sidewalk. Well-kept houses on modest-sized manicured lots, one after another, adorned both sides of the paved street that divided the opposing sidewalks.
Mouthing the words to the song streaming through her earbuds, she made a mental note of a few questions from her morning practice to ask Coach Bob that afternoon.
Using her ever present designer sunglasses—a gift from her grandparents—to block the sun’s glare, Cassie texted her best friend Madison:
Hey, BFF, meet u in cafeteria in 10. Out after 1st period to watch ur mom & my poppy in S Ct—how dope is that? 2 excited 4 words!
As she hit “Send,” she was startled by the sound of screeching tires. She looked up from her phone and saw a van skid to the curb a few houses ahead of her. A man in a hoodie jumped out and charged straight at her.
She froze for an instant, but then spun and raced back in the direction of the clubhouse. “Help! Help!! Someone help me!!!”
As she ran, she looked all aroun
d. No one. She saw no one. The guard kiosk was in sight, but still over a block away. Does he want to hurt me? Why? Why me?
Hearing the man gaining on her, she tried to speed up. If I can just get close enough to the gatehouse for someone to help me. She glanced back, shrieking at the top of her lungs, just as the man lunged. He knocked her to the ground, shattering her glasses in the process. “What do you want?! Leave me alone! Get off me!!!”
She saw him grappling with a large syringe. “No!” She screamed even louder, clawing and kicking him savagely—until she felt the sharp stab in the back of her neck. Then nothing.
* * *
THOMAS GLANCED AROUND to make sure there were no witnesses. He yanked the girl’s limp body and attached backpack into his arms. He stumbled to keep his balance. Her backpack opened and spilled its contents to the ground, a bunch of books and papers. Shit! Not so fucking easy. He hauled her to the back of the van. As if on cue, his accomplice, Joseph Haddad, opened the rear doors. Thomas managed to lift the girl up to Haddad, who pulled her into the cargo area. Thomas ran back and gathered up the books and papers from the sidewalk. He returned to the van and stuffed them in the backpack. He made sure its latch was now secure.
His breathing had become labored, but Thomas was more interested in the girl’s vitals than his own. He climbed into the van and checked her pulse. It was a little weak, but she seemed stable. He’d done his homework and opted for more of the drug than less. He wanted her out of sight as quickly as possible.
Thomas preferred to keep her alive. For now. Might help him control the grandfather. But if she ODs, so be it. Just a matter of time anyway.
He took stock of his wounds, acknowledged to himself how tough the brat was. He taped her mouth shut, placed a hood over her head, and handcuffed her to the inside of the van.
The Puppet Master Page 41