Black Ghost

by Freddie Villacci Jr

  She reached out to shake on it. Bic hesitated for a second, then lunged past her hand and hugged her so tight he was afraid he might have hurt or scared her.

  He’d learn soon enough that Chandra didn’t hurt or scare easily.

  “This place isn’t so bad.” Chandra said. “We just need to do what the lady says, okay?”

  The gate attendant called for boarding, interrupting his reminiscence, and Bic boarded the plane, still thinking of Chandra as he watched the two children embark. He would have to put her out of his mind for the time being. She was the kindest, most caring and gentlest person he had ever known…

  She had no place where he was going.

  13

  Don’t Stop Believing played in the bar, to a chorus of half-drunk patrons joining in. Forty-five minutes after the dart game, the four FBI agents were gathered around a high-top table, ignoring the festivities, focused on talking to each other.

  “Okay, so we catch this bottom dwelling drug dealer named Skinny P on the same day he’s needed as a key witness for the Benedetto trial.” Moretto sipped at the beginning of the group’s third round.

  “That was a huge drug ring case,” Mack said. “I remember seeing it in the news every day.” He noticed Caroline growing uncomfortable, her expression pained. Sure, Moretto was a chatterbox, and maybe these margaritas were a little potent. But at least she could feign interest in the name of camaraderie.

  “Yeah,” said Moretto. “Big-time. So anyway, we got this guy, and we were both excited. We cut it so close we had to bring him directly to the courthouse to testify. TJ just happened to conveniently have his favorite suit in the trunk. So, he convinces me to let him change into his suit at a gas station.”

  Moretto took another swig of his drink, belched weakly, and continued. “So, we’re driving to the courthouse. TJ has the sun visor down, and he’s fixing his curls like he’s getting ready to walk down the red carpet at the Oscars. Then we get there, and I’m telling you there had to be a hundred reporters waiting for us. A hundred. Cameramen from all the major networks are there, live.

  “TJ looks me dead in the eye and says, ‘Let me walk him in.’ ‘Sure,’ I say, knowing the camera adds ten pounds, right? So, he springs out of the car and gets this crab and starts hustling him into the courthouse. As they’re walking, TJ’s directly behind him with the guy’s hands cuffed behind his back. All of a sudden, for no reason, Skinny P grabs TJ’s coat sleeve and falls to the ground, like dead weight.” Moretto’s voice broke off to sloppy, hysterical laughter. “When—when he fell, he tore the whole sleeve of TJ’s jacket off. The cameras started flashing and there was Mr. GQ over here for his first model shoot, missing one arm of his jacket.”

  Everyone laughed—though Caroline less so.

  He paused to compose himself. “So yeah, cameras were flashing everywhere, plus video, and TJ’s so pissed he just yanks the guy back up by his collar and marches him in. But Skinny P gets the last laugh. The next day on the front page of the LA Times, there’s this picture of TJ with his sleeve missing from his jacket.”

  “Wait,” said Mack. “I think I remember that!”

  TJ grinned as he raised his glass. “Here’s to unintended fame. Sometimes we have to take what we can get.”

  After the laughter died down, Moretto looked over the rim of his glass directly at Caroline. “Too bad it was all for nothing, huh, Agent Foxx? The biggest drug dealer in LA got off on a technicality.”

  “My dad was just doing his job,” Caroline shot back.

  “What would you call someone who, if paid enough money, would help bad people get away with any crime they committed. I’d call them a lowlife scum-sucking parasite!”

  Caroline popped out of her seat and her drink went sailing to the side. “Say one more thing about my father, and I’ll kick you so hard they’ll have to surgically remove your nuts from your throat.” The drink smashed on the floor.

  Moretto smirked calmly, unfazed by the tense situation. “Well, if you don’t like my story, why don’t you tell us one? Like how the hell you got Bender to assign you to this case?” Moretto turned his head and coughed the word “blowjob” out into his hand.

  Caroline’s face glowed hot red.

  TJ interjected holding up a hand. “Alright, Moretto, that’s enough. Easy does it. Please don’t take him too seriously, agent Foxx. This is just like Sunday dinner at his house. He and his siblings argue like cats and dogs about anything. He’s from a messed-up situation. That’s just what they do.” There was only one thing Mack could say that would diffuse the bomb. “Actually, I slept with Bender’s assistant.”

  Moretto slapped the table triumphantly. “I knew someone was banging someone.”

  “It doesn’t matter how we got on. What matters is stopping the next murder from happening,” Caroline said calmly, burning into Mack with her green eyes.

  Moretto leaned in. “Slow your roll. Right now, we’re all in wait-and-see mode.”

  “Wait-and-see mode? What’s that? Your personal slogan?”

  TJ responded, “With no evidence at the scene, no motive, and very few leads, we don’t have much choice.”

  “What about Bubba Taylor?” Mack asked.

  “It’s a dead end, kids, trust me,” said Moretto. Even if we could waterboard that bottom-feeding turd, he won’t say a word.” He slunk off his chair. “I gotta take a squirt. Willingness to take things past words shows you got some cojones. I like that. Just make sure you think before you act. Some people hit back twice as hard.”

  14

  Mack trailed behind Caroline as they walked through the crowded parking lot.

  Mack stopped her. “What the hell was that with Moretto back there?”

  “He’s a pig. Just leave it alone.”

  “Nah, nah. It’s more than that. There’s obviously some bad blood between you two. Is it because of your father? If it helps, you know I don’t judge you for something your dad did.”

  “What if I did the same thing he did, but even worse? How ‘bout then? Would you judge me?”

  He paused. “I’d try to see it from your point of view.”

  “Gee, thanks. And where the hell do you get off telling them about you and Alexis?”

  “I had to say something. He accused you of—" he cut himself off to lower his voice. “Of blowing someone to get the job.”

  “Playing my white knight doesn’t do me any favors”

  “Are you serious? Did you hear yourself in there? If I hadn’t stepped in, I think you might have tried to dropkick Moretto. Look. I just defused a tense situation. What’s wrong with that?”

  “I don’t need you to. I can take care of myself. Besides,” Caroline jumped to a more pressing thought, “Those bozos are just sitting on their hands.”

  “Cut them some slack, will you? They just got started; they need something to go on.”

  “Like what, another body? Is that what we do now? Take our time until someone else is murdered?” Before Mack could respond, she added, “I can’t let that happen, not again.”

  “You’re acting crazy.”

  “No, crazy is waiting for a murder to happen as a clue to stop a murder.”

  “Whatever you’re thinking of doing will get us tossed off this case,” Mack said sternly. He caught something in Caroline’s steely determined gaze. “While we’re on the subject, what are you thinking of doing?”

  “Bubba Taylor’s hiding something,” Caroline responded. “We need to find out what.” She looked back toward the bar entrance. “How did they not find one lead from Taylor? Did they even listen to that conversation with Bryson? Incompetent buffoons.”

  Mack ran a hand through his hair. “Why don’t we brainstorm this? Figure out our next move?”

  “Not tonight. It’ll be an early morning,” she said, pulling out her phone. “I’m calling a cab.”

  “Let me give you a ride.”

  “No, I’m good,” she answered
flatly, walking away.

  15

  Waves crashed softly in the distance, as the surf lapped against the beach, calming, rhythmic, and peaceful in the cloudless night. Caroline stood in the Malibu beach house driveway for several minutes, thinking, letting the scent of the ocean fill her with every breath. The glistening moonlight, illuminating the beautiful homes, felt like it was shining a mocking spotlight on her romantic life as she considered the reasons she was once again surrendering to this.

  This wasn’t who she was; this wasn’t where she should be. Ashton represented a distraction from the darkest time in her life, only since last night it had the reverse effect. Not since she saw those two men, beaten, dead… so like little—

  No, Caroline thought. She couldn’t dwell on that, on her. She needed to make things better.

  Seeing Ashton was a terrible idea. These ultra-successful CEO types only longed to gather, gain, and hoard. How could she think this was good for her? And yet the guilt galvanized her, too. Preventing further murders helped mitigate the guilt—but the stress was already getting in the way. Was he just using her, or was she just using him? Did it even matter? She needed this.

  She let herself in and found Ashton working at his dining room table, his papers spread all over. He was so focused he hadn’t even heard the door open or felt her eyes on him.

  Finally, tired of being ignored, she said, “You should lock your doors. Lots of naughty people out there.”

  “What are you doing here?” he asked coldly, barely looking up.

  His callous indifference stung; she covered it with an excuse. “I left my necklace here last night.”

  Caroline walked past him, giving Ashton a sideways glimpse of her body. “I have to finish this up,” he said. “But if you’re here for more than your necklace, you know where to go.”

  She sat half-naked in Ashton’s playroom, lacing up leather boots with ridiculous six-inch heels, when she balked—she needed to say no to this. Things were too complicated. The need to deal with her guilt sexually was strong, almost compulsive, but there had to be a better way. Honest healing over catharsis? Could affection win over desire? She looked around the room, at the S&M gear in every corner, and realized she was just another one of these toys to Ashton. Was that the type of woman she was, just a toy for a powerful man? Something to use then throw away, like…

  And suddenly Caroline’s mind was made up.

  Ashton walked into the room with his shirt already unbuttoned and hanging open while his fingers worked the clasp on his belt. “I only have a moment before I have to get back to the launch reports, but—” His face fell as he found Caroline dressed in her work clothes, slipping her shoes back on, and his excitement quickly turned to disappointment.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “I don’t want this anymore. I have to go,” she said, pushing past him.

  Ashton appeared surprised by her actions, but just as she had expected, he didn’t try to stop her. He was too self-involved to care about anything but himself—and too weak to fight for what wasn’t given to him freely.

  16

  Phil Utah, a twenty-six-year veteran with the DEA, grumbled and spat as he surveyed the small rental house. Two men—hired guns, not law enforcement—flanked him. Both of them were former military and, like so many of the private contractors Utah hired, perfectly comfortable with wet-work. Utah’s piercing blue eyes, alternating between binoculars and plain sight, missed nothing.

  A strongly-built man with a long weather-beaten face and bushy brown mustache, Utah fumed at how badly things were going. Today was the day the bill was going to be passed, and he had been promised enough money to do whatever he wanted once that happened. All he had to do was be Congressman John Tidwell’s muscle. As John had explained it to him three years ago, he would be dealing with powerful underworld types to get this deal done, and he needed Utah to show these men he couldn’t be pushed around. The work sounded straightforward, if not easy. And it was, at first. But things started growing complicated fast as Utah had been called upon to put out more and more fires.

  Like this hacker the late Senator Gary Bryson had hired, who was now blackmailing Tidwell. But this was the least of Utah’s worries. He knew, thanks to an informant, that the Russians had ‘cleaning’ crews in place should Tidwell’s deal go south—as it was looking like it might. These crews were instructed to kill, not just Utah and his partners, but also the families of everyone involved. It was typical Russian mob mentality to pursue a scorched earth policy and kill everyone.

  He wondered if killing Tidwell himself would placate the Russians. If so, he would do the bastard at the first chance and go back to his day job running the San Diego DEA field office. But until then, he had no choice but to obey. Too much money had been sunk into this. No matter how crazy this plan became, he would see it through.

  Utah signaled the two armed men to approach the house when he spied the hacker through the large living room window. The kid was on his couch playing some shoot-’em-up video game on a large flat screen TV. Idiotic ass, thought Utah. He probably thinks this is all a game.

  Utah ducked down out of sight. “I’ll go through the back door.” Pointing to one of the men, he said, “You catch him if he goes through the front.” Pointing to the other, he said, “You be our eyes.” Utah inserted his radio earpiece and started to move in.

  Jacobson continued to play his video game, oblivious to Utah or his men. Suddenly the game froze and Jacobson tossed the controller onto the coffee table, yelling “Piece of junk!”

  He leaned down from the ratty beige couch to the coffee table and snorted a line of coke next to his laptop and the desk clock he had taken from Tidwell’s office. As he rose, he caught a glimpse of the man looking through the bay window.

  Jacobson dropped instantly to the floor. He crawled quickly to the back door, but froze when he saw the doorknob turning. Now in survival mode, the kid ran back through the living room, then up the stairs to the second floor. At the top of the stairs, he stopped and turned, nearly panicking—his laptop!

  He ran back down the stairs as Utah and the other two men entered the house. Grabbing his laptop, Jacobson sprinted back up the stairs, praying that he hadn’t been seen. And praying the drop from the second story wasn’t an ankle-breaker.

  Thirty minutes later, Jacobson exited a public city bus, walked up to an old pay phone, and made a call.

  A male voice answered. “Yeah?”

  “I hear you’re the man who likes to put politicians out of business.”

  “That I am,” the man replied.

  “Well then,” said the hacker, “I’ve got something for you that will bring the whole effin’ house down.”

  17

  Caroline wiped sweat from the Mississippi humidity off the back of her neck as she scoffed inwardly at the lavishly decorated living room of Bubba Taylor’s antebellum mansion. It confirmed her suspicions: political lobbying was a legal racket, plain and simple.

  “Tell me,” said Taylor, “how you folks enjoying beautiful Natchez, Mississippi?”

  “It’s beautiful alright,” said Mack.

  Sometimes Caroline swore that Mack could start a friendly conversation with anyone. She was sure that if he was being mugged, he’d end up in the bar having a drink with the mugger instead. Of course, then Mack’d bust him, but still…

  “You folks wanna see somethin’, you come down to the river bluffs at dusk. You ain’t seen a sunset till you seen a Mississippi River sunset.”

  Caroline was growing tired of the travel pitch, so she interrupted Mack’s and Bubba’s pleasantries. “We’d like to chat with you, if you don’t mind, about your relationship with Gary Bryson.”

  “Well,” said Taylor, easing himself into a fat, leather chair, “I already spoke with a whole slew of officers and agents. Hell, everyone and their grandmother has been by to see me.”

  “Then two more shouldn’t be a p
roblem,” said Caroline coolly.

  Taylor sighed, “Alright, Agent... Foxx, is it? What can I do ya for?”

  “For one thing, you were the last person he spoke with.”

  Taylor shook his head slowly, as if denying a memory. “Shame. I helped the man get elected, twice. Lord knows when we’ll get another friend of the people back in office. Politics is so infected lately, it’ll be hard to replace what he could do for those of us who care about America.”

  “The day he died, you told investigators you didn’t know why he called you,” said Mack.

  “Sure enough didn’t.”

  “Why do you think he called you?”

  Mack leaned back, watching Taylor’s expression carefully, cataloging each little twitch of the eye or pursing of the lips.

  Taylor shrugged. “To complain about something. He was a very nervous man.”

  “So, what did the two of you talk about?”

  Bubba smiled as he steepled his fingers in front of his chin. “I can’t say I rightly recall, Agent.”

  “Interesting. Personally, I would remember the conversation if a US senator called me. Wouldn’t you Mack? Yeah, I thought so. Are you sure you can’t recall anything, Mr. Taylor?”

  “Baseball. We talked about Baseball.”

  Caroline lowered her head. “Baseball.”

  “Mmm hm. I’m positive we talked ball. Any other questions?”

  Mack, satisfied he had Bubba’s measure, cleared his throat. “We’ve discovered a number of financial irregularities involving you and the Senator.”

  Taylor held up a hand. “I know where you’re going with this and I’m gonna hafta stop you there. You can discuss anything else you like on that front with my attorney.” He sipped his iced tea.

  Caroline pushed on. “Before the senator was murdered, you told the police he was on his way to see his attorney. You also said you advised him not to do that, why?”