The Extortionist

by Vincent Zandri

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Epilogue

  About the Author

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  Show he presents also scares the man who is the definition of the word “tough.”

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  The Extortionist

  A Steve Jobz PI Thriller

  Vincent Zandri

  “All one great big lie.”

  ―Bernard Madoff

  What follows is based on a true story.

  She’s alone in the school building.

  While the sun descends on the entire North Albany suburban community, the principal of Loudonville Elementary sits at her desk, her laptop opened before her, her fingers typing out the quarterly report agonizing click by agonizing click. Under normal circumstances, she’d be seated at Lanie’s Bar drinking her first of several happy hour cocktails with her small clique of girlfriends. Instead, she’s working late to finish the report she must deliver to the Albany Public School Board at tomorrow night’s quarterly meeting.

  The report is set to fully expose the math behind the mammoth discrepancy in the cafeteria budget—an alarming discrepancy of more than five-hundred thousand missing dollars which accumulated over a five-year period. The board will be horrified to learn of such a huge number. But then, the members—all of them wealthy men and women of the community—will pretend to be shocked, even if they’ve known of the crime for days. Just last week she, as principal, made the executive decision to publicly accuse the Lunchroom Lady of extorting the five-hundred thousand. In turn, the Lunchroom Lady was fired on the spot . . . but not arrested. The accusation not only took everyone by surprise, it reduced some of the school’s students and faculty to tears.

  The principal plans to explain to the school board that while the Lunchroom Lady has yet to be arrested for stealing the school’s precious funds, an arrest appears imminent. Presently, however, not enough direct evidence has been gathered, despite the enormous amount of circumstantial evidence that surrounds the case. The Albany Police Department has agreed to assign a special investigator to look into the matter further.

  When one of the pricklier board members will undoubtedly ask the obvious question—how she could have allowed this crime to happen right under her own nose—she will simply tell him the truth.

  “No one in their right mind would suspect that sweet old Mrs. Carter could ever be capable of pulling off such a crime.”

  Because, after all, Gladys Carter is a beloved pillar of the grade school. During her five-year tenure as the Lunchroom Lady, she’s become the darling of the school’s many students as well as staff. Never without a smile or a kind word, or even a “No problem if you forgot your money, honey, you can pay whenever you have it.” Mrs. Carter not only brightens up the entire school’s day, she brightens their lives.

  Still, the facts remain: $500,000 is missing from the school’s cafeteria account, and the buck stops with Mrs. Gladys Carter, full stop. Doesn’t matter how nice and kind a human being she appears to be, she’ll have to pay for her transgressions. Pay to the tune of fifteen to life in a maximum-security prison.

  Her report completed; the principal presses the print icon on her laptop. Standing, she goes to a printer set on a table by her open office door. Outside her brightly lit office, the corridor is dark and cold. She wonders if the ghosts of the dead departed students roam the century old school’s halls and classrooms at night. Children who grew into adults, got old, and died. Or children who never made it out of their teenage years—suicides, murders, war casualties, victims of terminal diseases, victims of tragic accidents such as car wrecks, house fires, electrocutions. There were so many ways to suddenly die, it boggled the mind.

  While the printed pages slide into the black plastic receiving tray, she whispers, “Stop letting your imagination get the best of you. Just print your report, go home, and pop a cork. You deserve it after a day like today.”

  Grabbing the full twenty-page report, she hears a click echoing from out in the hall. Not a loud click, but a click, nonetheless. A click that reverberates inside the cavern like corridors. Like metal slapped against metal.

  She feels the start in her heart. Her stomach goes tight, and her brain fills with adrenaline.

  “Hello?” she calls out. “Is anyone there?”

  Another click. Louder this time. It steals her breath. She stands there, stone stiff, afraid to move.

  “Hello?!” the principal barks. “Is anyone out there?” she repeats.

  A third click—even louder than the first two. Then, the lights go out, and the world around her goes black. The report falls from her hand, the pages scatter onto the marble floor.

  “Who the hell is there?” the principal shouts once more.

  The shadow figure wraps its arm around her neck, plunges the knife deep into her stomach, two times, maybe. She doesn’t feel the stab
s, but she feels the singe that follows. It’s a hot, searing burn that engulfs her torso. Stunned, she takes a step or two back while blood pours from her fresh wounds.

  Then, the knife is plunged deep into her neck, not once, but three separate times. She tries to scream but her voice box and esophagus have been severed. Aware of the warm blood spurting out of her like a broken garden hose, she feels the blood filling her mouth and lungs. Dropping to her knees, she grabs at her neck as if it’s possible to plug the holes. But she knows stopping the bleeding is futile.

  Falling onto her face, atop the crimson stained pages of her report, all fear leaves her rapidly dying body.

  “Who are you?” she silently whispers. “Why did you kill me?”

  TWO DAYS EARLIER

  I’m sitting directly across from my mother at a round Formica finished table while she stares into her plate of stiff mashed potatoes, cut up green beans, and gray meatloaf soaked in an even grayer gravy. The sour expression on her face says she’s just been served fresh roadkill that’s been scraped off the macadam on Albany Shaker Road.

  “I refuse to eat this,” she says. “It’s not what I ordered. I ordered the porterhouse, a baked potato, asparagus with hollandaise sauce and a dirty martini—shaken not stirred.” Looking into my eyes. “This…this is something they wouldn’t serve in a Turkish prison.”

  I stare at my own plate. It’s the same meal. The Monday meatloaf special proudly served by the Latex-gloved and hair-netted kitchen staff of Ann Lee Assisted Living.

  “They don’t serve porterhouses here, Mom,” I remind her. “And they don’t serve dirty martinis either. Nothing shaken, nothing stirred, nothing alcoholic. Or, trust me, I’d be drinking it.”

  “Nonsense,” she insists. “I’ve been coming to this restaurant with your father for over thirty years, and I know the menu backward and forward.” She glances at her wrist like she’s wearing a watch. “And speaking of your father, he’s late. We have a plane to catch in a less than two hours. He’s always late. If we miss our flight to Palm Beach, I’ll never speak to him again. We’ve been planning this getaway for months.”

  Reluctantly, I pick up my fork and cut a small bit of meatloaf then shovel it into my mouth. It’s lukewarm, but it doesn’t taste all that bad. For institutional food, that is. To be honest, I’m not very hungry. It’s only five in the afternoon. A time when I’m usually bellied up to the bar with my boss and pal, Henrietta—Henry for short, downing my first Happy Hour beer. But lately, Meatloaf Monday has been reserved for dinner with Mom, whether she likes it or not. Correction, whether she knows it or not. Her memory isn’t quite what it used to be.

  “Dad died, Mom,” I say, immediately wishing I hadn’t. Why ruin my own rapidly aging mother’s hopeful delusion?

  “Who died?” she asks while staring into her food.

  Good! The chance I’ve been looking for to correct my stupid-ass-ness.

  “Nobody died, Mom,” I say.

  “Well, that’s a relief,” she says, not without a smile. “Because somebody always goes and dies right when your father and I are about to leave for a trip. It’s the most annoying thing.” She glances at her watch again, even though she’s not wearing a watch, but instead, a blue plastic, facility-provided, identification bracelet. It’s meant to provide identification, including blood type, should she ever find herself wandering the streets. “Where the heck is he? Why he always insists on staying late at the store when we have to catch a plane, I’ll never know. Sometimes, I think he loves Jobzcynski’s Pork Store more than me.”

  “Why don’t you eat something, Mom,” I say. “You still have plenty of time before you have to catch your plane. Plus, airplane food isn’t very good.”

  “Nonsense,” she says. “Your father and I fly first-class.”

  My mom’s not lying about the first-class part. She and my dad always flew first-class, back during a time when people dressed up for flying. My mother would wear a nice skirt and my father would wear a suit and tie. It was a different age, when men and women cared about their appearance. They took special pride in it. Not like now, when tattoos, ripped jeans, and man buns rule the day. Even tonight, my mother is wearing her best dress with a silver necklace and matching bracelets that belonged to her mother. Her gray hair was just coiffed by the facility beauty parlor and she’s wearing her face. That means she’s got her red lipstick and makeup on. On one hand, she looks good. But on the other, she’s getting way too thin. Scary thin. Like, not even one-hundred-ten pounds thin.

  She pushes her plate away. That’s the signal for me to set my fork and knife down on my plate. Sitting back in my chair, I exhale . . . what’s the word for it? . . . exasperatedly.

  “You’ve got to eat, Mom,” I say. “You need your strength.”

  “I’m not hungry,” she says. “You can have it. Besides, you’re a growing boy. You’re too skinny. You need all the food you can get. How is school? Are you passing all your subjects, Steven?”

  At least she knows my name today. Because, there have been too many times as of late she doesn’t even know who the hell I am.

  “Yup,” I say. “All As.”

  She bursts out laughing.

  “Steven, the day you get all As is the day I’ll sprout wings.”

  Okay, so I wasn’t the best student in the world. But think about the irony. My mother can’t remember that my father has been dead for ten years, yet she remembers what a loser I was in high school. Oh, the humanity.

  I make eye contact with one of the nurses. She nods while approaching the table. She’s a nice, young, brunette who wears a blue button down and tan slacks that fit her Gold’s Gym body rather snuggly. Or maybe she works out at Metabolic Meltdown, the new cross-fit gym that’s all the rage with the more body conscious Albany women. I try not to stare at deep brown eyes, her perfect nose that Michelangelo might have chiseled out of Italian marble, and those sultry lips. I’m guessing she isn’t even thirty yet. I’ll admit, I’ve developed a bit of a crush on her over the past few weeks since I’ve begun to attend Meatloaf Monday Night regularly.

  “What’s the matter, Mrs. Jobz,” she says, “are we not hungry?”

  “I have to catch a plane, Brit,” Mom answers.

  That’s the nurse’s name. Brit Boido. I love how it kind of rolls off the tongue in a percussive way. She bends at the knees, so she’s face to face with my mother.

  “Well, even if you need to catch a plane, you still need to keep up your strength, Mrs. Jobz,” Brit says in a voice that’s kinder and gentler than Snow White.

  “Take me back to my apartment,” my mother insists. “I need to fix my face a little more while I’m waiting for my husband. I want to look my best when we land in Palm Beach.”

  Brit gives me a look and nods like dinner’s over. Slowly, I stand, come around the table, and give my mother a kiss on the cheek.

  “See you later, Mom,” I say. “Love you.”

  “See you when we get back, Steven,” she says. “There’s plenty of food in the fridge and Aunt Marge will be checking in on you every day. Promise me you’ll at least try to study and stay away from those Love American Style reruns. You know how your father feels about that show.”

  “I promise, Mom.”

  Brit stands and takes her place behind my mother. She takes hold of the wheelchair handles and backs my mother out.

  Gazing at me, “I’ll be right back, Mr. Jobz.”

  Oh goody…

  As Brit begins to wheel my mother across the dining room to her first-floor apartment, my mother lifts her hand, as though she forgot to tell me something.

  “Oh, and Steven,” she says, “next time, don’t forget my cigarettes.”

  My mother quit smoking twenty years ago.

  “Okay, Mom,” I say. “I won’t forget. I’ll bring you a carton of Kools.”

  The two disappear down a connected, brightly lit corridor like they’re walking into the light.

  Minutes later, Brit meets me by the ma
in front facility desk where I’m in the process of signing out and returning my guest badge.

  “You have a quick minute, Mr. Jobz?” she asks with those puppy dog eyes that make me want to melt on the spot.

  My heart suddenly lifts.

  “Anything for you,” I say. It’s an automatic. Like my mouth isn’t connected to my brain.

  She offers a strange sort of smirk.

  “Very nice of you to say,” she says. “But in truth, I’m concerned about your mother.”

  Heart deflates.

  “She’s not doing great, is she?” I point out the obvious.

  “She’s losing weight, and her delusions are growing worse,” Brit points out. “Our semi-independent assisted living facility is perfectly capable of handling patients who can care somewhat for themselves in their own apartments, Mr. Jobz. But if your mom grows weak enough that she needs to be hospitalized and fed intravenously, she’ll have to be moved.”

  “Moved,” I mumble, my heart sinking further.

  Her smile has also turned into a frown. She’s still just as attractive, however.

  “It breaks my heart to tell you this, believe me,” she goes on. “Your mom is a gem, and it tears me up seeing her like this.”

  “Thanks for saying so, Brit,” I reply.

  “But if she won’t eat . . . if her loneliness is that profound, that ingrained, then there’s only one solution for her, and that’s placing her in a fully assisted living facility. She’d have to be monitored around the clock.”

  For a long beat, I consider what she’s just told me.

  “You know what my mom and dad would call senior living facilities, Brit?”

  She opens her eyes wide like she’s asking, so, what did they call them?

  “Senior dying facilities,” I say.

  Pursing her lips, she reaches out and gently places her hand on my forearm. Her touch sends a wave of warmth up my spine. My mother is slowly dying, and I’m falling for the young woman who is taking care of her. A young woman who could probably be my daughter. Correction. She could be my very younger sister.