The Extortionist

by Vincent Zandri

  He stands.

  “Sorry you have to go through all this, Jobz,” he says. “But I thought you should know the truth.”

  I stand. “I’m sorry I took a shot at you earlier.”

  “No worries,” he says. “I might have done the same thing.”

  He steps into the houseboat’s kitchen. I follow.

  “Do yourself and your mom a favor,” he says. “Make sure she doesn’t instruct her lawyer to sign anything over to Tracy . . . Brit.”

  “I’m her power of attorney,” I say. “I’m guessing that’s why she’s being so kind to me.”

  He nods again, sadly.

  “Don’t let those pretty green eyes get to you, Jobz,” he says. “Stay strong.”

  “I’ll try,” I say. Then, “When push comes to shove, would you be willing to share your story in a court of law?”

  “What choice would I have?” he says. “My conscience wouldn’t allow it any other way.”

  He goes for the door. But before he gets to it, he hesitates and glances at me over his shoulder.

  “You know what the hell of it is?” he says, his hand on the doorknob.

  “No,” I say. “What’s the hell of it?”

  He inhales, exhales.

  “I still love her,” he says. “She stole from me, stabbed me in the back, and now it’s very possible she’s resorted to murder, and I still fucking love her.”

  For a time that seems forever, I just stare at him, and I can not only see the agony in his face, I can feel it in my own gut.

  “That’s the worst luck a man can have,” I say.

  “Isn’t that the truth, Jobz,” he says.

  He walks off into the night, a lonely, broken shadow of his former self.

  Pulling my cell phone from my pocket, I press stop on the voice record app I had triggered while Dave Barter was seated outside on the deck and I was retrieving the whiskey bottle.

  Sneaky? Yes.

  Smart? An even bigger yes.

  But a PI has to do what a PI has to do. I needed his testimony, and even though he agreed to testify in court, he might have told me to shove it, instead. I took a shot at him with my .45, after all. He also might have been angry with me for having sex with the love of his life tonight. He might have even tried to kill me. But then, he knew full well I was packing heat, so maybe he thought twice about it. You can’t trust anyone in my business. Correction, you don’t want to trust anyone.

  Pouring one more shot, I take it with me out onto the deck. I think about what Barter told me. About the money and fortunes she’s extorted from so many people. To say she’s a con woman is putting it mildly. To say she’s a femme fatale is way more accurate. I sip my drink. Under normal circumstances, the whiskey would make me feel better than reality says I should be feeling. Booze, it’s a palliative for a tortured soul. It’s also poison. A poison that takes its own sweet time to break you. But in the end, you will not be stronger in the broken places. You will be broken beyond repair, like a dry twig that’s been snapped in two. Tonight, the whiskey is just making me feel a hell of a lot worse. Still, I sip it like a man who can’t help but make love to his cheating honey. I hope for the best.

  Brit (I refuse to call her Tracy at this point), did the nasty with me tonight. I thought for certain she was into me. But she’s fooling me. She’s baiting me, like a spider that attracts the big fat fly into its web, so that she can sink her fangs into me, suck the blood from me, and get me to sign over my mother’s fortune to her. Turns out, she’s a regular Mata Hari. Did she really believe I would be capable of such a thing? I guess when you fall in love with someone, you’re capable of doing all sorts of stupid things. Like signing over your inheritance. I’ve seen pussy whipped men do worse things over the course of my life, and if I live long enough, I’ll see it happen again. I just never thought it could happen to me. I have one more date with Brit tomorrow night. My guess is, it won’t be as friendly as tonight’s date was.

  I down the whiskey. Miller told me not to drink too much tonight. Too late. But at least I can get to bed at a decent hour. Setting the empty glass in the sink, I climb the revolving staircase up to the bedroom loft, undress, and lie myself down on my futon. I stare up at the ceiling and feel the slight rocking motion of the houseboat under me. All I see is darkness. Come morning, I’ll see the light. God willing.

  I’m not sure what got into me overnight, but I’m up extra early the next morning, sans hangover. I toss on my running shorts, a t-shirt, and sneakers then head out for a run around the entire perimeter of the port parking lot. If you run it six times, it’s the equivalent of two miles, or so my neighbor, Dick Moonlight, tells me.

  It can also be peaceful. The sounds and toxic exhaust smells of the city are far removed down here. Instead, you hear gulls flying over the river and the occasional rumble of a tanker slowly making the journey to the Saint Lawrence Seaway. For Upstate New York, the port almost has the vibe and feel of a seaside community. Without the beauty, of course. It’s still Albany, after all. And Albany will never change.

  By the time I’ve covered two miles, I’m sweating up a storm. Outside on the narrow houseboat deck, I pump out one-hundred pushups and an equal number of crunches. For a brief second, I consider jumping into the river to wash off, but even if the Hudson is cleaner than it has been in decades, it’s still not that clean. So, I strip, take a quick shower, and throw on some clean khaki trousers, a light blue button down, and a navy-blue blazer. Since it’s very warm and sunny this morning, I forgo the tie and go for the casual look.

  By the time I’m out of the house and pulling up to the Loudonville Dunkin’ Donut, it’s going on eight o’clock. The school day will be starting and the ladies in the general office will welcome some fresh coffee and donuts. After all, this will be a very solemn day for the entire school. I don’t know this for a fact, but my guess is that much of the school day’s activities will be canceled while teachers take time out to pay their respects at Principal Simon’s wake.

  I order a dozen assorted donuts and three large coffees, set it all on the empty passenger seat and pay the boy behind the drive-thru window with a twenty, tell him to keep the change.

  “Thanks, Mister,” he says.

  Pulling away, I head toward the school along the pleasant, tree-lined road. Passing the front of the school, I notice the Stars and Stripes are flying at half-mast. No surprise there. There seems to be a sad quietness draping the school like a purple garment covering a casket. No surprise there, either.

  Driving around back, I find a free space and park. Naturally, this is no place for a firearm, so I leave my piece locked in the glove box. Getting out, I go around to the passenger side, grab the donuts and coffees, and make my way to the elementary school’s front entrance.

  I thumb the doorbell.

  “Yes, can I help you?” It’s the voice of Frumpy.

  “Hey there,” I say, “It’s Steve Jobz.”

  “Oh, hello, Mr. Jobz.”

  “I know today’s a hard day, but I need to ask you a few questions on behalf of the APD, and then I’ll be on my way.”

  Hesitation.

  “Can’t it wait?”

  “I’m afraid not,” I say. Then, in my happy voice, “I have donuts.”

  I smile because I know for a fact I’m being recorded on CCTV. The solid metal door’s mechanical bolt unlatches, and I let myself in. Glancing to my left as I enter, I notice the empty principal’s office and all the condolence flower bouquets stacked on the table beyond the office’s entrance. It’s the same table where that troublemaker kid was forced to sit after being sent to the principal’s office. I can still picture him winking at me. Just another silly kid with a crush on his principal. Can’t say I blamed him. Anita Simon was an attractive young woman, after all.

  Hooking a left into the general office, I set the coffees and donuts down on a file cabinet. Cute Brunette Chris is sitting at her desk near the back of the room, by the microphone and radio setup they n
o doubt use to announce the daily school bus arrivals. Frumpy is seated only a foot or two away from me. Her face is sullen. In fact, both their faces are sullen and sad. They are also dressed in their Sunday best. Or should I say, their best wake and funeral attire.

  Without asking them, I distribute the coffees. I also crack the lid on the third coffee and take a sip.

  “I know this is a hard day, ladies,” I say. “But I need to ask a few questions then I’ll be out of your hair.”

  Cute Brunette Chris forces a smile.

  “Whatever you need to know, Mr. Jobz,” she says, “Dorothy and I are willing to cooperate.”

  “Yes,” Frumpy Dorothy says. “We wanna see the son of a bitch who did this to Anita hang by his balls.”

  She’s referring to the perp as a man. Interesting. Taking a step forward, I casually seat myself on the corner of Frumpy Dorothy ’s desk, my right foot planted on the floor and my left leg dangling off the side. I steal another sip of coffee.

  “Do any of you ladies know if Anita had any real enemies?” I ask.

  I glance at Cute Brunette Chris. She eyeballs Frumpy Dorothy. Frumpy Dorothy eyeballs her back in return. After a time, both of them shake their heads.

  “Anita was the sweetest lady on earth,” Frumpy Dorothy says, her voice trembling like she’s about to break out in tears at any moment. “I don’t see how anyone could be her enemy. She was that sweet.”

  I glance at Cute Brunette Chris.

  “What she said,” she agreed.

  I nod.

  “Have there been any strange people coming around lately? Delivery people, maybe.”

  In my head, I’m seeing the ladies stacking boxes into their van after the Field’s Food Service tractor trailer had left the school grounds.

  Frumpy Dorothy shakes her head.

  “Nothing out of the ordinary,” she says. “We screen everyone pretty good. And with all the school shootings going on lately, the school is in constant lockdown even though we don’t officially report that it’s in lockdown.”

  Time to dig deeper.

  “As you know, we arrested the school lunch lady, Gladys Carter, on suspicion of Anita Simon’s murder only to find out she was actually Gladys’s daughter, Kyle. As you probably already know by now, Kyle has been cleared of all murder charges.”

  “What about the extortion charges?” Cute Brunette Chris jumps in.

  “APD is trying to make those stick,” I say. “There’s an issue with the CCTV footage. No face appears in the recordings. Probably because Kyle knew what she was doing.”

  Frumpy Dorothy rolls her eyes, like she’s cursing Kyle out in her head. Everyone takes a minute to sip their coffees.

  “You guys sure you don’t want a donut?” I say.

  “We’re not hungry, thanks,” Cute Brunette Chris says. “But help yourself.”

  “Don’t mind if I do,” I say.

  Opening the pink box, I choose a strawberry frosted, take a big bite out of it.

  “Keep eating like that and you’ll choke to death one day, Mr. Jobz,” Frumpy Dorothy says.

  “I know, I know,” I say. “My mother taught me better than that.”

  Suddenly, I think of my mother lying in her ICU bed, her body hooked up to all those life-support machines. My thoughts then shift to Brit, and from there, it shifts to the photo of these two women sitting here before me, along with Kyle Carter and a very alive Anita Simon. In my head, I see Brit snapping the picture. These women might be doing a decent job of playing the innocent game, but I’m about to catch them in a lie.

  But first, I pull out my cell phone.

  “Excuse me, ladies,” I say. “I think someone is texting me.”

  Of course, it’s a fib. It’s just my excuse to turn on the voice recording app. Something I probably should have done the moment I entered the office. Oh well, better late than never. I return the phone to my interior jacket pocket. Shoving the rest of the donut in my mouth, I wash all that sweet dough down with a generous swig of coffee.

  “Just one more question, ladies. I know you have a busy day ahead of you. A sad day.” Clearing my throat. “Now, do any of you know a woman by the name of Brit Boido?”

  A noticeable pall falls over the room. It’s almost like a significant portion of the oxygen has suddenly escaped and both women are unexpectedly finding it difficult to breathe. Cute Brunette Chris assumes a false smile.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I heard you might be acquainted with one another and that Ms. Boido also knew Anita Simon.”

  “Doesn’t ring a bell, Mr. Jobz,” Frumpy Dorothy says, standing. “Now, really, if you don’t mind, we have a school to run. Thank you very much for the refreshments.”

  I’ve got the lie I needed, so I’m no longer going to push it. But that doesn’t mean I’m not about to go in for the kill. As I’m heading for the door, I pull a Columbo by pressing my thumb against my forehead while using my free hand to pull out my cell phone. Going to the pictures app, I bring up the picture Brit Boido took of them seated around the kitchen table.

  “Jeepers,” I say, turning the phone around so that they can’t help but see the picture. “Are you sure you don’t know Brit Boido? Because I know for a fact, she’s the one who snapped this picture of you guys.”

  Cute Brunette Chris stands.

  “Please leave, Mr. Jobz,” she demands, “before we call security.”

  I hold up both hands like I’m surrendering. Then, shoving the phone back into my jacket pocket, I pull off my eyeglasses and put on my sunglasses. That’s when I get a look at the keyring on Frumpy Dorothy’s desk. It’s a got a Metabolic Meltdown keycard attached to it.

  “Metabolic Meltdown,” I say. “You like to work out, Dorothy?”

  “Chris and I both do,” she says. “What’s it to you, Mr. Jobz?”

  “Oh, nothing, I guess,” I say. Then, smiling. “Thanks for your time, ladies.”

  Exiting the school, I get the feeling these ladies don’t quite know just how snagged they are.

  Back in the Mustang, I dial Miller. First, I fill him in on my impromptu meeting with Dave Barter last night on my way back from the bar. Tell him all about Brit AKA Tracy Ferguson and how she extorted Barter’s father’s fortune then took off. How she’s cheated numerous elderly living facilities across this great land of ours. That is, if Barter’s telling the truth. But why lie about something like that? I skip the part about taking a shot at him with my gun.

  “She’s probably running the same racket now at Ann Lee Home,” Miller says, not without a sarcastic laugh.

  I then tell him about my morning meeting with Frumpy Dorothy and Cute Brunette Chris inside the Loudonville Elementary School general office. How they appeared to be sad and distraught over the loss of Anita Simon. Told him they denied ever hearing of a woman named, Brit Boido. But when I revealed the picture and announced I knew the photo was taken by Brit Boido, they got angry and kicked me out even after I’d brought them donuts and coffee. I also add, proudly, that I secretly recorded both interviews with the voice app on my smartphone.

  “Gee, you’re the consummate professional, Jobz,” Miller says.

  “I also couldn’t help but notice something else, Miller,” I go on.

  “What else?” he says.

  “They all belong to Metabolic Meltdown,” I say. “Brit, Dorothy, and Chris. I’m guessing Kyle and Anita did, too.”

  “Maybe it’s where they all got acquainted,” Miller says.

  “Makes sense to me,” I say. “Should I give Metabolic a call and check with them?”

  “Don’t bother,” he says. “What difference does it make where they all met at this point? All we need to know is that at one time, they were all on the same page.”

  In my head, I’m seeing Miller inside his Central Avenue office, his feet up on the desk, the ball knot on his tie loosened, and his shirt sleeves rolled up. He might have a couple fingers of whiskey going in a toothbrush glass if it weren’t so early in
the morning. More than likely, he has a couple of powdered donuts set out on a paper napkin and a large coffee beside them. Cops have their standards, after all.

  “The other morning, I saw Dorothy and Chris loading a van with Field’s Food Service boxes,” I say.

  “I recall you telling me that,” Miller says.

  “I’m starting to put two and two together,” I explain, “in light of Barter’s testimony.”

  “It’s looking pretty obvious that what started out as a sweet old lady stealing the kids lunch money has turned into major league extortion and a black market profits racket.”

  “Exactly,” I agree. “They weren’t loading a van with Field’s Food boxes filled with school records or kid’s papers. They’re reselling the school’s food on the black market while stealing the kids’ money.” The lightbulb goes off over my head. “Shit, I bet they were laundering their black market profits through the school register. No wonder Anita Simon accused Mrs. Carter, or Kyle, I should say, of stealing upward of a half a mil. Not all of that was school lunch money.”

  “And I can bet Brit is doing the same thing at Ann Lee Home. Maybe the whole gang is in on that action as well. Shit, Jobz, maybe they were laundering everything through Loudonville Elementary School.”

  “But why kill Anita?” I ask. “I know they had to be arguing over who was or who wasn’t skimming off the top, but why go so far as to commit a homicide?”

  “Who knows,” Miller says. “Maybe Anita was feeling a bad case of the guilts and wanted out. Or, like you said, maybe Kyle was skimming off the top. I think there’s a portion of the video that shows her personally pocketing a couple of big bills. Maybe as retaliation, Anita was threatening to go public with everything, and in turn, what does she do? She rats Kyle, AKA Gladys Carter, out.”

  “But Brit wasn’t buying into that action. Brit must have known if Anita talked, she was going down with the ship. Maybe that’s why she had no choice but to stab Anita to death with one of the school’s very own blades.”

  “If that’s what went down, Jobz. It’s still all speculation.”