The Auctioneer

by D. J. Williams

  D.J. Williams

  THE AUCTIONEER

  First published by Forgotten Stories, LLC 2019

  Copyright © 2019 by D.J. Williams

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Any references to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity, and are used fictitiously. All other names, characters and places, and all dialogue and incidents portrayed in this book are the product of the author’s imagination.

  Cover Design by Nick Castle

  First edition

  This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

  Find out more at reedsy.com

  To the greatest auctioneer of all-time, and an even better friend,

  Mitchell D. Kruse

  Contents

  Acknowledgement

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  FORTY-TWO

  FORTY-THREE

  FORTY-FOUR

  FORTY-FIVE

  FORTY-SIX

  FORTY-SEVEN

  FORTY-EIGHT

  FORTY-NINE

  FIFTY

  FIFTY-ONE

  FIFTY-TWO

  FIFTY-THREE

  FIFTY-FOUR

  FIFTY-FIVE

  FIFTY-SIX

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  FIFTY-NINE

  SIXTY

  SIXTY-ONE

  SIXTY-TWO

  SIXTY-THREE

  SIXTY-FOUR

  SIXTY-FIVE

  SIXTY-SIX

  SIXTY-SEVEN

  SIXTY-EIGHT

  SIXTY-NINE

  SEVENTY

  SEVENTY-ONE

  SEVENTY-TWO

  SEVENTY-THREE

  SEVENTY-FOUR

  SEVENTY-FIVE

  SEVENTY-SIX

  SEVENTY-SEVEN

  SEVENTY-EIGHT

  SEVENTY-NINE

  EIGHTY

  EIGHTY-ONE

  EIGHTY-TWO

  EIGHTY-THREE

  EIGHTY-FOUR

  EIGHTY-FIVE

  EIGHTY-SIX

  EIGHTY-SEVEN

  EIGHTY-EIGHT

  EIGHTY-NINE

  NINETY

  NINETY-ONE

  NINETY-TWO

  About the Author

  Also by D.J. Williams

  Acknowledgement

  The road to publishing The Auctioneer has been one with unexpected twists and turns, some of which caused by the characters themselves. Along the way, there have been those who have encouraged me to keep pressing on toward the finish line.

  First and foremost, my deepest thanks to my wife, who has always seen the best in me.

  My dear friend, Mitch, who not only offered his valuable insight into the auction world, but has been an example of how to live a life that changes those around him. Of course, I know a big influence has come from his wife, Susan. So, thank you, Susan!

  I couldn’t write another word without also thanking John and Kerry, whose friendship has meant so much, and whose laughter is always contagious. John, I did my best to channel your wit and humor within these pages. Hopefully, you’ll find it in there somewhere.

  Brent and Ingrid, thank you for your friendship over all these years, and for going the extra mile on my crazy adventures. Like a fine wine, we’re not getting older, we’re vintage!

  Scott and Terri, Uncle Bob and Aunt Kathy, Aunt Ginger, and my brother from another mother, Hector — thank you for loving me the way I am. Of course, we’re all going to hear from Scott how I didn’t name the hero after him, but that’s a burden we’ll have to carry.

  My friends across the pond — Dani & Michelle, Thomas & Emelda, the Beacon Hill and HKIS crew — your friendship and support are so deeply valued. You continue to inspire me in unique ways.

  Nick and Kris for your expertise on the design and publicity for the book. Your creativity, talent, and expertise are much appreciated.

  To those who have taken a chance on reading one of my novels. Thank you for inspiring me to keep the faith and share the stories that swirl in my imagination.

  Finally, I’d like to honor those who served and are serving in the military, the ones who have protected the freedoms we oftentimes take for granted each and every day. We will never know the sacrifices you have made on our behalf. In honor of these great American heroes, proceeds from each book sold will be donated to the Wounded Warrior Project.

  What I’ve learned along this journey is that friendships in life are the greatest gift, whether you’re facing adversity or standing on the mountaintop. And those friendships rooted in loyalty, and filled with laughter, are the ones I will always treasure as I search for the next epic story. My hope is that The Auctioneer will not only entertain, and keep you on the edge of your seat, but move you to find those long lasting friendships in your own life.

  ONE

  A Gulfstream taxied down the runway at McCarran airport with a flight crew consisting of a pilot, co-pilot, flight attendant, and one passenger — Michael Hardeman. On any other trip, he’d be surrounded by an entourage, but this was no ordinary venture. Michael was no longer campaigning for the presidency, and he wasn’t hustling to close the next deal. But with any luck, he’d bought his way into a bid on a legendary treasure lost to a ghost.

  He ran his fingers through his signature mop of greying hair, loosened his tie, and swallowed a shot of whiskey. The jet’s momentum pressed him back in his seat as the wheels lifted off the runway. Once the craft was airborne, Michael, surrounded by custom leather, mahogany, and soft light, glanced out at the Vegas strip below then leaned back and closed his eyes.

  Almost home.

  Once they reached cruising altitude, he breathed easier and thought of all he’d kept hidden from his son. Too much, really. For reasons only a father could understand. But soon he’d tell his son everything. With a whirlwind trip behind him, he dozed off to the hum of the engines.

  He jerked as the flight attendant squeezed his shoulder to wake him. The cabin was pitch black, and he could barely see the woman in front of him.

  “Mr. Hardeman, there’s a mechanical issue.” Her voice shook. “Please secure your seatbelt.”

  He watched the flight attendant’s shadow slide into the seat across from him, followed by the click of a seatbelt, the only sound he could hear. He gripped the armrest tight as the jet pitched forward and pressure in the cabin grew heavy. His heart raced as they lost more altitude, followed b
y turbulence that rattled the cabin and shook the Gulfstream violently.

  Another jolt.

  There had to be something he could do. Michael unlatched his belt, grabbed the seat in front of him and pulled himself down the aisle toward the cockpit. With each step, the jet grew increasingly unstable. Still, no sound from the engines. The situation in the cockpit was even graver. All instrument panel lights were off, and there was nothing but a black void out the cockpit windows.

  “We’ve lost all power!” the captain shouted. “Buckle up, sir. We’re going down fast.”

  The captain and co-captain struggled to gain control as the jet continued on a downward course, causing the cabin to shake with greater force as the plane’s speed increased.

  Michael fumbled for his cell, surprised to see it was turned off and wouldn’t power back on. As he stumbled back to his seat the cell slipped from his fingers. Turbulence rocked the aircraft, sending the jet into a nose dive. For several seconds his body hung in mid-air before slamming into the side of the cabin. Dazed, he struggled to crawl across the floor toward the flight attendant a million miles away, still buckled in tight.

  Some say your entire life flashes before your eyes the instant before you die, but for Michael Hardeman there was only one moment — the day his son was born.

  TWO

  After twenty-four years of unconditional love, followed by two weeks of disbelief, I stood beside a fresh mound of dirt wondering if I’d been a good son.

  A relentless downpour hovered over Forest Lawn Memorial Park as the cold shivered bones of the living and dead. I closed my eyes, whispered a prayer, and tugged on the strings of my hoodie as the pounding intensified, allowing the rain to wash over me. For a moment, the pain of the present faded and the sins of the past was uprooted. Slowly, I breathed in the finality of death, then exhaled a piece of my soul, stolen far too soon.

  A salty-haired stranger in a plain suit, beside a car with government issued plates, hunched beneath an umbrella that did little to protect him from the deluge. He stepped forward, retrieved a billfold from his coat, and flipped it open to reveal an ID.

  “Chase Hardeman? I’m Special Agent Vaughn. I’m sorry for your loss.”

  My eyes glared. “Talk to my lawyer.”

  “It’s important that we speak off the record.”

  I stood stone faced as he continued.

  “Tallyrand. Tomorrow, three o’clock. It’ll be your only chance.”

  I brushed past, climbed into an Escalade, and tried to control the pounding in my chest. I started the engine, punched the accelerator, and kept my eyes on the rearview until Special Agent Vaughn disappeared behind a sheet of rain.

  This gloomy February afternoon answered Angelenos’ prayers against an endless drought. Yet when the heavens opened, so did the mouths of all who cursed the gridlock traffic across the Southland. On most days, I’d join in the four-letter conversation, but today no words were strong enough to unleash a wave of rage that crushed my spirit. I’d never stood face to face with Agent Vaughn, but I’d seen his name on the search warrant.

  I drove along the backlot of Warner Brothers, tapping on the steering wheel to the new Sheeran single, so deep in thought I nearly missed the turn at Barham. My mind was a million miles away, stuck on repeat from the night of the crash. I’d left the office twenty minutes before the Feds raided the place, on my way to Kingston Peak – the crash site. Flashing lights of the San Bernardino Fire and Sheriff departments, as well as a half dozen black SUVs with blue lights in the rear windows, lit up the place.

  In one night, what I loved most was taken from me — my only flesh and blood.

  Not being at the office when the raid occurred left my imagination running wild. All I could envision were dozens of agents bursting into Hardeman Auctions, minutes after news of the plane crash splashed across social media and prime time networks. We’d been under investigation before, but never by the Feds.

  With the crash and the raid happening simultaneously, I couldn’t help but think of secrets about the family business Dad kept from me. There was a laundry list of possibilities for why the Feds seized boxes of corporate financials. Two weeks had passed, and I’d yet to narrow it down to what they were trying to find.

  In Dad’s prime, he was a powerhouse in the political arena before his legendary rise in the auction world. He’d always kept one step ahead – until that night.

  Steering the wheel with my knee, I texted: THE CAVE. 15 MIN. Then I dialed Laney.

  “Hi, babe,” she answered. “I’m on my way to Yamashiro’s.”

  “Something’s come up that can’t wait.” From the silence, it was clear she was disappointed. Tonight we were celebrating our six-month anniversary — dating not marriage. “I need to handle something with Dax.”

  “Chase, I’m worried about you. You need to take some time.”

  “Not ‘til I know we’re in the clear.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s just business, that’s all.”

  “Will I see you later tonight?” The lack of hope in her voice told me what she thought about my plans far more than her words.

  I knew what that meant, but the clock was ticking. “We’ll grab breakfast.”

  “And then you’ll tell me what’s going on?”

  “Sure.” I checked my watch. 5:48 PM. “Laney, I gotta go.”

  I turned onto Franklin headed toward North Gardner.

  I wasn’t lying to Laney, but I hadn’t told her the truth either. She knew what the world knew from cable news, which wasn’t much.

  On February 12th at 10:37 PM, Michael Hardeman, former presidential candidate, previous Indiana governor and founder of Hardeman Auctions, died in a plane crash near Kingston Peak. NTSB has yet to provide further details. However, sources have confirmed the FBI has launched an investigation into the family’s auction business. When reached for comment, the Bureau refused to discuss any active investigations.

  Vaughn was coming after me; I’d seen it in his eyes at the cemetery. And the best way to bring me down would be to go after those closest to me. Lying to Laney was easier than I wanted to admit, but it was a necessity.

  I pulled into an alley behind what was once Harmony Studios, a mecca for music royalty, now an abandoned building guarded by a chain-linked fence. Dax referred to it as The Cave, and the name stuck. The property was purchased when Hardeman Auctions was at its peak. Three hundred million in annual revenue from our A-list clientele, most of whom preferred the privacy of buying and selling collectibles and antiquities through our services than public displays that showcased their war chests. At the time, I thought it was odd that Dad paid cash for the property and filed the title under a Nevada corporation. He said it was part of our contingency plan.

  A nondescript moving truck idled in the alley. Dax sat behind the wheel. Best friends since the age of four, we grew up in the fields of Connersville, chased the dreams of Hoosier legends, and fought in the trenches in Afghanistan and Iraq. We weren’t blood. But we were brothers, bonded by life and war. The secrets we shared, and the ghosts we fought, were one in the same.

  I rolled down my window. “All set?”

  “Locked and loaded.”

  I parked the Escalade in the lot, padlocked the gate, climbed into the passenger seat, then turned to Dax. “We get one shot.”

  “We better drain the three.” Dax inched the truck forward. “What’d you tell Laney?”

  “Nothing.”

  “She didn’t ask any questions?”

  I shook my head.

  Dax sighed. “Women have an eighth sense. She knows you’re up to something.”

  “First of all, there are only five senses.”

  “Exactly my point. That’s why they know —”

  “Second of all,” I interrupted, “she’s not like the others.”

  “Dude, you met her in a club, and you’ve known her what – three weeks?”

  “Six months.” Dax never trusted the wome
n who shared my bed. “Forget about Laney, we gotta stay focused on closing the deal tonight.”

  The truck rumbled down Sunset, a clunky noise compared to the super-charged racers at the Brickyard. As an eight year old, I spent countless days with Dad at the Indy track, and watched him pour millions of the family fortune into Hardeman Racing. Compared to the high-stakes auction business, bankrolling a racing team was an even deeper money pit. But nothing was more thrilling than feeling the energy rumble through a hundred thousand spectators as Indy cars screamed down the straightaway at over two hundred miles per hour. Standing near the finish line on the last lap? That was as addicting as watching Dad auction the famed Renaldt Royale Bessler for a world record price.

  Dad taught me the nuance of competition, charisma, and curiosity in a world where one bad deal cost millions. Still, no one plants his flag on the summit forever.

  During my tour in Afghanistan and Iraq, discipline to achieve the mission was the priority. I was proud to serve my country, but I wasn’t born to be boots on the ground. I was born to be a deal maker, like Dad, and to live out the Hardeman mantra: Live fast. Love hard. Leave ‘em wanting more. Play the roulette wheel of life. Tap the blackjack table on fourteen.

  Dad promised to deliver the rarest collectibles to the most powerful in society – even when he didn’t know how the hell he was going to pull it off. It was the genius to his success, and the madness to a downward spiral we’d faced the last few years.

  To avoid further conversation about Laney, I shut my eyes. Dax had a point, and he reminded me of it nearly every hour. I’d closed the deal in my mind that first night when I watched her glide across the room. Was it love at first sight? I don’t know. But she was stunning. Tight mini-skirt. V-neck top. We talked for hours, a welcome escape from an underlying fear Dad’s next deal would leave me inheriting a business that was bankrupt.

  Since the crash, Hardeman Auctions didn’t mean as much. I’d lost Dad, forever. And still the nightmare wasn’t over. The Feds were after something within the company, and if I wasn’t careful, I’d find myself pacing a six-foot cell in San Quentin.

  Dax grinded through the gears, jolting me back to the present. A security guard stepped out from his post as we approached the arched gateway of Bel-Air Estates. Wearing an oversized raincoat, he motioned for Dax to roll down his window.