Kiettisuk Jetjirawat smiled.
“Are you quite done with your little snit?” he asked. “Look around you. Do you see anyone on the grounds? Do you see your once efficient security team? There is no more Rossi Family, Jonathan.”
Rossi made no reply. He looked at Peter for support but saw none. He dropped his eyes to stare at his desk.
“Peter, help me,” Rossi pleaded, begging for the first time in his life.
“My name is Pietro, you pompous, vain fool,” was the reply, fully packed with the frustration of the years enduring Rossi’s arrogance.
“Pietro, please keep Jonathan here while Abdul and I take the necessary steps to pursue this plan.”
“Please watch him closely, Pietro,” Abdul added.
Steve Burgess had stayed out of sight as much as possible since the night of the failed assassination by the two Barons of Lucifer. He had left his cheap hotel only to get food and booze. It was Sunday afternoon. He didn’t think he could bear one more day staring at the dingy walls around him. It was time to take a chance.
Since he went into hiding he had stopped shaving and let his hair grow. With his shaggy, gray hair and matching whiskers, he thought he looked like just another San Francisco character. He was confident he wouldn’t be easily recognized.
He found a dimly lit bar not far from his hotel. There were only a few customers. He sat at the bar and ordered a shot of tequila. The bartender was talking to another customer. It felt good to hear men’s voices again.
After a second shot, he noticed the woman sitting alone at the far end of the bar. Probably a hooker. It had been a long time since he had been with a woman. Maybe it was time to risk that as well.
But then something the bartender said caught his ear. He ordered a third shot of tequila.
“Couldn’t help but hear what you were talking about,” Burgess said when the bartender was pouring the shot. “What was that about the Barons of Lucifer?”
“They’re wiped out,” the bartender answered. “Somebody hit them at their warehouse in Richmond. Killed every one there. Cleaned out everything in the warehouse. They even killed the Mad Dutchman, the gang’s leader. The word is they caught him naked in bed with some woman. Fully loaded but blown away before he could get a shot off.”
The bartender and Burgess both laughed at the joke.
Burgess thought that was good news. So much so that he ordered a fourth shot and told the bartender to pour one for himself.
“Here’s to the memory of the Mad Dutchman,” Burgess said, clinking glasses with the bartender.
With four shots of tequila under his belt, Burgess was feeling bold. He decided to stroll by the Nob Hill condo. He was curious how Marshall was faring with the little gift the former New Orleans cop had left for him. In his imagination, Marshall was suffering terribly. Maybe he was even dead by now. Burgess was ever hopeful.
By the time he reached the condo building he was puffing hard from the hike up the hill. Pausing for a few minutes to catch his breath, he used the time to look over the building. He saw nothing helpful.
He didn’t want to hang around the front of the building too long. Once his breathing returned to normal, he walked on. At the corner of the next intersection, there was a bench. He found an old newspaper in a nearby trash can. He sat on the bench, pretending to read the paper while he kept an eye on the building.
It was a good cover. Lots of people out on a nice Sunday afternoon. Burgess was certain he would attract no attention.
Upstairs Trent was also feeling a bit hemmed in. Since Darcey had discovered that ugly little bug attached to him he had not been working out. He was starting to miss the exercise.
There were no symptoms today. He felt good. He decided to go for a run. He changed into a tee shirt and shorts and put on his running shoes.
Burgess couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Trent Marshall came out of the building, ran up the hill toward Huntington Park.
Running! He was running! Burgess feared he would have a stroke. His brain might explode. He could not believe that Marshall showed no sign of illness. None.
He had no way of knowing the symptoms Trent had suffered or how serious his condition was. The doctors had said there would be good days and bad days. This was a good day. Burgess didn’t know that.
He went back to the bar. He spent the rest of the afternoon there, kicking back shot after shot of tequila. He wanted to be drunk. He wanted to drink the vision of a healthy Trent Marshall from his memory.
With the altered state of his inebriated brain, he decided he could wait no longer. Obviously the nasty little bug had failed to do its job. He would have to kill Marshall himself.
He still had the electronic keys he had forced Piper to give him. He could get onto the secured floor and into their condo. He had the French revolver he had taken from the dead biker. He could do it.
The only question in his besotted mind was when.
It was in the late afternoon by the time Darcey and Miles returned. Trent had showered after his run. He spent the rest of the afternoon in the kitchen. He had meatballs in a spicy tomato sauce with pasta ready for them.
Miles told them to go out on the terrace. It was cocktail hour.
“No, Miles,” Darcey said. “You can’t drink with the medications you’re taking. And it wouldn’t be fair for us to enjoy a cocktail if you can’t join us. That would be rude.”
“Girl, for once will you please do as you’re told?” Miles insisted. “I don’t intend to have a drink. But you’re doing so much for me. I don’t want to be any more disruptive to your life together than I have already been.”
“I’m not arguing,” Trent spoke up. “I’ll have bourbon on the rocks. You’ll find a bottle of Rebel Yell in the liquor cabinet.”
Darcey surrendered. “All right then. I’ll have the same.”
She thought Miles was going to be all right. It would take time. But he was going to survive.
Monday, August 8th
It was a day of appointments.
Harry Sherman was late for his. He wasn’t at the precinct at eight o’clock. He came in just as Christopher was ready to ask the captain’s permission to seek a warrant for his arrest. He looked like he hadn’t slept.
Christopher told Captain Albright about the conversation he had overheard the night before. At least Sherman’s part of the conversation. Sherman had mentioned Rossi’s name but apparently Rossi had little to say.
“Has this phone been dusted for prints?” Albright asked.
“Yes, Sir,” Christopher said. “I had that done as soon as I got in this morning. Only one set of prints. No doubt Sherman’s.”
Albright was feeling much better about himself since he had approved Christopher’s operation. He had turned his head a few times in his career but never did anything definitively illegal. He despised crooked cops, especially since he realized how close he had come to being one.
“So what are we going to do with you, Officer Sherman?” the captain pondered.
Sherman sat silently. Head down. Eyes on the floor.
“First, put your badge and gun on my desk. Now!” the captain ordered.
Sherman unclipped the holstered Model 1911. He laid it on the captain’s desk along with his badge.
“And the Glock in your ankle holster,” the observant Christopher added.
Sherman unwrapped the strap holding the holster on his lower leg. He added that to the pile on his desk.
“Maybe we’ll just do nothing,” the captain mused. “Just kick you off the force. I wouldn’t give a dime for your life if Rossi decides you’re of no more use to him.”
Sherman went pale. The captain was right. The crooked cop would be a dead former cop by the end of the day.
“You can’t do that, Captain,” Sherman pleaded.
“Of course I can. You’re a disgrace, Sherman. You took money to sell out your colleagues. You put every officer on the force in danger. I can set you up for Rossi to take out
and not lose a minute’s sleep over it. You disgust me.”
“I can help you, Captain,” Sherman rushed to offer, now in a panic. “I’ll turn state’s evidence. I can tell you a lot about Rossi’s operation. And about some of his partners.”
Albright said nothing. He stared at Sherman. Finally he spoke
“I’m not sure how much help you can be. We already know a lot more about them than either you or they realize. But it never hurts to have another witness,” he concluded. “Sergeant Booth, book this man into protective custody. We can hold him for a couple of days while we figure out what to do with him.”
Trent, Darcey, and Miles decided they would all go together. It was a day for friends to support each other.
They would begin at the funeral home at 9:30 as Miles arranged for Scott’s cremation. Scott was always insistent that he wanted no service. Perhaps only a few of their best friends gathering to toast his memory.
They decided to schedule the cremation for Thursday, August 11th. Miles asked Trent and Darcey to be there with him. He said he would then like to host a small gathering at the home he and Scott had shared, if the new furnishings were delivered by then. He would invite Mandy Rillard and Preston Johnson, the core of the group of friends, to toast Scott’s memory.
A few tears flowed when they discussed the timing and the process. But Miles held up well. He was showing more signs of recovery each day.
The day’s appointments started differently for Kiettisuk Jetjirawat and Abdul Rahman.
They agreed to meet at Abdul’s home. Each summoned their teams of attorneys. Pietro accompanied Kiettisuk Jetjirawat.
The attorneys were instructed to work around the clock to prepare the necessary paperwork to transfer all holdings of the Rossi family to a new partnership between Spitting Cobra and the Scourge.
Rossi had reluctantly provided detailed lists of properties owned directly under his name, that of his family, and those registered in the names of numerous interlocking holding companies. Ironically, the list included the old building south of the city once used as a casino and for prostitution, still occasionally used for smuggling, and most recently the scene of a gun fight resulting in the release of two hostages as well as the death of the one man who could have saved Rossi.
The attorneys were told that the paperwork must be ready for signing in twenty-four hours. When the attorneys said they didn’t know if they could meet that deadline, the response was not reassuring.
“See that it is done,” Abdul warned. “If not…well, lawyers are expendable.”
The attorneys left the meeting pale-faced and sweating. More than one regretted the decision to represent these deadly clients.
At eleven o’clock Trent and Darcey met with Doctor Slim and Doctor Raymond. Miles stayed in the waiting room thumbing through two month old celebrity magazines.
The doctors listened closely to Trent’s description of the symptoms he had experienced. He described the hallucinations in a humorous manner, giving them permission to laugh with him. Doctor Raymond was especially impressed, she told him with an impish grin, that he was insistent on returning from Fairbanks before Darcey woke up in San Francisco.
They, too, were relieved to learn that each symptom had lasted only a matter of hours. Some even less. That, they agreed, was a very good sign. They were also pleased when he told them that he had taken none of the pain medication they had prescribed. So far he hadn’t needed pain relief.
They said they were making some progress in their study of the spirochete causing the chaos in Trent’s blood. They had not found a cure yet but they were hopeful. Meanwhile, they told him to continue with the antibiotics.
After lunch, they accompanied Miles to the office of the attorney who had prepared Scott’s will. Robert Tracy was the consummate professional, striking the proper balance between sympathy and business.
“Miles, I can’t tell you how sorry I was to hear of Scott’s death. He was a good client, a good man, a good friend. I shall miss him, though I know you will feel his loss much deeper than will I,” the attorney said.
“Thank you, Robert,” Miles said, his eyes misting. “I know Scott thought highly of you. He had the utmost confidence in your ability to handle our affairs. And now I’m here for your guidance. What happens now?”
“Well, first you should know that you are the sole beneficiary of all Scott’s holdings.”
Miles nodded. “I thought that was probably so. But I’m not sure what all is included.”
“To begin with,” Tracy explained, “Scott had a fully paid up whole life insurance policy in the amount of $1 million. That, of course, is not subject to taxation.”
Miles eyes grew wide, his face flushed as he realized the attorney had just told him he was now a millionaire.
“You know that all Scott’s bank accounts and investments are joint accounts. As such, they are yours to draw on. You will simply be required to present a copy of the death certificate to each bank or investment firm in order to draw on the funds. Scott had prepared a Revocable Living Will so taxation will be minimal.”
“I vaguely remember signing some papers but didn’t really pay much attention. I trusted Scott to handle all our business,” Miles said, awe in his voice.
“Additionally, you might not be aware Scott transferred the condo you shared to you. You are, and have been for some time, the sole owner of the property, which is unencumbered. That will not be affected by Scott’s death. The same, by the way, with the Mercedes he purchased last year. Six months ago he transferred the title to you.”
Miles was feeling faint. He fanned his face with one hand.
“I had no idea,” he said.
“For whatever reason, Scott felt he wanted to be sure you would not suffer financially if something happened to him,” Tracy said. “Perhaps he had a premonition. In any event, Miles, he took very good care of you.”
“How good?” Miles asked, his voice trembling.
“Including bank accounts, investments, and the condo, you are worth in the neighborhood of $15 million, depending, of course, on what taxes might be levied.”
Miles could barely speak.
“$15 million? Are you sure?” Miles really thought he was going to faint.
“Well, subject to settling the tax issue, yes, that’s approximately your current net worth.”
Miles turned to Darcey.
“I was a kid living on the streets when he found me,” he said. “He was the first person who ever treated me decently. But I had no idea…” His voice trailed off as the tears began to flow.
Darcey held him in her arms.
It was a long and emotional day for Miles, as well as for Trent and Darcey. They were all too internally drained to worry about dinner.
Miles opened a Merlot for Trent; a Chardonnay for Darcey. For himself, he stayed with mineral water, his drink of choice for the past few days.
Darcey made a pan of nachos, layered heavily with melted, browned cheese and handfuls of sliced jalapenos. That was good enough for dinner.
Tuesday, August 9th
The day started with a scream from Trent’s side of the bed.
Darcey was shocked awake. It wasn’t a good sign.
Trent was sitting on the edge of the bed. His hands were over his ears. He was moaning. Another symptom the doctors had predicted.
Moving as quietly as possible, she withdrew the behind-the-head ear muffs from the drawer in her bedside stand. They had purchased them for just such an occasion.
Gently she placed them over Trent’s ears. They would block all loud, sudden sounds. They could also be adjusted to the level of voice allowed. She let Trent make the adjustment. She noted that he turned the allowable decibel level down to almost zero. He would be able to hear and respond to voices but louder sounds would not penetrate the protective muffs.
“Better?” she asked, speaking as softly as she could.
He nodded.
She realized their bedroom door was open. M
iles was standing in the doorway, looking frightened.
She got out of bed and led him into the living room, closing the door behind them.
She whispered to Miles to make as little noise as possible. This was another symptom about which they had been warned. She said Trent would be wearing sound-suppressing earmuffs but they still must endeavor to make as little noise as possible. All phones were to be put on vibrate only.
Miles returned to his en suite bathroom to wash his face, clearing it of the creams and lotions he put on before going to bed each night, and to get dressed.
Darcey went back to the bedroom she shared with Trent. She held his hand. She kissed him.
“Is it painful, sweetheart?” she asked, softly.
“Not really painful,” he replied in the same way. “The sound suppression on these muffs is very effective. It makes me feel a little nauseous though.”
“I think this might be a good day for you to stay in bed.”
Trent didn’t argue.
Darcey felt her phone vibrate in her pocket. She went back to the living room before answering.
It was her office calling. The clean-up crew had completed its work. Her staff wanted to know if they should have the furniture delivered. Darcey told them to get the trucks rolling. She and Miles would meet them at the condo.
She crossed the hall and rang Preston Johnson’s doorbell. The old man opened the door, dressed casually but elegantly, as always.
She quickly explained the symptom Trent was suffering today. She said he would be staying in bed but she needed to accompany Miles to his condo. She asked if Preston could possibly stay with Trent. He wouldn’t have to do anything but stay in the living room. She just didn’t want to leave him completely alone.
“Of course, my dear. I would be happy to help.”
Kiettisuk Jetjirawat and Abdul Rahman returned to the Rossi compound in mid-morning accompanied by their teams of attorneys. The lawyers, unshaven and looking haggard, carried briefcases full of documents they had worked all day Monday and through the night to prepare. They feared disappointing their clients.
They were welcomed by Pietro, who opened the gate for them and then led them into Rossi’s office.
Neighbors and Other Strangers Page 20