“Look at me, Trent,” he said, struggling to keep his voice from breaking. “All my life I’ve been small. Effeminate. I’ve been called names. Faggot. Queer. I’ve been bullied and made to do things I didn’t want to do. At least not with the people who made me do them.”
He paused again, attempting to calm himself.
“Scott was the first person in my life who ever treated me with respect. He loved me unconditionally. He was proud to be my husband. And I just held him in my arms as his life drained away. He died trying to protect me. I could do nothing to protect him.”
Miles paused again. He raised his face defiantly, looking directly at Trent.
“I might not appear very masculine but I don’t intend to let that happen ever again.”
Trent said nothing.
“Will you do it? Will you teach me to shoot?”
“I’ll call Christopher. Maybe he can get us out to his friend’s gun shop on Friday. We’ll get you fixed up, Miles.”
Four blocks away from Miles’ condo, Captain Henry Place steered the eighty-two foot yacht out of the marina’s West Harbor. Kiettisuk Jetjirawat had named her Ruthai, which Captain Place understood meant ‘heart’ in the language of Thailand.
She was a sturdy ship, well-constructed by Dutch master craftsmen. Though there was no firm distinction between a ship and a boat when it came to vessels of this size, the captain thought of Heart as a ship. Her twin inboard diesel engines gave her sufficient power to accomplish open sea cruising. He had personally selected her crew with regard to nothing other than seamanship and, of course, loyalty.
The master stateroom was in the stern with its own head. There were two en suite guest staterooms amidships. The crew quarters were located in the bow and included a separate crew galley. When Kiettisuk Jetjirawat came aboard, he brought his personal chef with him.
Yes, the captain thought, Heart was a fine ship. He was looking forward to taking her to sea. Today they would be cruising only across the bay to the Oakland waterfront.
Captain Place had the wheel. Though he had two competent helmsmen in the crew, he was taking her out of the harbor because he enjoyed it.
Pietro Greco stood beside him. Captain Place had also come to enjoy Pietro’s company. He found him to be a pleasant companion aboard ship on their brief cruises together.
Today they talked amiably, keeping their voices low. The captain knew it was a deadly business in which they were involved today. He thought better days would be ahead for himself and for Heart.
Pietro left the bridge and entered the yacht’s luxurious main salon. There he found Abdul conscious but not such pleasant company. He and his three men were securely bound, their arms tied to their bodies in such a manner as to prevent them from moving freely. Six Thais stood guard with their rifles.
The suicide vest was wrapped around Abdul’s arms. There was no way he could maneuver out of it. He was helpless. He had briefly thought of attempting to detonate the bomb himself while aboard Kiettisuk Jetjirawat’s yacht, which he knew cost the Thai almost $8 million. At least he would have the satisfaction of taking the beautiful vessel to heaven with him.
It was a hopeless thought. For the first time in his life, Abdul Rahman had no control over his fate.
“You can’t move, can you, Abdul?” Pietro said, pleasantly as he strolled into the yacht’s main salon. Stepping into the spacious gallery, he found a bottle of Italian lemon-flavored sparkling water in the refrigerator. Pulling the tab to open the can, he took a long drink of the refreshing beverage.
“I’m disappointed in you, Abdul,” he said. “When I first discovered what Rossi was attempting, I thought you would be the final survivor. You let Kiettisuk Jetjirawat get the better of you.”
“With your help,” Abdul spat, contemptuously.
“Eventually, yes,” Pietro agreed. “It didn’t start out that way. I simply waited to see who was going to outlast the other three. Once I discovered the winning side, I did what I had to do to get on it.”
“This vest will not accomplish what you want it to,” Abdul remarked, in a gruesome change of topics. “It’s too light. You didn’t put enough ball bearings in it.”
Pietro smiled.
“There are no ball bearings in it at all, Abdul,” he replied. “We’re not interested in murdering your men, though no doubt most will die. Your vest is filled with Semtex, which is the most explosive substance known to man. But, of course, you know that. We learned about Semtex from you.”
“But why destroy my warehouse?” Abdul wondered. “It contains hundreds of weapons. Why not sell them and take the profit?”
“We have access to all the weapons we can move, Abdul. We don’t need yours. Your warehouse contains more explosives than guns. Kiettisuk Jetjirawat was being honest with you when he told you he worries about your intentions. When he considers the potential uses of all that explosive material, he worries.”
The weakest point of the human body is that space between the jaw and the neck. Since explosives literally “blow up” directionally, the bombers’ heads quite often are taken off intact.
That’s why the first responder on the scene of the explosion looked down to see Abdul’s head rolling toward him. The first responder had been called on for many disasters. This was the first time he vomited.
Captain Place had taken Heart out into the bay, well away from the warehouse, before Pietro entered the code on his mobile phone to detonate the explosives wrapped around Abdul Rahman. The two men watched the destruction on the waterfront from the yacht’s grand salon.
Abdul’s warehouse was set apart from other buildings along the Oakland waterfront. It was one of the reasons Kiettisuk Jetjirawat had decided on this tactic. He had no desire to harm other buildings, including a few he owned himself.
Trent felt more than heard the explosion as he drove away from Miles’ building. He first thought it was an earthquake. Then he saw the plume of smoke rising from across the bay. An industrial accident, he thought. A very serious industrial accident.
His phone rang before he reached the Nob Hill condo. He saw Christopher’s name come up.
“Hey, buddy, where y’at?” he answered.
Christopher wasn’t aware of the traditional greeting of New Orleans’ Vieux Carre’. He took the question literally.
“On my way to the Oakland waterfront,” he replied. “There’s a new development in Operation Den of Snakes. Where are you? I’ll come get you.”
By the time Christopher and Trent arrived, Nancy was already on the scene. Lieutenant Mitchum and FBI agent Brady, the other members of Christopher’s team, were also there.
Several local fire departments were attempting to get the flames under control. FBI agents were assisting Oakland police in securing the area.
“How do we know this explosion is related to Operation Den of Snakes?” Trent asked.
“This warehouse was owned by Abdul Rahman,” Agent Brady responded.
“Do we know who set off the explosion?” Christopher asked.
Nancy looked pale.
“Abdul did it himself,” she said.
“Why would he do that?” Christopher was mystified.
“He probably didn’t do it intentionally,” Brady said. “He was fitted with a suicide vest and locked in the building. Someone detonated the bomb remotely.”
“How do you know that?” Christopher continued.
“Because Abdul’s head is in that vehicle,” Nancy said, a look of distaste on her face as she pointed to a nearby SUV, “and his body in that one,” she added, pointing to a second ambulance.
“Do you want to see it?” Mitchum asked. Trent thought he seemed a little too cheerful for the occasion.
“We’ll take your word for it,” Christopher said. Trent nodded in agreement.
“But you’re right,” Trent added. “Operation Den of Snakes is having the impact we thought it would. Two down. Only Rossi and Kiettisuk Jetjirawat to go.”
“The transfer
of all fiduciaria funds to Rossi’s bank in Rome is known by now,” Christopher said. “The evidence is Rossi ordered the hit on the Barons of Lucifer. Could he have done this also? A matter of self-protection?”
“Possibly,” Trent said. “It’s difficult to say. We set in motion a military-style operation. The problem with such things is you can never predict all the possible outcomes. Old soldiers say a plan begins to fall apart as soon as you implement it. If Rossi is behind all this, he’s far more clever than I gave him credit for being.”
Darcey was sautéing mushrooms and onions when he got home. She had two beef filets seasoned and ready for the fire.
He mixed martinis for them. Darcey joined him on the terrace for what had become their favored cocktail hour ritual. He told her about the day. She shivered at the mention of Abdul’s head. Given the waiting steaks, Trent was glad he had passed on the offer to view the loathsome trophy.
Thursday, August 11th
Trent moaned in his sleep, waking Darcey. She put her arm over him, seeking to comfort him. What she felt brought her immediately awake. He was burning hot with fever. Another of the symptoms about which they had been warned.
She quickly went to the kitchen for a large bottle of water. She had aspirin in the drawer of her bedside table. She woke Trent and made him take two of the pills with a healthy drink of water.
It was almost seven o’clock, the time they had intended to awaken. She told Trent to rest and drink more water. She would make him some tea. He didn’t feel like eating.
They were scheduled to meet Miles at the funeral home at ten o’clock for Scott’s cremation.
“Do you feel up to going?” Darcey asked. “I’m sure Miles will understand if you don’t.”
“I’ll make it. I don’t feel great but I’m not in any pain. Might have to lean on you a little.”
Darcey smiled.
“You can always lean on me, Trent. Lean on me forever.” She kissed him.
Preston Johnson was riding with them. Mandy Rillard was going to pick up Miles. She thought Miles might become too emotional to drive.
Preston was alarmed as he watched Trent on the elevator as they descended to the garage. The younger man seemed weak. Enough so that Preston and Darcey each took an arm to help him into Darcey’s BMW. They put him in the rear passenger seat of the spacious SUV. Preston climbed in to sit beside him.
By the time they reached the funeral home, Trent was sweating profusely. Preston used his own clean handkerchief to wipe Trent’s face.
Seeing the action in the rear view mirror, Darcey reached into her purse for the wet wipes she had brought just for this purpose. She passed them back to Preston.
Preston tended to Trent as best he could.
The worried look in the old man’s eyes became more pronounced.
There was something else in his eyes as he watched Trent.
Something indefinable.
The cremation itself took about two hours. Trent, Darcey, Preston, and Mandy had gone into the room with Miles to be with him as he said goodbye to Scott. They were joined by Christopher Booth and Nancy Patrick.
After the farewell, the friends sat with Miles as the funeral home staff carried out the cremation. It was done very professionally. The process was designed to place as little stress as possible on the grieving family.
Miles shed tears. They all did, to one degree or another. Christopher and Nancy hadn’t known Scott. But they had come to like Miles in the few days they had known him.
Just after noon, the staff brought an elegant, burnished brass urn to Miles. It contained the earthly remains of Scott Lucas Douglas.
“You didn’t know his middle name was Lucas, did you?” Miles said, with a sad smile. “He hated it. It was his grandfather’s name. He didn’t hate his grandfather. He loved him. But his grandfather was a farmer and Scott hated farming.”
The group of friends couldn’t help laughing at Miles’ description. Miles looked around at his support group, giving a slight giggle of his own.
Miles had arranged for a caterer to prepare refreshments for the small group. His new dining table was laden with pulled pork sandwiches, potato salad, pickled okra, mac & cheese, deviled eggs, corn salad and Coleslaw.
“These are all Scott’s favorite foods,” Miles explained. He held up his glass of sparkling wine. “The only thing missing is the ribeye steak that Trent showed me how to make in a cast iron skillet.” He pointed to the heavy pan sitting on the stove.
“Here’s to my Scott. May he always be with me,” Miles said, holding up his glass of sparkling wine.
His friends all touched glasses in response to the toast.
Darcey hugged Miles, whose eyes were tearing again.
“And he always will be, Miles. Always.”
Christopher felt the vibration of his phone. Looking at the number, he excused himself and stepped into the next room to take the call. He returned within a few minutes. The look on his face alerted the group that something big had happened.
“Miles, I’m sorry but I’m going to have to take Trent and Nancy away,” the big cop said, “If you’re feeling up to it, that is, Trent.”
By this time, the sweats had stopped. Trent was feeling a little stronger.
“I’ll make it. What’s up?”
“That was Joseph Brady calling,” Christopher reported. “He’s at Rossi’s house in the Hills at Atherton with the local police. They just found Jonathan Rossi.”
Darcey noted with surprise the look of shock on Preston’s face.
“It was actually the pool service who found him,” FBI Agent Brady briefed them. “They thought it unusual that no one was around. They went to knock on the door and found it standing open. They discovered Rossi as you see him now, behind his desk.”
Once again, Trent, Christopher, and Nancy found themselves in a room with a body that had been going through the deterioration process for more than forty-eight hours. It was no more pleasant in the multi million mansion than it was at the humble cottage in Richmond.
“Shot multiple times diagonally across the body,” Brady continued. “Then the coup de grace. A single shot to the head.”
Though Trent was feeling better, he was still shaky. He found a chair and sat. He wiped his face with the wet wipes supplied by Darcey. He drank heavily from the bottle of water she insisted he keep with him. He was grateful to her.
From the angle at which he sat, Trent’s line of sight showed him something not easily noticeable.
“Christopher, it looks like there’s a safe behind that painting,” he pointed out. “The big seascape.”
Christopher pulled on the painting. It opened like a door. Behind it was a wall safe that was closed but not locked. Opening it, he found it empty.
“Looks like someone helped themselves after Rossi was taken out,” Christopher said.
“I’ve been wondering where Peter Greco is,” Brady added. “The underboss hasn’t been seen in several days. Usually if you see Rossi you see Greco.”
“Yeah, Rossi didn’t do anything without Greco’s advice and even approval,” Christopher agreed. “He’s either dead, too, or has taken over the Rossi Family and is in hiding.
Guy sat in his room in the cheap motel near Sacramento. The television was blaring a local news station. He didn’t like watching the news. He was about to change it when the reporter said something that attracted his attention.
“Private services were held in San Francisco today for Scott Douglas, the Bay area financier who was killed trying to protect his spouse, Miles Diaz-Douglas. Diaz-Douglas had been kidnapped. Douglas was heroically attempting to rescue Diaz-Douglas when the kidnappers decided to kill their victim. Scott Douglas hurled his own body between the killers and his spouse.”
Guy laughed.
“So the little wifey is all alone now,” he said aloud. “What do you know about that?”
Filippo had a few thousand in the bank. Not as much as Guy had hoped. He had drained the account.
It allowed him to eat well. But now the money was starting to run low.
He needed a new source of funds. He thought it a cinch that old Douglas would have a stash of cash at his house. At the very least, he would have jewelry or something valuable that could be sold.
Now only the wifey was there. That little wimp wouldn’t give him any trouble.
And Guy had been assigned to keep an eye on Douglas’ condo one day not long ago. He knew the address. He laughed again.
At the Nob Hill condo there was no cocktail hour on the terrace that evening.
No dinner.
Darcey put Trent to bed. She lay beside him.
Looking after him.
Friday, August 12th
Trent woke up feeling normal. He felt better than normal. He felt good.
“No symptoms today?” Darcey asked.
“Yes,” he replied. “There is a symptom that needs your attention.”
She laughed as he pulled her to him, loving the feel of his lips on hers, his hands touching her.
Later they made a hearty breakfast of steak and eggs and hash browns together. It was starting out as one of Darcey’s “Yes!” days.
Trent and Miles met Christopher at Jess Hickok’s gun shop and shooting range on the south side of the city at mid-morning. Hickok raised an eyebrow when Miles came prancing into the shop in his dramatic style.
“So you want to learn to shoot, young man?” Hickok questioned.
“Yes,” was Miles determined reply.
Hickok sighed.
“All right, then. Come with me.”
For the next half hour Miles blasted away with an assortment of semiautomatics and revolvers in various calibers. At the end of the half hour, Hickok was exasperated.
“I don’t mean to appear parsimonious, young man,” the gun shop owner said, “but you have gone through several boxes of ammunition. This stuff isn’t cheap, you know.”
“Don’t worry,” Miles said. “I can pay for it.”
“That’s actually not the point,” Hickok said. “So far you haven’t hit the target a single time.”
“Not even once?” Miles questioned, disappointment evident in his voice.
Neighbors and Other Strangers Page 22