He chuckled. “If my name is spy novelish, then yours sounds like a middle reliever for the Sox.”
“It’s actually my real name…well, kinda sorta. I got CJ from Chelsea Jane. And Fitzpatrick is my mother’s name—the one she has used since she got divorced. My birth name was LaPoint, but I’ve gone by Fitzpatrick for as long as I can remember.”
“Why did you do that?”
“Why should I use my father’s name when my mother did all the work, while he was out globetrotting? It also made it easier when I started at the Marshals. Federal law enforcement is a small fraternity, so I didn’t want it held for or against me that my father was…”
Darren cut her off with a grin. “Agent LaPoint is your father?”
Becks looked irritated. “Technically, yes. From putting any time into raising me, no. But after Alexei Sarvydas got in the way of my bullet, the powers-that-be worried about my safety, so I quasi-changed my name back to my birth name. I guess Chelsea Fitzpatrick is as dead as Darren McLaughlin.”
“LaPoint is your dad,” Darren said again with an amused look.
“He was an absentee landlord my whole life and now he’s Mr. Overprotective. He sends a couple of feds by my apartment each night to check on me. Total overreaction—I did the Ruskies a favor by shooting Alexei. From what I’ve heard, the guy was universally hated, and the only reason they’d want to find me is to buy me a vodka shot for doing the deed. I’m not in any danger…well, until today, anyway.”
“What did you do in that hotel room?”
“I would tell you, Brick, but then I’d have to kill you.”
“You almost did—on a couple of occasions. How did you figure out that Nick was the one behind Karl’s murder?”
“There had to be a reason why Viktor had Trina killed—otherwise it made no sense, and Viktor only did calculated. Then it hit me—what if he had gotten Paula pregnant? Once Trina found out about the pregnancy, and threatened retaliation, the only logical move was for Viktor to launch a preemptive strike. I then did the long division until I got to Nick. Karl wasn’t his father, Viktor was.”
Darren nodded, impressed by her thought process. “A house built on lies. Sort of like the story of Darren and Becks. Once Lilly disappeared, it wasn’t an accident that you popped into my life. You tracked me, thinking I’d lead you to her. Was everything a lie?”
“You’re the one who came to the Buckley house—sorry about the punch, by the way—and you were the one who showed up at the school. Nobody held a gun to your head and forced you to follow me around like a puppy dog. And for the record, it wasn’t a lie when I pushed you out of the way of Alexei’s gun.”
“Would you have really shot me?”
“Based on the way you acted after your wife ripped your guts out, you probably would have fallen in love with me if I did.”
“So you weren’t really offering me drunken revenge sex that night at my house?”
“Totally sober, and not a chance.” She smiled. “Maybe I have a future in acting.”
“If you’re not babysitting criminals anymore, and you haven’t started the acting career yet, what are you doing with yourself these days, CJ?”
“Doing what I always wanted to do. I think I became a fed to prove a point to my father. I’m teaching at BC—assistant professor of criminal justice—and also working on my doctorate. I’m an alum—got my undergrad and masters there.” She smirked, a look he knew too well. “You should come in and be a guest lecturer—I’m sure the students would love to meet a real life hijacker.”
“So if you left the crime fighting to others, what was today about?”
“Unfinished business. I told you that when someone screws me over, I won’t stop until justice is served.” Her face turned deathly serious. “And I thought he killed you.”
Darren didn’t want to go there. He changed the subject as their burgers arrived. “So you did go to BC in the fall. You actually told me something that was true.”
“Honesty is the best policy. Look at Darren and Becks, they just didn’t work out because it wasn’t based on the truth. But I see some hope for Brick and CJ.”
Chapter 101
“Since we’re on this whole honesty kick, how old are you?” Darren asked.
“You should never ask a woman her age. You are doing some bad will hunting, my friend.”
Darren gave her a disappointed look.
She sighed. “If you don’t ask me things, then I won’t have to lie to you. Twenty-eight, I’ll be twenty-nine in February. I guess the whole ‘perpetually looking sixteen’ thing finally paid off.”
“Wow—you could have qualified for the cougar hunt. Too bad they didn’t know.”
“Those boys couldn’t handle this eleven pointer,” she replied with a laugh.
“Eleven, wow! I married a ten pointer. I didn’t think it was possible to top that.”
“Maybe you just didn’t look hard enough.” She glanced at the finger where his wedding band once resided. “But looks like your single now, Brick. So I guess there’s hope for you.”
“My wife died.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. How did it happen?”
“A hijacking gone wrong.”
“You think you know someone and then they turn out to be a hijacker. But I bet you were loyal to the end, Brick. You seem like the type of guy who would stick it out even if your wife cheated on you with the future head of the Russian Mafiya.”
It was still too surreal to believe. He and Lilly parted ways in Israel and eventually found their way back to the United States, separately. She found safety in the border town of Columbus, New Mexico, a farming town along Highway-9, with one road running through the endless desert. She was now in her own version of the Witness Protection Program, doing her penance under the name of Maria Banuelos, and living with the fear of her true identity being discovered. Although, it probably also feeds her danger addiction. She teaches English to the numerous Mexican immigrants who flee past the border to Columbus. At least that’s what he gathered from her last, and final, correspondence. He couldn’t be sure that she was still there.
There was no need for a divorce, since they were both listed as dead. Their house and assets went to their only remaining family—Lilly’s mother. Darren read online that crime enthusiasts made pilgrimages to see where the hijackers once resided.
Upon returning to the States, Darren did what most people do when a spouse dies. He mourned, he questioned why, but eventually made peace with it and moved on the best he could, hoping to find love again.
“How about you, Professor LaPoint?”
“How ’bout me, what?”
“Married? Boyfriend?”
“I was dating a guy this past summer,” she said and then stopped, and an ironic look filled her face. “He was actually one of my grad students.”
“I’ve heard about those teacher/student relationships. They don’t always end well. You said ‘was’?”
“He dumped me—said I was too intense for him.”
Darren couldn’t help a playful smile. “I don’t know where he got that from. You seem like the laid back type to me.”
She looked at her watch and frowned.
“Hot date?” he asked.
“No, I’ve got class.”
“Class? It’s Saturday night.”
“It’s an individual study session for my criminal justice nerds. They’re freaking out because finals are next week. I tell them that real life experience is more important than book learning, so they should go rob a bank. But they never listen to me.”
Darren took the last chomp of his Murphy Burger, which was tasty, but no Cholla Burger. He swigged the remainder of his soda and said, “Well, it was nice to see you again, CJ LaPoint, even if it was the first time we ever met.”
“You too, Brick Zuckley. Perhaps we’ll run into each other sometime around the Old Towne. Or maybe I’ll take one of your helicopter tours.”
She put her Sox hat back o
n and headed toward the door.
Then like a scene out of an old-time movie, she energetically turned and ran back to him. “C’mon, it’s killing me. You gotta tell me what happened on that plane. And at Sarvydas’ house!”
“If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”
“If you don’t tell me, I’m going to drag you on stage for some karaoke, Run DMC, and you’ll wish you were dead.”
“Is that a threat?’
“It’s a promise,” she said with a get-her-way grin, and headed for the karaoke stage.
Darren grabbed her arm and stopped her. “Oh no you don’t.”
“Says who?”
“Says the clock. You’re late for class and I’m going to make sure you get there on time.”
“Who do you think you are?”
He smiled a hopeful smile. “I’m the truant officer.”
* * *
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Acknowledgments
In many ways publishing a book is a lot like The Truant Officer (although, much less dramatic) – a race against time with many moving parts, and the only way to survive is to have trust in those around you. And I was very lucky to be surrounded by a great team.
Thanks again to Charlotte Brown, The Pedant of Oz, for her magnificent editorial work. It’s a much better book because of her efforts. Thanks to Carl Graves for another great cover. I was getting compliments on the Truant Officer cover before it even came out – those compliments should really go to Carl. Making Truant Officer into an ebook – formatting, uploading, etc – is the work of technology guru Curt Ciccone. Another great job by “Dirt”.
A special thanks to American Airlines captain Peter Jeffrey, whose expertise helped shape the flying/pilot scenes and make them as real as fiction will allow.
Like all my stories, Christina Wickson turned my handwritten words into a typed page. That normally makes her the first to read and comment on the story. The second person to read it had always been my grandfather, AJ Mays. Unfortunately, Grandpa Jay has passed away since the last book and was unable to read The Truant Officer. But I promised him that one day I’d work his hometown of Devol, Oklahoma into a book, and because of that I think his spirit lives on in The Truant Officer.
And of course, every book I’ll ever write is dedicated to my parents – who only find fault in me when I don’t pursue my dreams.
Excerpt from The Trials of Max Q (Chapter One)
For more information or purchase: US / UK
Chapter One
Perfection is like the mechanical rabbit used to lure greyhounds at the dog races—tantalizing, but unobtainable. It seduces you into believing you can catch it, only to ruthlessly dart away at the last moment. As I peer into the perfect blue sky of a late July day in Saratoga, New York, it’s a reminder of how I know this all too well.
The crowd is bubbling with anticipation for the next mad-dash of thoroughbreds at Saratoga Racecourse. I strain my neck to look for my friends, Mac and Ashley Cirillo. They left to place wagers on the upcoming race, what seems like twenty minutes ago, even if my watch tells me it has only been five. But having known Mac since college, I know the only sure bet is that he stopped off to purchase a beer and a plate of nachos.
No sign of Mac and Ashley, just another postcard-esque view of the Victorian grandstand. It’s another packed house at America’s oldest racetrack.
I sit at a picnic table in the general admission paddock area. I’m not far from where my family, the Lawsons, normally sit with the flamboyantly rich in the luxurious box seats at the finish line. The same seats the Lawsons of yesteryear once sat in, arm-in-arm with the Vanderbilts and Rockefellers. But from a social-class point of view, my seat is a galaxy away. I can’t avoid the obvious symbolic separation from my old life.
The Lawson legal dynasty began when Thomas Lawson arrived in Boston Harbor from the mother country in the first half of the eighteenth century, eventually settling in what is now Greenwich, Connecticut. He set up a small law office on nearby Manhattan Island, and after years of chasing the horse and buggy version of ambulances, he grew to be one of the most powerful lawyers in the New World. He was so taken with the law (more precisely, its lucrative rewards) that he decided that all future Lawsons would follow his lead, coining the phrase “Lawsons are lawyers.” To ensure his mission statement would be carried out, he linked each descendant’s inheritance to their joining the family business.
Over the years, the mechanical rabbit the Lawsons chased became narrowly defined. The acquisition of unimaginable wealth was part of it, of course, but my family views true perfection as being perceived as perfect by those around them. Or what I like to refer to as the meaningless quest for the approval of others.
The thoroughbreds are led into the starting gate. One feisty colt is having second thoughts and puts up a fight, but eventually gives in—the rebel always seems to lose in the end. As bugles signal the race is about to commence, I spot the oversized white hat of Ashley Cirillo. She strolls through the thick crowd with her usual grin and the grace of an old-time movie star, the haughty Saratoga background fitting her like a Vera Wang dress.
Walking alongside Ashley is her husband, Mac. He is looking frat-boy scruffy, as if he didn’t get the memo that states you aren’t supposed to look and act the same at thirty-two as when you were twenty-two. They are an odder couple than Felix and Oscar ever were, their only noticeable commonality is the “in-love” smile they wear for each other.
“I love the smell of trust funds in the afternoon,” Mac jokes upon reaching me, dramatically sniffing the air for effect.
I smile and grab one of his cheese-glazed nachos.
“So who’d we bet on?” I ask Ashley. I always follow her lead on such matters. Her success often exceeds that of the so-called experts, even though her technique of picking the horse with the “prettiest tail” has yet to become an accepted technique of professional handicappers.
“Mac bet on a three-to-one shot called Old Wino, not exactly going out on a limb,” she begins.
“I couldn’t resist, Jack, it reminded me of your grandmother,” Mac states. He looks proud that he extracted a grin from me. Lately it’s been a challenge.
“The combination of my family and your lifelong losing streak doesn’t exactly scream winner,” I reply, and then get to the all-important bet. “Which one has the pretty tail, Ash?”
“Actually, I’m going away from the plan this time, Jack.”
Before I can question this dramatic change of course, Mac explains, “It’s destiny, Jack—as big of a lock as you in the courtroom. The horse’s name is Clotheshorse!”
For years Mac has playfully referred to Ashley as “the Clotheshorse” in response to her expensive addiction to shopping.
“It’s fifty-to-one, Jack, but I don’t know how it can lose,” Ashley adds with enthusiasm.
We walk to an outside grill that’s situated right next to the track, and is VIP only. I use my Lawson influence to get us in, so we can stand by the rail. It is one thing to watch the race, it’s another to feel the horses thunder past you.
A ringing of bells halts our conversation. The gates burst open and the rumbling of hooves crackles through the thick summer air. Those in the grandstand rise out of their seats. “And they’re off!” shouts the track announcer.
It feels like the earth is shaking as the horses bend around the first turn. “Old Wino shoots to the lead!” belts out the announcer.
Ashley excitedly urges Clotheshorse on, “C’mon baby, mama needs a new pair of shoes!”
“Mama has a whole closet of shoes she has never worn,” Mac reminds her. He is trying to remain confident, but I can tell he’s already sensing another bad ending.
I maintain m
y cool demeanor that has always served me well in the courtroom, but sometimes gives the perception of aloofness outside of it.
At the halfway point, Clotheshorse, the fifty-to-one shot, has done the unthinkable by overtaking Old Wino. Mac nervously chain-eats his nachos as we watch the horses head down the home stretch, while Ashley cheers on with a knowing grin.
It’s Clotheshorse by a nose...Old Wino makes his move on the rail...Old Wino moves to the lead...Here comes Clotheshorse...It’s too close to call…
That’s when a seven-to-two shot named Bossy Cow makes a move on the outside. She is a dark brown filly with a white stripe down her nose. She passes with ease and cruises to a three-length victory.
Old Wino takes second, giving Mac slight bragging rights over Ashley, who watches Clotheshorse drop to fifth and out of the money. She curses herself for abandoning her system.
“Typical woman,” Mac impugns the victorious filly. “Just when you’re feeling good about things, she sneaks up behind you and ruins all the fun.”
The comment leads to a group laugh—a nice moment between friends. One that’s been lacking during the recent stage of my life, which officially is being called a “sabbatical,” while the whisperers behind my back tend to prefer the term “mental breakdown.”
I currently live with Mac and Ashley at their house on Otsego Lake in Cooperstown, a small village ninety miles northeast of Saratoga, and known for being the home of the Baseball Hall of Fame. That is where Mac works as the Assistant Director of Marketing, a step on the path to his dream job, which is to be the curator of the museum.
Ashley followed Mac to Cooperstown after graduation, and the city girl became so bored in rural upstate New York that she began doing errands for everyone she met to keep busy. This attempt at curing boredom developed into a profitable business she aptly named Ashley’s Errands, making her the true breadwinner of the family. Mac often jokes that the errand business is just an excuse for Ashley to go on shopping sprees, even if they are for others.
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