Those Who Trespass: A Novel of Television and Murder

by Bill O'Reilly

  “Anyway, I told him that we’d like to stay out of sight because we don’t want to spook the guy we’re chasing, but that if he wanted protection, we’d assign someone to stay with him. I think I heard the jerkoff yawn at that point. He said he didn’t need a bodyguard. So I gave the guy my number and told him to call me if he saw anything unusual. I also suggested that he not let anyone into his room and, if somebody broke in, to scream like hell. My guys would be alert around the clock. And get this, Tommy. The guy didn’t even say thanks.”

  “Gotta love the media, Julio.”

  “Fuck ’em. How you holding up?”

  “Bored to shreds,” Tommy said. Ashley awakened long enough to smile.

  “Well, it’s just one more day,” Julio said. “Are you gonna stay there all night?”

  “Gonna knock off at nine. My hunch is he’ll make his move tomorrow. He’s probably putting his plan together right now. But if we see him, we’ll be way ahead. No word on him around town?”

  “Nothing, Tom. The guy’s gone to ground. But we’re all over the hotel. If he shows up, we’ll get him. I’ll bet Jackson’s having a fine time mixing drinks.”

  Tommy laughed. “I don’t think Jack knows a Singapore Sling from a Mountain Dew. But seriously, Julio, we can’t thank you enough. We owe you.”

  “No problem,” Julio said. “And one more thing, Tommy. We ran a check of all hotels and rental car agencies from Miami to Pompano, but nobody fitting Michaels’ description showed up.”

  “I’m not surprised. The guy’s a walkin’ Jack Higgins novel. He’s in some kinda bullshit disguise,” Tommy said. “Tomorrow, Julio. And thanks again.”

  Ashley glanced at Tommy. He looked wilted and exhausted, even with the air conditioning running in the car. “Tommy, I think I’m going to walk back to the hotel and take a shower.”

  “Can I come?”

  Ashley gave him a seductive look that seared his nerve endings. “Quite the professional attitude, Detective,” she said.

  “Sleuths do not live by clues alone,” Tommy replied.

  “Call me if anything happens, Columbo,” said Ashley. “I’ll see you later.”

  Lance Worthington was a man with an undisturbed conscience, a man who considered introspection to be an unnecessary distraction. As he readied himself to participate in the afternoon seminar, “How to Handle Broadcast Talent,” he was feeling very pleased with himself. He had come a long way in ten years.

  After graduating from Northwestern University, he had entered the world of local television news and risen quickly. Now he was a news boss in New York, the largest market in America. And in a few hours, he would be telling other news executives from around the country that a “tough love” approach was the only way to handle anchormen and women. If they didn’t do it your way, he would say, then show them the door. The TV audience is distracted and forgetful. Viewers shift loyalties quickly. Newsreaders are overpaid and overrated. Most of them can be easily replaced.

  That was Lance Worthington’s guiding rule: Everyone was expendable except him. And he had been ruthless in enforcing his law, leaving a trail of wrecked careers in each of the four markets where he had been boss. But look where the hard line had gotten him, he thought. He was earning a quarter of a million dollars a year, and he wielded incredible power. His wife and two kids were well taken care of, and he was the envy of his friends. He had proven that in a tough business, he had the stuff to prosper.

  For him, all that stood in the way of a perfect day was the warning he had received from the police. It nagged at him. Martin Moore had been deliberately murdered. That much was obvious. And the cops knew exactly how Moore had operated. Worthington sensed danger, but not the physical kind. He was more worried about exposure in the research scam than he was about some “mad killer.” Somehow he just couldn’t imagine himself a target. But he would be careful nonetheless.

  Worthington knotted his silk tie and poured himself a Scotch from the hotel room mini-bar. He needed a lift. After all, he would be addressing some powerful people in thirty minutes. He wanted to be light on his feet, and Scotch melted his inhibitions.

  But what Lance Worthington was really looking forward to was the next night’s gala convention dinner, the one featuring Lyle Fleming as the keynote speaker. Worthington knew the dais would be loaded with network executives, and he wanted to meet as many as possible. Network news was the next stop on his journey to the top. At least that’s how he had planned things. Worthington hoped to make a solid impression on the network types with his no-nonsense management style.

  The news director drained his drink and walked into the bathroom. He took a last look at himself in the mirror. His blond hair was slicked back, and his dark blue suit was freshly pressed. He had the air of success about him. He could feel it. He would take no prisoners at the seminar. He was ready and able to tell the industry exactly how to deal with difficult anchor talent.

  It took Shannon Michaels less than an hour to buy the items he needed to complete his mission. A strip of shops along Route One in Dania, a small town just south of Lauderdale, provided him with a walking cane, a hacksaw, a box cutter, and a blue polyester sports jacket size 44 long.

  He then drove south into Hollywood, Florida, to another rent-a-car agency called Rent-a-Heap. There he paid five hundred dollars in cash, including deposit, to use a 1992 Ford Taurus for three days. The tan car sputtered a little, but handled fine as he drove directly to the parking lot of the Something Fishy restaurant about five miles away. Shannon parked and walked to a phone booth just outside the restaurant’s front door. He called Babe’s Taxi and a bright yellow cab arrived ten minutes later. The ride back to his parked Cadillac in Hollywood took fifteen minutes.

  Shannon, needing darkness to implement his scheme, still had a few hours to kill. He decided to have dinner and try to unwind. He drove west on Griffin Road until he found a small Italian restaurant.

  After sitting around in the hot car all day doing nothing, Tommy O’Malley was exhausted. He sprawled out on his hotel bed, thinking black thoughts about what he would do to Shannon Michaels if he caught him in any illegal activity whatsoever. The room was cool, but the air did not take the edge off Tommy’s angry frame of mind. He wasn’t in the mood to chat, but he had promised to call Ashley Van Buren.

  “What’s up?” Tommy asked after dialing up her room.

  “The paper’s pissed off,” Ashley said in a disgusted tone.

  “Well, I can’t understand why. They should be grateful that you’re down in Florida in December hunting up crime stories.”

  “You would have made a great assignment editor, Tommy. You missed your calling,” Ashley said.

  “So why are they mad?” Tommy asked.

  “Because I can’t write anything. I keep telling them that I’m on a huge story but I can’t give them the juicy details. I can’t even mention Shannon’s name. If I do, it will be all over the city, and that would be big trouble, right?”

  “Big trouble? That would be the end of the world, Ash. If we don’t nail the guy and his name gets linked with the investigation, my next job will be in Mayberry.”

  Ashley sighed into the phone. “I know. I keep telling my editors to be patient. And they keep screaming at me.”

  “I bet you’re not used to that.”

  “Screw you, Tommy. You’re about as sympathetic as Jack the Ripper. Why are you calling, anyway?”

  “Because I like you,” Tommy said.

  Ashley smiled to herself but maintained her hurt tone of voice. “Well, you’ve got a very strange way of showing it.”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard that before. Bottom line, Ash, there’s nothin’ new. Everybody’s tired. Everybody’s tense. Tomorrow it all goes down.”

  “It better or I’m in deep trouble,” Ashley said.

  “It will. I have a feeling, Ash. Tomorrow is it.”

  “So what time do we begin sitting in the car?”

  “Six a.m. When the sun comes up, we shoul
d all be in place.”

  “Just call me Katie Couric,” Ashley said. “And Tommy, try not to be so cranky in the morning, okay?”

  “Anything you say, Katie.”

  Shannon Michaels put the blade of the sharpened hacksaw on the rusted steel. A half dozen strokes were all it took. The lock was hanging by the proverbial thread. It was midnight, and a light breeze blew in off Runway 27 Right. Shannon examined the steel gate that blocked entry to the Lauderdale Airport. It would hold until something hit it.

  A few minutes later, Shannon repeated the same exercise on the opposite side of the airport. Now he had two gates that could be smashed through with ease. The first part of his plan was done.

  Shannon returned to the Cadillac, turned on WIOD, the talk station, and began driving back to his motel, oblivious to the radio voices. Tomorrow would be the most challenging day of his life, he thought. Tomorrow he would finish what he had started.

  * * *

  28

  FORT LAUDERDALE

  DECEMBER 1994

  A physically ill Lance Worthington let out a deep groan as the early morning sun poured into his hotel room and awakened him from a dead sleep. He had gotten so drunk the night before that he had forgotten to pull the curtains—so drunk that he had collapsed on the bed and fallen asleep fully clothed.

  As Worthington’s eyes slowly opened, his head throbbed. How many shooters had he consumed after his hard-assed presentation at the seminar? He had lost count. And now his body was punishing him. His mouth silently begged for liquid. His throat was parched—a classic case of hot pipes. Worthington tried to sit up. The movement made him nauseous and dizzy. But he had to get water.

  As he stumbled into the bathroom, he cursed. It was already eleven in the morning, and he had missed the first seminar of the day. Fuck it, he thought. The most important thing was to get himself together in time for the dinner that evening. He looked at his pale face in the mirror and made a decision: He would spend the rest of the day recovering from his overindulgence, and really concentrate on impressing the network executives that night.

  Thirteen miles away, Shannon Michaels felt strong and alert. He was sitting on his hotel room bed going over his plan for the fifth time. There could be no mistakes, he thought. O’Malley and his crew would be waiting to pounce. Both he and they knew the window of opportunity was small. Lance Worthington would be leaving Lauderdale on Wednesday.

  Shannon decided to strike around 6:30, a half hour before the special cocktail hour for news executives began in the hotel ballroom. He assumed that Lance Worthington would be primed to circulate among his peers, well prepared for the political gamesmanship that always takes place at RTNDA ceremonial dinners.

  For Tommy O’Malley and Ashley Van Buren, it was another day of fitful waiting. The only plus was the overcast weather. A nice breeze was blowing in from the Atlantic, and the inside of the Mercedes was not nearly as hot as it had been the previous day. But the waiting was excruciatingly dull. While Ashley was somewhat relaxed, reading the local papers through her sunglasses, Tommy squirmed. He hated every minute of this sitting around. He was not built for inactivity.

  Even the conversation between Tommy and Ashley was strained. After all, how much can you say to the same person hour after hour after hour without becoming extremely annoying? More than once, Tommy suggested that Ashley return to the hotel and hang out there. He would call her if anything developed.

  But Ashley knew that in order to get the strongest story possible, she had to see the entire scenario unfold. If Shannon Michaels finally appeared, she knew that things would happen very quickly. There would be no time for her to return from the hotel. She would have to tough it out in the car. Besides, she kind of enjoyed watching Tommy’s sedentary agony.

  The day passed slowly for Shannon Michaels, Lance Worthington, Tommy O’Malley, and Ashley Van Buren. Each spent most of the time lost in private thoughts. At five in the afternoon, Shannon put down the novel he couldn’t concentrate on and began arranging his supplies. And with that, Shannon put the end game in motion.

  Reaching into his canvas carrying bag, Shannon pulled out a pair of surgeon’s gloves and stuffed them into the back pocket of his tan slacks. The box cutter purchased the day before went into his front pocket. He then put on his new blue polyester jacket over a plain white sports shirt. A porkpie hat went atop his head. With his salt and pepper beard, he looked like a man in his fifties. Finally, he put on dark glasses, picked up his cane, and walked out the door.

  After ten minutes of driving, Shannon Michaels pulled the Cadillac into an Exxon station with a public phone. He quickly dialed the Marriott Marina and asked for Room 615.

  “Yes,” a weary sounding voice said into the phone.

  “Mr. Worthington, Graham Barker here, the assistant manager.” Shannon’s accent was imitation British. “I’m just calling to make sure everything is going well with your stay.”

  “Well, to tell you the truth, Mr. Barker, the hotel is quite noisy. I’ve been trying to get some rest and it’s been very difficult.”

  Typical Worthington, Shannon thought. Always trying to pull little power plays. “I am extremely sorry about that, sir. Would you like me to send security up to quiet things down?”

  “No, don’t bother,” Worthington said. “But I am getting a bit low on Scotch. The mini-bar needs to be restocked.”

  “I’ll take care of that straightaway, sir. And if you need anything else, please do not hesitate to call.”

  “Fine.” As was his custom, Worthington didn’t say thank you.

  Shannon hung up the phone and walked back to the car. It was a three-mile drive to Worthington’s hotel and he took it slowly, again going over the plan in his mind. As he turned into the small parking lot next to the Marriott, the one he had selected during his reconnaissance, Shannon visualized Lance Worthington lying dead on his hotel room floor. His plan was perfect. It would work.

  Tommy O’Malley was fighting to stay calm. It was now dark outside and he was again worn out from another day of doing absolutely nothing. But his anxiety was mounting. Where is the bastard? he wondered, it’s getting late. Maybe the degenerate has gone home after all. Shit. If I go back to the office with nothing, it’s my ass.

  The car radio briefly interrupted Tommy’s thoughts. On the all-news station from Miami, the big story was the murder of another Haitian radio talk show host. Ashley listened intently, but Tommy had heard it over and over during the day. He continued to watch the hotel entrance, which was now very busy. Guests were checking in and the valet parking attendants were running their butts off.

  Tommy and Ashley could see every person who walked into the front entrance of the hotel, including a bearded man bent over and limping badly. Using his cane to steady himself, the man proceeded very slowly through the center revolving door—the side doors were reserved for use by bellmen. A shame, Ashley thought. The man didn’t seem to be all that old.

  Jackson Davis was exhausted. He had poured more drinks in the previous two days than in his entire life. And he had already been on his feet six hours straight that day. But there were compensations. During his two twelve-hour work shifts, he had received two hundred dollars in tips and three women and one man had blatantly propositioned him—this despite the fact he wasn’t being particularly friendly. Jackson’s attention was focused on each person who walked into the hotel lobby, not on his drinking customers.

  Jackson Davis had never seen so much polyester in his life. It seemed to be standard issue for South Florida visitors. So when a limping man in a light blue double knit sports jacket slowly shuffled by, it hardly registered with Jack. He noted the man and his dopey little hat, but his eyes did not stay on him for long. The man hobbled slowly around the corner of the lobby and disappeared into the elevator.

  The knock on the door startled Lance Worthington. “Mini-bar,” a voice called out. Worthington thought it was about time. He got up off the bed, pulled on a terry-cloth bathrobe, and ope
ned the door. If he had bothered to look through the security peephole, he would have seen a man standing with his back to him. But Worthington didn’t look, and immediately turned his back to the man who entered his room.

  “I need all the Scotch you can spare,” Worthington said in a rather harsh voice.

  Worthington had barely gotten the last word out of his mouth when he suddenly felt a synthetic fabric cover his mouth. A split second later, he felt a sharp pain on the left side of his neck. Fortunately for him, his nerve endings then went dead, and he couldn’t feel the razor-sharp box-cutter blade slice through his throat. Shannon Michaels, having covered Worthington’s mouth with his left hand, used his right hand to brutally slash the man’s jugular vein. Blood filled Worthington’s throat and rushed up through his nasal passages. Because he could make no sound now, Shannon removed his gloved hand from the man’s mouth and stepped in front of him.

  “It’s a cutthroat business you’re in, Worthington,” Shannon said softly. “Say hello to Martin Moore for me.”

  Exactly two seconds before he lost consciousness, Lance Worthington’s brain sent a signal of recognition. Shannon Michaels saw it in the dying man’s eyes. His mission was complete.

  Lance Worthington now lay silently on the floor, where his blood trickled onto and stained the brown carpet. Shannon Michaels turned away, walking into the bathroom and rinsing off the box cutter and gloves. He folded the gloves carefully and placed them in his front pockets along with the cutter. Then he removed a washcloth from the bathroom and used it to cover his hand as he opened the hotel room door and placed the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the outer handle. It was the same move he had made in the Ron Costello assassination. He then picked up his cap, which he had placed on the floor outside the door in case Worthington looked through the peephole. Mini-bar attendants did not usually wear porkpie hats while on duty. His cane was lying next to the cap.