Call Me Joe

by Steven J Patrick

  “Punk,” he sneered. “Turn your sissy ass around and walk out. Now.”

  The two looked at each other and started for the door.

  “Tell the D.C.I. to call me,” I snapped. “We’re going to have words and I’m going to have most of them.”

  Dr. Wright was rigid in his seat. The Kastens and Jane were looking at him as though they’d found a dead roach in the artichoke dip.

  “You son of a bitch!” Jane spat.

  “Oh, we’re just getting to you, Janie,” I smiled. “This is my favorite part. See, Jane and her boy-toy thought the land belonged to the Colville tribe. She asked Aaron to ride the resort boundaries with her and Aaron told her that a guy named Joe had bought it. Jane freaked. Now, she’s just stealing gold. If it’s just part of the resort lease…well, Art, did Jane ask for mineral rights?”

  “Yeah,” he said, glaring at Jane, “I thought it was odd but the Colvilles signed it.”

  “But the Colvilles didn’t know,” I answered, “so the lease, as written, becomes fraud.”

  “Jesus,” Art said stunned. “Yeah, it does.”

  Jane opened her mouth but nothing came out.

  “Now, Jane is, to be polite, nowhere near as smart as she fervently believes she is. She decides that her best bet for stalling out the thing with Joe, and the fact that a resort picnic shelter is going to be built not even 100 yards from her little bonanza, is to bollix up the tribe’s vote on ratifying the leases. She believed—erroneously—that nothing could be built if the leases weren’t valid. So, convinced as usual of her own cleverness, she uses her smarmy affair with a 20-something Colville tribe kid to get to his great aunt, Lucille Greenway, one of the tribal council members.”

  “You bitch,” Clayton Wright hissed. “You created this voting catastrophe? When I have $25 million riding on this thing? What did you do, offer the Greenway woman part of the gold?”

  “Lucille Greenway wasn’t involved at all,” I smiled. “Jane just stole the ballots and forged the signatures. Lucille was telling the god’s truth. She never signed anything.”

  “Tru,” Art said in exasperation. “That would take a pretty accomplished forger.”

  “Or,” I nodded, “somebody with a computer.”

  I reached into Joe’s valise and removed Jane’s laptop, the machine she had left with Jeff Truesdale and used for her dirty business. I had asked Jeff, whose brother works for Microsoft, to go through every file on the machine and erase any mention of his name. His brother was happy to provide software that would not only erase the references but any trace of the keystrokes that made them. Along the way, Jeff found a graphics file with a scan of the Colville’s ballot and a pilfered personal letter from Lucille, bearing her signature.

  “Jane stole the ballot from Lucille’s porch, scanned it in—probably at a Kinkos or a place like that—and then scanned this letter from Lucille to her sister. She cut and pasted the signature into the ballot, printed it out, and then rocked a paper overlay across the page to lightly distort the signature and make it look handwritten. Remember, this wasn’t supposed to fool people forever. It was just a stall. Lucille Greenway is sharp as a trial lawyer but her eyes aren’t. She looked at the ballot, said it was her signature, but knew damned well she never signed it. Jane knew Lucille would do the right thing in any situation, and counted on Lucille’s raising the red flag. She just never thought she’d get caught at it.

  Gene Kasten was looking from one daughter to the other as though confronting a pair of suspicious looking strangers.

  “Here’s the file, by the way,” I added, opening it and turning the laptop to face the table.

  “Now,” I went on, “here’s where the guessing begins. Little Jo-Jo here smells some serious money, which the cash-strapped pissants she hangs with always need. As actual gold, there’s no legal trace of it, no registered assay, so moving it, for criminals, is a piece of cake. Or, maybe she’s tired of running and pictures herself on a beach in Brazil with several strapping bronze men bringing her pina coladas. At some point, ‘Katja’ met Joe and some sort of…bond was formed. I didn’t know the nature of that until I read this…Joe’s will.

  I dropped the 25-page document on the table. It made a surprisingly loud noise which I thought was fitting.

  Joanna reached for it and I pushed it down the table to Art.

  “Read the first bequest,” I said quietly.

  “I hereby bequeath any and all monies, personal assets, revenues from sale of all assets, and any revenues resulting from receivable accounts with the Central Intelligence Agency or other future revenues of any kind to Alicia Jane Mathis, 1717 Pallazo Pensione de Marguerites, Solano, Italy.”

  “Who the hell is that?” Gene Kasten rumbled.

  “Your granddaughter,” I said quietly. “Mother listed in attached document as one Joanna Kasten, same address, Solano, Italy…”

  I looked at Joanna closely. She had already put it together that Joe’s death and her daughter’s inheritance meant jackpot for her.

  “Joanna Kasten,” I read on, “now deceased. Death certificate attached.”

  Joanna’s eyes went wild and she smiled broadly.

  “Well,” she beamed, “as I am not Joanna Kasten, looks like there’s no reason for me to be here.

  She stood and started toward the door.

  “So,” I asked, shaking my head at Aaron, who was angling to cut her off. “You’re denying you are or ever were Joanna Kasten? You never bore a child by Joseph Mathis, and you weren’t planning to kill him, take the gold and his money and go back to your buddies in the caves, right?”

  She walked back to me and smiled up in my face.

  “‘Samatter, pops?” she grinned. “Hard to punish a dead woman, isn’t it? No, I am not now and have never been Joanna Kasten. My name is Katja Saren. I never bore any child for anyone named ‘Joseph Mathis,’ and, as for whatever gold or cash may be coming to me in that will, well…that’s between Joe and me, isn’t it?”

  “Your name doesn’t appear in the will, Joanna,” I smiled. “Joanna died. There’s no Katja Saren in the will because that would be incriminating. There is a Kathy Mathis mentioned. Got a birth certificate, diplomas, driver’s license, doctor’s records…even a passport. Strange thing is, there are no pictures. Just the spaces where Joe was going to put them. Kathy Mathis was going to inherit over $9 million, plus the land. But…she doesn’t exist.”

  “Okay,” she smiled, “I’m Kathy Mathis.”

  “Kathy Mathis is listed as the wife of Joseph Mathis,” I replied. “But, see, that was supposed to be the real document. It’s not here because the wedding Joe had worked and planned for…never happened.”

  “See, dumb ass,” I went on, “he was protecting you. Joanna Kasten was dead, cremated. The clerk’s office in Solano says that. She’s also there as Alicia’s mom. When you lived with him, you’d get plastic surgery and a new set of I.D. He had the surgery booked in Brazil, as the papers in his valise confirm. You’d have been home free, rich, and living in one of the most beautiful places on earth. But, then, that wouldn’t have been enough for you, would it?”

  “Probably not,” she shrugged. The smirk was gone as she sifted through the possibilities and found…nothing.

  “Scotland Yard found a laptop in a dumpster outside the Harrowgate tube stop,” I said. “The user name was Kayess. They found maps of two neighborhoods in Spokane with vantage points and trajectory plots. What, Joanna? The gold and the money wouldn’t have been enough? Joe wouldn’t have done it, you know. He would have wanted to know why.”

  “He’d have done it,” she sneered. “Joe always followed orders.”

  “Wait,” Abigail Kasten interjected. “Do…what?”

  “She wanted Joe to shoot you, Jane and Gene, Mrs. Kasten,” I responded. “I’ll make another guess. The gold, the baby, the politics, Joe…it was all window dressing for this. Killing you—and Jane—was the main event.”

  “Joanna!” Jane gasped. “My god! Wh
y?”

  “Why?” Joanna Kasten snarled. “Why? Why did I wait so long, is a better question. That lunatic snatched me up out of a hotel room, in broad daylight, and made me live in a fucking cave for 15 years! While Miss Perfect was taking ballet lessons and being Miss Idaho, I was eating wild dog in a mud hut in 100 degree heat. Did you ever actually try to get me back, Daddy dear? Did you lift a finger?”

  “Of course we did, Joanna,” Gene Kasten sniffed. “We hired mercenaries, paid bribes to politicians, we looked for years. But it’s a big world and Serge Dageneau was a phantom. Half the people we talked with said he was dead.”

  “He is now,” Joanna hissed. “I killed the bastard myself.”

  She turned to face me, the smirk back in place.

  “So Joanna Kasten is dead,” she chuckled. “No one is looking for her so I just go back to the old passport. And believe me, I’ll be back to finish up here. Count on that.”

  She glared at Gene, Abigail, and Jane and started for the door.

  “Guys, you get all of that?” I shouted, lifting my shirt collar to show Joanna the microphone.

  Three large men in F.B.I. windbreakers burst through the door, accompanied by two federal marshals.

  “Katja Saren,” the lead Feeb intoned, “you’re under arrest for using a false passport and for uttering threats. You are to be held over by federal marshals and then extradited to London to stand trial for 86 counts of premeditated murder.”

  The marshals stepped in, cuffed her, and read her her rights.

  The Kastens and the Wrights looked on in fascinated horror. Jack smiled faintly and shot me a discreet thumbs up. Art slumped in his chair and twiddled a pencil.

  The Feebs arranged a time the next day for my deposition and I promised to show. They started to lead Joanna/Katja out when she turned to face us, her features contorted with hate.

  “This doesn’t matter,” she growled. “America is in its last days. Before your lives are done, you’ll see a new order here…and people like you won’t survive.”

  “That may be,” I nodded. “Anything is possible I guess, But I’ll tell you one thing. Whomever they send to take America down, it’ll have to be somebody a whole lot tougher and smarter than you. You got completely outfoxed by a dead man. Now go to prison.”

  The marshals dragged her out. We could hear her screaming as they exited the building and crossed the front terrace. Then car doors slammed, engines revved, and she was gone.

  “I’m…I’m speechless,” Gene Kasten said to Art.

  “Mr. Kasten,” I said quickly, “you know Stephen Ogburn, don’t you?”

  He stiffened and shifted in his seat.

  “I’m…I’m not at liberty to…”

  “Yeah, you are,” I snapped. “Stephen Ogburn, Special Assistant for Security to the President, old Navy buddy of mine. Steve told me how you came to the President for help, back when your daughter was taken. That was Bush the elder, right? Steve was there as a junior council, then. Imagine my surprise when he told me that you had approached the feds, alright, but it was to ask them not to get her back. They were close to a plan with the Spaniards but you got it nixed.”

  Abigail came out of her chair like a wildcat.

  “You fucking…” she screamed and was on him in a fury of teeth, nails, fists, feet and knees. The attorneys leaped to their feet, ashen and pie-eyed and started pulling them apart.

  Aaron went over and picked up Abigail gently, by the waist, and carried her to the other side of the room.

  “Mr. North,” the lead attorney snapped, “may I speak now?”

  “Sure,” I shrugged. “Who’s stopping you?’”

  He glared at me hotly and shuffled some papers.

  “You know, of course, that none of this is going to be admissible in court?”

  “Boy, you guys are really slow, aren’t ya?” I smiled.

  “I fail to see the point of all this if it can’t go to court…which it can’t. All this information was obtained by false…” he began.

  “Fuck court,” I snarled, “I’m sure, to ineffectual jerks like you, these games you play, with all the prissy little rules and rituals, are the be-all and end-all. Not to me. I don’t care about court. I don’t need to prove any of this. I did what I came to do. Whatever happens from here on out is between these folks. Now, at least, they know who and what they really are. The D.A. has what I have on Jane, by now, and she’s in a fix, but she can put it behind her, if she somehow gets a clue. It’s going to make a dandy feature on C.N.N. right about…now, actually. It certainly has that one magic element: Rich peoples’ shenanigans.”

  The other attorney stood and faced the Wrights.

  “Dr. Wright,” he said stiffly. “I’m afraid I can no longer represent you. I have one hard and fast rule. I do not let clients lie to me. You have. Good day, sir. I’ll tear up your final bill.

  He scooped up his briefcase and marched stiffly out.

  “I’m tempted to tell you that, Gene,” the lead attorney said sternly. “That whole charade you put me through when she went missing…”

  “Did you bill the hours, Roger?” Gene Kasten said absently.

  “Yes,” Roger said, “we did.”

  “Well, alright then,” Kasten said wearily. “You bill me and my companies lot of hours every year, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you’ll get over the momentary umbrage,” Kasten murmured.

  Jane Wright was openly sobbing into a fistful of Kleenex. She looked up, red-eyed, and turned to her father.

  “Why?” she said in a strangled whisper. “I’m not billing any hours, you bastard, and you abandoned my sister!”

  “The maniac was threatening to kill us all!” Kasten shouted. “Dageneau. Your biological father. He’d killed a lot of people, Janie. He’d have done it without a second thought.”

  “Why did he even want her?” Art asked. “Christ, Gene, he made that child a…a monster.”

  “According to Scotland Yard,” I added, “she’s killed at least 18 people herself and helped kill hundreds.

  “She was the troubled one even then,” Abigail whispered, “Moody, combative…she seemed to…to know, somehow, that she…didn’t belong to us.”

  “Hate me if you want to,” Kasten whispered. “I won’t blame you. I did what I had to do to protect…the rest of us.”

  I looked at Aaron. His eyes were rimmed with tears as he slumped in his chair. Jack saw me looking at him and reached over, laying his hand gently on Aaron’s arm.

  “I hate this,” I murmured. “You have no idea how much I hate this. I especially hate what happened to that child and the literally worldwide ripple effect it came to have. I especially hate the part about Joe. He was, fundamentally, a good man, a good soldier. If Katja hadn’t lit the fuse to his confusion over this resort, he’d have retired, someday, with the thanks of a grateful nation. He was just a poor, simple kid from Oregon who wasn’t smart enough, when he was younger, to question his orders. In the final analysis, though, that will…it was like him reaching out from the grave to handcuff Katja…and I think it may not have been a coincidence. I’m wondering if he had some help.”

  I glared at Clayton Wright. He stared at me steadily but, after a few seconds, I saw his resolve falter. He glanced out the window and cleared his throat.

  “I hate to be practical, here,” Clay Wright said evenly, “but where does this leave the resort?”

  “On schedule,” I shrugged. “They take Lucille and Marcus ballots, they sign for real, and you’re good to go. Jack?”

  “Nothing else to do,” he sighed. “Way the contracts read, we can’t force a sale, but I think Tony and I need to talk.”

  “I quite agree,” Pembroke said gravely. “My God, look at what this has cost! Six wonderful men, untold misery. We may not force a sale but I can do one thing, with Jack’s agreement and Arthur as witness?”

  “I’m on it,” Art murmured reaching over and tapping his associate on the kn
ee. She whipped out a legal pad and sat at the ready.

  “I, as principal owner of Coyote Creek Resort, hereby ban Doctor and Mrs. Clayton Wright from any and all properties owned or operated by Pembroke and Hawkes, Pembroke Property Ventures, or Mountain Empire Partners. You are to have no access to the resort, your lodge lease is revoked and you no longer publicly represent Coyote Creek in any way. Subject to agreement of the majority partner…”

  “Seconded,” Jack barked.

  “All in favor say ‘aye’.”

  “Aye,” said Jack, Tony, and Rod Hooks.

  “Opposed?”

  “No,” Wright said hotly.

  “Ayes have it.” Pembroke growled, “Jack, I’d appreciate it if you’d call Steptoe and get Joe’s property fenced and hire round-the-clock guards. Permanently. If Jane Wright shows up there ever again, lock her up.

  “Done,” Jack snapped.

  “You can’t do that!” Jane pleaded. “You don’t own his land!”

  “His daughter owns his land,” I pointed out, “and the will names her guardians.”

  “Who. .who are they?” Gene Kasten asked.

  “You,” I sighed. “You and Mr. and Mrs. Lars Reijnen of Joseph, Oregon.”

  “Who is that?” Art asked.

  “Joe’s parents,” I said quietly.

  “I don’t get something,” Jack blurted out. “How did the C.I.A. find you that fast?”

  “They found the phone,” I chuckled. “I knew they were coming, especially when I activated it. I didn’t know they’d get here so fast.

  “I ‘bout shit my drawers,” one of Art’s faceless clerks murmured.

  I laughed. So did Jack, Art, and Aaron. It felt good.

  “Stanley!” Art smiled.

  “Well, I did,” Stanley said blushing.

  “I just have one question for you, Jane,” I said sternly. “You overheard a phone conversation between Clayton and Joe. You knew your father had done something with the government. You also knew your sister had a child, didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” she said in a tiny voice.

  “Why didn’t you ever say anything to anybody?” I asked.