The multi-agency task force designed to investigate the assassination had found the sniper’s hiding place. It was well beyond the perimeter that was deemed necessary for security. Inside the hide, the rifle was still on its tripod. The spent brass from the bullet lay on the rooftop. Food wrappers and a bucket of waste indicated the assassin had laid in wait for days.
A canvassing of the neighborhood turned up nothing. Nobody had seen anyone coming or going. The man or woman who had pulled the trigger had pulled a disappearing act that Penn and Teller would envy.
Inevitably, with the fury and speed of a California brush fire, the bloggers and conspiracy theorists took over. The CIA was one of the usual suspects. The Russian government another. One astute commentator speculated that “Even a billionaire plunderer like Ptushko can’t finance the overthrow of governments, as in Uramera, then expect all the alienated military personnel to just sit idly by.”
He would never know how right he was.
58
One day after the parade drama, the war room at Dunn, Burgess & Taylor was buzzing as the team conducted its customary early morning survey of the news and pop culture websites. It was decision day for the Zealot Jeans alternate reality game. Arlo, Mya, Sisha and Leah were making one last check online for mentions of the game’s finalists, before letting Peter Dunn and Jean Zélat know who they should announce as the grand prize winner.
The night before, when they ran the algorithm to assign values to exposure, positive press, appropriateness to the brand and longevity, the Yoga Hottie had taken a slim lead over the rest of the field. Today’s combing of current events was just to confirm the margin of victory.
Halfway through the team’s morning ritual of lattés and doughnuts, Leah discovered something that was rocking the media landscape. “Monitor four! Look at monitor four!” she shouted.
The team’s attention was spot-welded to the fourth big-screen. There, in startling high def, a news website was running with a still photo of the assassination of Pyotr Ptushko. The photographer must have been situated at ground level along the parade route, shooting at ultra high speed.
Her photo captured the precise moment of the bullet’s impact on Ptushko’s head.
The carnage was horrible and spectacular at the same time. Pieces of skull and brain were clearly visible. Sitting next to Ptushko, his assistant Yasmine Sivortsova was checking her smartphone, oblivious to the fact that she was just about to be hit by the spray of blood and brain matter. The Mayor of Salento, on the other side of Ptushko, was still waving to the crowd, which was still cheering. Everyone in the photograph was oblivious to the horror that would shatter their world half a second later.
“Oh my God,” Arlo said.
“That’s unbelievable,” echoed Sisha.
Mya was silent. Like the others, she was captivated by the image of Ptushko at the instant of his death. It seemed like the photographer had captured his last heartbeat and moment of consciousness. But that wasn’t the only thing the image had preserved for eternity. She pointed to a spot in the background of the image.
One block east of the parade route and ten stories off the ground in fifteen-foot high letters, the words “Zealots Rule” were visible. More than visible, they almost seemed to headline the photograph. It was pure coincidence that only that portion of the “Zealots Rule the Jean Pool” mural had been captured, due to the angle of the photographer’s vision.
Later, when further details of Ptushko’s villainy came to light, the media would revisit the photo and discuss the irony of “Zealots Rule.” But at the moment the photo was already being hailed as a shoo-in for the Association of News Photographers’ photo of the year. A Pulitzer was rumored to be a foregone conclusion. Every major news magazine, television station, and website in the world ran the image. CNN was calling it “the modern-day equivalent of the Zapruder film of Kennedy’s assassination.”
Every time it appeared, the phrase Zealots Rule was an inescapable part of the commentary. Like Mya, the other members of the team were astounded. The news was obviously spreading quickly, because within seconds Peter Dunn burst into the war room with the same incredulous look on his face.
Arlo finally broke the silence. “Ladies and gentlemen, I believe we have a winner.”
Later that day, Jean Zélat was sequestered in Dunn’s office with Mya and Arlo. They were evaluating the consequences of awarding the Zealot Jeans grand prize to finalist number four.
Jean Zélat was a courageous client. He understood that his brand could not be all things to all people. That there should be aspects of the Zealot Jeans brand that people outside the target audience found objectionable. But Zélat was also a man of impeccable style. And his question to the agency was whether this would be in bad taste.
Dunn was his usual thoughtful self. When he did speak up, his words were well chosen. “Life is full of irony. Before he created the Peace Prize that bears his name, Alfred Nobel invented dynamite and owned an artillery factory. It seems like every hour another terrible thing comes out about Ptushko. His character is very questionable, so I don’t think that your brand will suffer. I think ‘Zealots Rule’ is a worthy recipient.”
Mya added her voice to the discussion. “Truthfully, Jean, we have no choice. Based on the computer algorithm Arlo and the team developed, the scores for ‘Zealots Rule the Jean Pool’ are off the charts. And I agree with Peter—even if it brings some notoriety to the brand, it’s consistent with the personality around the jeans.”
Zélat sat with his hands folded in front of his mouth. They waited patiently. Eventually a smile spread slowly across his face. He looked at Dunn and the rest of the team with a twinkle in his eye. “As the late and apparently not-so-great Pyotr Ptushko can attest: you only live once.”
The Colonel stood on the stern of the Liberian-registered freighter StellaLuna. He looked back at the port of Salento, now a mile distant. From his inside jacket pocket he withdrew a cigar. He clipped the end meticulously and lit it, taking a large and satisfying draw. As he exhaled he vowed he would not smoke another until they had reclaimed their country and purged the corrupt government.
Luis joined him at the railing, his arm in a sling. The wound had been dressed and was already on the mend. The men admired the beauty of the coast. They had left destruction and chaos in their wake, but with a minimal loss of life. In the coming weeks, they knew they would not be so fortunate.
59
Before she left the office for the evening, Mya knocked on Dunn’s door. He was, as usual, on his phone. But he waved her into his office enthusiastically. She took a seat in one of the four matching Philippe Starck Pratfall chairs he kept around his informal meeting table. Dunn disconnected from the call and buzzed his assistant. “Cynthia, I’m in a very important meeting with Mya. Can you see that we’re not disturbed please?”
There was a pause and then he added. “Ha ha, yes, I know, I’m already disturbed. Very good.”
He shook his head at Cynthia’s insubordination then sat down with Mya. “You’ve thought about my offer to join the Executive Management Team?”
Mya nodded. “Apart from seeing that Jean Zélat is happy, it has been the foremost thing on my mind.”
“And?”
“Peter, there’s nobody I’d rather sell my soul for. You’re unlike any boss I’ve ever had. Your faith in me is awe-inspiring. Even the way you laugh with Cynthia when she gives you a hard time…it’s all very comfortable.”
“I sense a ‘but’ coming.”
Mya hesitated. “Not necessarily. I’d just like more time. Mitchell and I have something good going. I’ve never been with anyone like him, and I think a big promotion like this might throw a wrench into our relationship.”
Dunn scratched his chin and contemplated her answer. It was another thing that she respected about him. Several previous bosses had been quick to counter when she raised a perspective that ran contrary to their own. Dunn always gave the impression he was weighing your point of
view very carefully. He got up and went to his desk. Reaching underneath he pulled open a refrigerated drawer and took out a Dr. Pepper. “Care for one?” he asked.
“Sure, if you have a diet,” Mya said.
He smiled and produced a can of diet Dr. Pepper for her. As he held it out to her he looked at it with admiration. “The only soft drink whose diet version lives up to the original,” he said.
They each took a slug of their sodas, and Dunn began to speak. “You remember last year when I took my polar bear eco-adventure to the Canadian north?”
She laughed. “How could I forget. Rumor had it that you were on the same excursion as the Prime Minister of Japan.”
He smiled mischievously. “I can neither confirm nor deny such gossip. Anyway, it was beautiful up there. Before we flew to the remote northern area that has the best bear watching, our pilot took us to a place called the Bush Pilot’s pub. The bar was actually made from one wing of a legendary bush pilot’s plane. Best damn burger I’ve ever had. Caribou, I believe it was.”
Mya loved interrupting him when he rambled on. “And what does your caribou burger have to do with this promotion being an obstacle to my personal relationship?”
“Yes, right. Here’s the thing. We met up with some of the indigenous people up there. The uninitiated call them Eskimos, but they’re actually Inuit. Wonderful people. Anyway, our guide said that the earliest explorers of the north had the perspective that the huge ice floes in the ocean were accursed obstacles to their shipping route. The Inuit, on the other hand, regard the ice floes as a blessing. They act as bridges. The ice allows them to hunt, communicate with other villages, and explore new territory.”
“So you’re saying that it’s all a matter of perspective.”
“Pretty much. You see this carrot I’m dangling as getting in the way of your relationship with Mitchell. I see it as opening possibilities. To a lifestyle that most people never get to live. To experiences and stimulating challenges that will enrich your life together. And to an eventual level of financial security that can make your relationship more solid than ever.”
Mya grinned. “And a remote group of indigenous people in the Canadian north taught you this?”
“Absolutely,” he said.
“Did you teach them anything?” she asked.
“Of course,” Dunn said with a laugh. “I taught them that they could get twice as much for their services as guides. That bush pilot told me if he ever saw my face up there again, he’d punch my lights out.”
Mya got up from her chair. “Okay, give me the weekend. I’ll have an answer for you on Monday,” she said.
“Take your time. I promise no dirty tricks on my part, like asking Mitchell if he’d like to play Pebble Beach with me next month.”
As she exited the elevator and walked toward her condo door, Mya felt like she was walking in a peat bog. She and the team had been up for thirty-seven hours straight, fueled by pizza and paranoia. Their agency was the toast of the industry. The client was ecstatic. And finalist number four, a hot dog vendor who had dropped out of art school because he couldn’t afford tuition, was on his way to the party of a lifetime: a trip with eleven friends on Jean Zélat’s jet to his private island in the Dutch Antilles.
She fumbled with her keys. A delicious smell sidled under the door. She opened the door and was enveloped by an aroma so vivid it was sensual. Mitchell walked to the entryway to meet her. He was wearing her fuzzy slippers, which only covered half his feet. He slipped them off, then knelt and took her pumps off her feet. He guided her feet into the still-warm, sheepskin-lined slippers, then took her by the hand and tugged her gently into the kitchen. Sitting her down, he poured her a glass of pinot noir.
“I can’t decide which is fuzzier, my head or my feet,” Mya said.
“By the time we finish off this bottle of Domaine Drouhin, my money will be on your head.”
“What’s for dinner?” she asked as they clinked glasses.
“A little something I whipped up. Parmesan-rosemary baguette, warm from the oven. Accompanied by a salad of organic greens and heirloom tomatoes, and pan-seared ahi tuna, which I am just about to throw on the grill, one minute per side thank you very much. For dessert, Emilio sends his regards with a raspberry chocolate torte.”
She took a sip of her wine. “I’m taking the next three days off, and I don’t want to leave the condo. Do we have enough supplies?”
Mitchell grinned. “I can let the Sandman know I’ll be missing in action for a while. And we can order in what we don’t have.”
He seared the tuna, then served dinner across the coffee table so they could sit on the living room floor. Mya looked out over the skyline. It glittered innocently. “How’s that line go, from the old movie? ‘There are eight million stories in the naked city…’”
“This has been one of them,” Mitchell added. “I like it when you say ‘naked.’”
Here is a sneak peek at chapter one from “Slice,” the sequel to “Grass”:
1
It took an hour before anyone called the cops.
Some people were so immersed in their morning routine that they were oblivious. Others probably looked without actually seeing. Still others may have seen and figured it was a marketing stunt for a new horror film.
Nonetheless, a human head impaled on the iron fence of the Doyle Public Gardens in downtown Salento should not have escaped notice for a full sixty minutes. At least that was what Detective Sal Mitchell and his partner Eddie Sandovan thought.
They had gotten the call because the Eighth Precinct was right across the street from the west side of the Gardens. The head was stuck on one of the iron spikes that conspired to form the main entrance gate, on the east side. So Mitchell and Sandovan grabbed a coffee and a donut—not caring about the cop-donut stereotype—and walked over to the east gate.
“I think people have been inured to this sort of thing,” Sandovan mused as he scarfed back the remnants of his donut.
“Inured, huh,” said Mitchell. “I see you’ve been using that ‘word-a-day’ calendar that Claire bought you for Christmas.”
“It’s enthralling,” Sandovan nodded, taking a sip of his coffee.
Mitchell stepped off the path for a moment. He reached under a shrub, picked up a golf ball and tossed it to Sandovan. “Gotta be one of yours.”
The detectives knew every inch of the west side of the park. The Eighth Precinct had a ‘green’ roof that Mitchell and Sandovan had turned into a driving range. They often hit balls from the grass on top of the building into the duck pond across the street. While both men were good golfers, there was still the occasional skulled shot that flew a bit further than it should. Fortunately, no one had complained.
Mitchell had petitioned city hall for the green roof, citing environmental benefits. He was as surprised as anyone when the city approved a $310,000 pilot project, but the building had saved money on its energy bill and on roof maintenance. Soundproofing was improved, and Mitchell had even made a case for helping reduce the “urban heat island” effect that was caused by the large expanses of pavement and concrete in downtown Salento. He neglected to tell the people at Salento Public Works that the roof had also helped lower his handicap from a nine to a seven.
Sandovan inspected the golf ball more closely as they walked. “Actually, I remember this one. It was that double or nothing shot you made me hit from one of your divots.”
He pocketed the ball and they approached the crime scene. A uniformed officer lifted the yellow police line tape and let them through. On the sidewalk in front of the park gate a knot of reporters and tabloid photographers clustered three-deep at the barricades. Two umbrellas had been duct-taped around the top of the gate where the head sat on one of the metal spikes. A few droplets of blood had fallen to the concrete underneath.
“Hey Ridley,” Mitchell shouted over to one of the uniforms. “Good thinking with the umbrellas. I’ll bet some of these vultures still got their photo though,
right?”
“Geez Mitch,” Ridley replied, “to be honest it wasn’t to protect against the vultures. It was the crows.”
He motioned to a nearby tree branch where three large crows sat waiting for an opening. “One of ’em was after an eyeball when I got here, so I shooed him away and we put the umbrellas up after the guys checked the top of the gate for prints.”
“Yuck,” Sandovan said.
They looked over the scene as the crime techs did their work. After 30 minutes of talking to bystanders and trying to see if any of the city or business-owned street cameras had an angle, the head was removed from the gate and bagged. The scene would be blocked off for another few hours while any remaining evidence was gathered. Then the decontamination and sterilization company would be allowed in to clean up. Mitchell watched one of the crime techs walk to the van with the head in a bag.
“Wonder if a human head really weighs eight pounds like they said in Jerry Maguire?” he said absentmindedly to Sandovan.
The tech turned as he walked past. “Not necessarily. Depends on a lot of things. Size of the person, cranial circumference, how many vertebrae are still attached to the head… we had a guy decapitated in a motorcycle accident last year whose head weighed 12 pounds. Without hair.”
Mitchell looked to Sandovan. “Cranial circumference.”
“Yep. Yours swells uncontrollably on the rare occasion you beat me in a golf wager.”
“Yeah yeah. I beat you so often I’m inured to cranial swelling.”
They watched as the crowd started to disperse. With no more opportunities to get a cellphone shot of the severed head, the public was off in search of the next instant-media fix. It was a bit of a cliché that the perp always returned to the scene, but you just never knew. Not that they’d have any probable cause to accost a bystander, but the detectives both knew of instances where felons had been captured by crime scene stills or video.
“Anything?” Sandovan said as he scanned the street.
“Nah. Not even when I racially profile. Although maybe we should harass that banker until he gives us a stock tip,” said Mitchell.
Grass Page 27