Velvet Mafia

by Lydia L Watts

  VELVET MAFIA

  A N o v e l

  Also By

  LYDIA L. WATTS

  One Man’s Action

  VELVET MAFIA

  A N o v e l

  LYDIA L. WATTS

  His Will

  PUBLISHING

  Copyright © 2018, Lydia L. Watts

  All rights reserved.

  The use of any part of this publication, reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise stored in a retrieval system, without the prior consent of the publisher is an infringement of the copyright law.

  His Will Publishing

  George Foster, cover designer

  Rachel Arterberry, editor

  David Moratto, interior designer

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  First edition.

  Paperback ISBN: 978-1-7323845-2-1

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-7323845-3-8

  All those who have contemplated “what if”…

  the first question of one’s imagination,

  I wrote this book for you!

  Cast of Characters

  Teddy Alexander Former FBI Agent

  Dr. Isabella Cardosa Renowned scientist

  Taylor DuBois Chief of staff for DC Councilman Guy Yeager

  Eli Edelstein Business associate of Blake Jones

  Charlie Henderson FBI Agent

  Grey Jeffries DC Council member

  Blake Jones Businessman, philanthropist, DC power broker

  Lauren Jordan Bass guitarist of Deep Diamonds

  Devon Yancy Laurie IV Artist and sculptor; heir to the Clydesdale Energy fortune

  Stan Lewis Managing editor of The Cutting Edge

  Miles Racine Commander of the DC Police Department

  Dr. Basil Rhodes Renowned scientist

  Kennedy St. John Executive director, Blind Artists Guild; Married to Lance St. John

  Lance St. John Washington Herald investigative reporter

  Jason Walls FBI Agent

  Rev. Hershel Wiley Sr. Head of People’s United organization

  Guy Yeager DC Council member

  Contents

  Act I: The Unravel

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Act II: The Reveal

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Act III: The Release

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Act IV: The Reckoning

  Chapter 25

  Acknowledgements

  ACT I

  THE UNRAVEL

  To investigate and solve or explain something complicated or puzzling

  Chapter 1

  IT WAS 9:30 P.M. when the crap hit the fan. Lance had just left his office and sirens were blasting as paramedics, fire trucks and DC’s finest were heading toward the John A. Wilson Building … the building known for its corruption. Deals and more deals despite the consequences. DC was the home of lobbyists and interest groups, partisan politics, homosexual influences, no-bid contracts and pretentiousness. But for those looking in, DC was nothing more than a country ghetto; a city riddled with violence, broken schools and the highest HIV rate in the country.

  As the sirens and the flashing lights reached their destination, the crowds began moving in. Something happened and it would be life changing. Lance St. John knew this was the scoop. The cast of characters and the location made this a reporter’s dream and the Washington Herald ace was dreaming with his eyes wide open. However, before he could get started, he had to first call Kennedy.

  Not only did he want to tell her he would be late, but he wanted to see if she had seen or heard anything about the activity at the Wilson Building. For the District of Columbia, the John A. Wilson Building was equivalent to the White House. Emanating from the walls of this opulent structure were power and influence shrouded in secrets of the past and present.

  Lance called Kennedy while walking as fast as he could. A strange voice answered and at first, he thought he had called the wrong number. But, instead of calling back, he was drawn to the intoxication of the flashing lights surrounding the District’s power center.

  The Wilson Building looked as if it were under siege. By the time Lance arrived, the crowd was growing hysterical. Two bodies had already been rolled down the sidewalk, and busy paramedics surrounded another gurney on its way out of the building.

  While still surveying his surroundings, Lance was shocked to overhear several officers saying that Clarence Whitherspoon, the District’s flamboyant mayor, had been shot. Could the mayor’s alleged affiliations be the reason for the attack? For weeks, rumors had been circulating that Whitherspoon had been involved in several underground enterprises, the type that could prove to be deadly if exposed.

  Like everybody else, all Lance could do was stand by and watch as the paramedics pushed and pressed on Whitherspoon’s chest while wheeling him to the ambulance.

  It seemed unbelievable! But maybe it was, instead, inevitable that the “District Giant,” as he was commonly referred to, would be the most recent casualty in a series of high-ranking political murders shocking the nation. First it was the prominent senator from New Jersey, next Detroit’s youngest-ever mayor, and now, Clarence Whitherspoon, DC’s go-to man.

  Around the District, whether you liked his politics or not, Whitherspoon was a man of and for the people. He’d grown up on the southeast side and gone to Georgetown University on an academic scholarship. After graduating from Georgetown Law School, he established his law office in the heart of Anacostia, one of the worst neighborhoods in the District. He was so good, his rich clients paid for his pro bono work. No matter where he was, the media loved him and treated him like a rock star. He was smart and fearless and didn’t take any mess from anybody — especially the city council. As contentious as those relationships were, everyone knew who really ran the District, and for some, like Councilman Guy Yeager, this didn’t sit well.

  Lance watched in disbelief as the paramedics stopped their desperate attempt to save Whitherspoon. Just then, his cell phone rang, but whoever was calling had to wait. Lance knew, with a story like the assassination of Clarence Whitherspoon, he had to stay focused.

  Several hours passed and the crowd got bigger and bigger. People were driving, walking, and running just to get a look at what was going on. It was clear the police were starting to feel the pressure and their adrenaline was high. Onlookers were being told to leave or they would be placed under arrest. Lance, protected by his Washington Herald credentials, watched from a safe distance and interviewed anyone who appeared interesting.

  He felt his phone vibrate on his hip. The text said

  I have information on Whitherspoon’s assassination.

  Call me at 202–555–2756. Agent Alexander.

  Wow, the well-known Agent Alexander, calling me! Lance dialed the number and before he could say hello, the person on the other end started talking.

  “Mr. St. John, this is Agent Teddy Alexander. We need to talk. Meet me at 1600 hours on Saturday at Union Station in front of B Smith’s restaurant.
I think what happened at the Wilson Building —” The phone went dead. Lance redialed the number but there was no answer. He tried a second time and a third time; still no answer.

  Lance worked on his story all night. By the time he finished, the sun had come up. As he placed his belongings in his satchel and prepared to head home, he knew what to expect. Kennedy would be furious.

  Once inside their foyer, he could see a video camera had been set up with an envelope taped to its lens. Kennedy was known for being dramatic, so he figured she was pissed off and wanted to show him just how much. By the way things were strewn all around, he could tell she definitely wanted the message to be clear. The house was a wreck. Furniture was upside-down, clothes were tossed everywhere, and glass had been broken. Suddenly, while examining the condition of the house, he heard a faint noise coming from the den. “Kennedy, is that you? Are you all right?”

  On the den floor, lying in a pool of blood, was their dog, Lulu. Lance rushed over to comfort her, and found her barely able to lift her head. He leaned down to examine her, and she softly licked his face before lying back down and closing her eyes.

  Lulu was dead. It was as if she had stayed alive long enough, just for him.

  Now Lance began to panic. Was someone still in the house? He went to his desk, pulled out his revolver, and checked to make sure it was loaded. He headed out the den door. Perspiring and riddled with anxiety, Lance searched every room in the house but Kennedy was nowhere to be found. Emotionally spent, Lance returned to the den and began sobbing.

  Seeing Lulu dead on the floor only heightened Lance’s grief and sorrow and all he could do was slide down next to his friend and question why Kennedy would do this. Then he remembered the video cam-era in the foyer; whatever he needed to know had been left behind for his review. Lance jumped up and made his way down the hall, unaware that his hands and shoes were covered in Lulu’s blood.

  Once in the foyer, he grabbed the envelope from the lens of the camera. Only when he started to open it did he notice his bloody hands. In shock, he dropped the envelope and began frantically to wipe his hands on his clothes, desperately trying to remove the crimson stain now etched in his mind.

  Still unable to comprehend what was going on, Lance reached again for the envelope. Wiping the tears and sweat from his eyes, hands shaking, Lance could see the envelope had been sealed with a hard blue paste. Impressed on the paste were the letters VM. He had seen the insignia before. Curious but also cautious, Lance gently opened the envelope to evaluate its contents. Not surprisingly, inside was a letter addressed to him.

  Mr. St. John:

  We have your wife. If you want to see her again, do not notify the police. Watch the video and follow our instructions. If you do anything other than what you have been instructed to do, the next article you write will be your lovely wife’s obituary. If you do not believe us, check the time on your watch and then dial 911. Carved on her forehead will be the exact time of your call to the authorities. Now that we have your attention, the first thing we want you to do is give DC’s finest, Agent Teddy Alexander, this message.

  Councilman Guy Yeager arrived at his office at 5:30 am. By the time he walked through the double-wide doors, his staff were already handing him messages, reporting on earlier conversations about the mayor’s death, and scheduling meetings.

  Guy was known as a sharpshooter and right or wrong, he had two personalities. Or three if he failed to take his medication. His first personality came out when he was in front of a camera. He loved the attention when the cameras were rolling and often came off as the type of public official driven only by his constituents’ needs. But the truth of the matter was that when he was publicly acting like the man of the people, he had already said or done something that had offended someone with power and if he wasn’t careful, that offense could cost him his coveted city council seat. After all, in the District of Columbia, two hundred votes could make a politician or break a politician.

  His second personality was a representation of his true self — a sarcastic, insecure, narcissist, stoned to death by his own arrogance. That’s why he needed medication. He was bipolar like a bitch.

  The murder of Mayor Whitherspoon put Guy Yeager in his element. His phone was ringing off the hook, he had several interviews lined up, and it was time to make his power play. Whitherspoon had not been dead twenty-four hours and all the locals were already asking who would succeed him.

  Guy’s sources were positioned well within the late mayor’s administration. It seemed the entire executive branch had at least one gay man working in a key role, and this served Guy perfectly. His sources were confirming the inevitable: the executive branch was squirming as it looked for the right person to run the city. Since the city did not have a succession or contingency plan … well, in Guy’s mind, he was the best and most logical choice.

  Standing in front of his mirror, Guy could not help but admire how good he looked. What a great day! His dark black, thick hair lay perfectly in place, and his tailor-made suit hung flawlessly on his well-defined physique. On this particular day, his sea-green eyes appeared even more exotic and addicting than they had hours before, and other than the small scar that crossed his brow, he was perfect. Standing six foot tall, Guy always enjoyed marveling at himself. Now, with the mayor dead, his dream was finally coming true. He said quietly, “Mirror, mirror on the wall, now who’s the most powerful queen of them all?” Laughing at his own joke, Guy was definitely in his element.

  But now it was time to get back to business. “Taylor,” Guy yelled as he adjusted his tie. “Taylor, where are you?”

  Taylor DuBois was the only Black woman on Guy’s staff and his top lieutenant. Chief of Staff DuBois was the type of woman who allowed her position to define her identity, and she believed her own hype. She knew DC politics and she also knew that getting to the top of DC’s political stratosphere didn’t mean you had to sleep with your boss. For her, she simply had to make her boss feel as if he was better at being a woman than she was. By doing so, she would be privy to all his secrets. Taylor was also great at creating rumors and innuendos. In fact, she was a master of J. Edgar Hoover gay-boy political tricks, the kind based on lies with the sole intent of crushing careers. All she needed was a rumor to start the spin.

  Between Guy and Taylor, it was hard to tell who was playing whom. Everyone knew Guy loved the drama Taylor created on his behalf, and she loved being the most powerful Black woman within council chamber corridors. People feared Guy and when they looked at Taylor, they saw him — something she relished.

  “Taylor, get in here,” Guy said. “I want to —”

  Before Guy could finish his sentence, Blake Jones entered his office. Jones was a man always in the know. If something was happening on the political scene, Blake was a broker. However, regardless of Jones’s status, it was unusual for him to be in Guy’s office under any circumstance.

  “Hello, Guy,” Blake said. “I knew you would have a smug look on your face when you looked up and saw me. I just wish I were a betting man.”

  Fuming at the remark, Guy took the bait and immediately shot back. “What do you want, carpetbagger?” Guy said, spit dangling from the side of his mouth.

  All Blake could do was laugh. He knew Guy couldn’t handle the heat and his intent was to arouse his testicular fortitude. Blake was on a mission: to show that Guy Yeager was a murderer. But first he had to diminish Guy’s delusions of grandeur, before his ego tricked him into thinking he was the heir apparent for one of the most powerful positions in the nation’s capital. Political correctness was never on Blake’s agenda. If he had anything to do with it, Guy Yeager would never run the District of Columbia, despite how inevitable that thought was to Guy and others. But it would never happen. Unbeknownst to Guy, Blake had another plan for him, a plan that would expose Guy for who he really was — and it was personal.

  “I just thought I would drop by to see how you were doing and provide you with some advice,” Blake said.<
br />
  “Advice?” Guy walked around to where Blake was standing. “What could you possibly have to tell me that I would be interested in?”

  “It’s not what I am going to say to you; it’s what I want to show you,” Blake said. Reaching inside his inner jacket pocket, Blake pulled out a picture of three men dressed in costumes, standing over the body of what appeared to be a dead woman. Without looking up or even acknowledging the truths that emanated from the photo, Guy knew his chance at becoming the nation’s capital’s first openly gay mayor was over, and Blake Jones was the reason why.

  Kennedy awoke with a pounding headache and her face felt as if it had been smashed in. Swallowing was difficult and the taste of her own blood was nauseating. She could not understand what had hap-pened, nor could she remember how she got … wherever she was.

  The last thing she recalled was setting the table for dinner. Her relationship with Lance was failing and together, tonight, they were going to discuss if the relationship was worth fighting for. Kennedy loved Lance, but over the last year, things had changed and their relationship had seemed to stall. Without kids keeping them connected, they acted more like roommates than a married couple.

  But it hadn’t always been like that. When they’d started to date, it had been the real thing. They had even made a vow that if either one decided they wanted out of the relationship, they would tell the other before they did something that would betray the trust they shared. But that vow had been betrayed. Kennedy had become involved with someone else.

  As her head continued to pound and her face and body continued to ache, she could barely think. Then she remembered the knock on her front door and the two men standing on her front porch. Now, with every attempt to recall the incident, the assault on her seemed relentless. Leaning back on the concrete floor, the cold took some of the pressure and pain away. Even as her head adjusted to the floor’s hardness, she could see herself running through the house knocking over things as she tried to get away. Then, she remembered, everything had gone black.