Marc Kadella Legal Mysteries Vol 1-6 (Marc Kadella Series)

by Dennis Carstens

Kadella looked up from the brief he was writing for one of Mickey’s cases and saw him standing in his office doorway. Another thing about Mickey was his affection for three-piece suits. Rumor had it that in fifty years no one had ever seen him wearing anything else. Standing in Marc’s doorway, despite the slight paunch and mostly grey hair with fading red streaks, the old man looked as dapper as ever.

  “I don’t know,” Marc replied. “Why?”

  “I got two tickets to a fundraiser for this guy, Tom Carver, the presidential candidate. They’re having a soirée at the St. Paul Hotel tonight.”

  “Soirée huh? I don’t know, will they have beer and brats?” Marc said with a laugh. “How did you get tickets? How much were they?”

  “Twenty-five hundred bucks each and no, I didn’t pay for them. I got them from a guy who couldn’t make it.”

  “Because he’s in jail?” Marc asked.

  “No,” Mickey laughed. “He probably should be but he’s not. You want to go? I was supposed to take Loretta but she can’t make it.”

  “Who’s Loretta?” Marc asked.

  “A, ah, friend,” Mickey replied.

  “Loretta? Why does that sound familiar?” Marc quietly, rhetorically asked. He snapped his fingers in recognition, pointed a finger at Mickey and said, “Isn’t she Loretta Finch, aka Charmaine? You were going to take a hooker slash stripper to a political fund raiser?”

  “Ssssh,” Mickey said and held an index finger to his lips, not wanting his staff to hear.

  “How appropriate,” Marc laughed. “She’d fit right in.”

  “That’s true,” Mickey said with a big grin. “That’s why I wanted to take her. Plus, she’s a gorgeous woman.”

  “Yeah, she is,” Mac agreed. “What is she anyway? Her ethnicity.”

  “I think she’s about one-eighth black, one quarter American Indian, a little French, one-half white and one-half Vietnamese and just enough Latino to be a spitfire.”

  “What? She can’t be…, never mind. Let me call Karen and see what’s up at home. I’ll let you know.”

  A few minutes before 8:00 o’clock that evening, Mickey and Marc Kadella were in line at the St. Paul Hotel in downtown St. Paul. There were about twenty people ahead of them, mostly very well dressed couples. Looking over the crowd, Marc was glad he had a court hearing that morning and had worn his best suit for it and did not feel out of place now. Two serious looking men and one woman, all with an ear piece in an ear and a noticeable bulge under their suit coats, were checking tickets. They were also quickly waving a metal-detecting wand over each of the guests.

  The line was entering the Promenade Ballroom. The room allowed for five hundred people and at twenty-five hundred bucks a ticket, a cool million and a quarter dollars would be raised tonight. The money was going toward the candidacy of the man the media was on the verge of proclaiming to be the next president, the current governor of Colorado, Thomas Jefferson Carver. As if his mother knew before he was born, she made sure he even had the name for the job.

  Along with this very successful, charming and extremely photogenic governor was a wife and family cut from central casting. A one-time second runner-up in the Miss Illinois pageant, Darla Benton Carver was not your typical political wife.

  The Carver’s appeared to be the model of the new-age family and had been proclaimed so by Time magazine. Intelligent, educated— both graduates of prestigious law schools; him, Yale; her, Michigan. With great looks, charm, political appeal and an ideal pedigree, Tom, at 50, was a successful state attorney general and governor; Darla, age 48, a former assistant U.S. Attorney. And of course, they had the perfect, photogenic children: a daughter, Natalie age 16 and a son, Jefferson age 14. Little wonder the adoringly smitten media was proclaiming the race all but over a year before the election.

  The couple had met almost twenty-five years ago. Tom was a paid staffer for a U.S. Senator running for re-election from Ohio. Darla was a staff lawyer with the local Ohio party. Someone they both knew had pointed Tom out to her as an up and coming political climber. After a couple of casual dates, Darla did her usual cunning calculations and decided he might just get her where she wanted to go and she would be the one to get him there. He had one serious flaw. He was a total, womanizing hound. This didn’t bother Darla personally, he simply had to be carefully watched and his messes kept under control.

  Mickey and Marc passed through the security screening and began mingling with the guests. In Marc’s case he followed Mickey around while sipping cheap, white wine. Mickey, it seemed, knew just about everyone and it took the two of them almost an hour to make their way to the buffet tables. Along the way, Mickey introduced Marc to the mayor, half the city council and at least a dozen state senators and representatives, all of whom Mickey seemed to know intimately.

  “How do you remember all of them?” Marc asked at one point.

  “Practice,” Mickey replied. “You have to work at it, Marc. These people are mostly featherheads but it can’t hurt to get to know them. Hello, your Honor,” Mickey said to a woman judge from Ramsey County who had walked up to them.

  Mickey introduced her to Marc and the three of them amiably chatted for several minutes. The judge’s husband joined them and a moment before they were going to move on, another woman stopped by.

  “Excuse me, Mary,” the woman, Patti Foster, a co-chair of the local party said to the judge. “I must steal Mickey away. I’m sure he’d like to meet the next president.”

  “Absolutely, Patti,” Mickey told her. “Marc you want to meet the next president?”

  “What’s his name and is he coming tonight?” Marc irreverently asked knowing that would annoy the woman.

  The judge, her husband and Mickey all laughed heartily at Marc’s smartass comment. Patti Foster gave Marc a dirty look, took hold of Mickey’s arm and dragged him off.

  While Mickey went off to meet Tom Carver, Marc ambled a few feet to the bar. While standing in line to exchange his now warm, cheap wine for a fresh glass, he heard a female voice behind him.

  “That was a pretty good shot you just took,” the woman said.

  Marc turned around to face the source of the comment. “I was just kidding,” Marc said with a sly grin.

  “It was pretty funny, all the same,” she said. “Margaret Tennant,” she said and held out her hand.

  “Marc Kadella,” Marc said as he shook her hand.

  “If you’re here with Mickey, you must be a lawyer. Are you his latest project?”

  By this point they had moved up to the bar together. Marc pointed at her glass and asked, “Would you like a refill?”

  “Sure,” she said. “What I’d really like is a vodka martini but I’m with my husband so I’ll have to drive tonight.”

  “Oops,” Marc said. “Yes, I’m with Mickey and I guess I’m his latest project or protégé or whatever,” he smiled gladly changing the subject. “How about you?”

  “I’m with Briggs, McKennan,” she said referring to a well-known law firm in downtown Minneapolis.

  The two of them continued to chat for another ten minutes or so. Her husband arrived and she introduced him to Marc. After another minute the husband announced they needed to mingle and led her away.

  “She’s a little young, even for you,” Darla Carver snarled into her husband’s ear while keeping a practiced smile on her face.

  The worst kept secret of the Carver for President Campaign was Tom Carver’s inability to keep his pants on. The inner-circle staff all knew it as did most of the media. Fortunately, Carver’s charm had the media almost literally throwing themselves at his feet, wrapping their arms around his ankles and whimpering like love-struck puppies hoping Carver will scratch them behind their ears. In fact, Carver had already bedded three female members of his media entourage.

  Carver ignored his wife’s comment while he was introduced to another half a dozen donors. He smiled, shook hands, schmoozed them a bit then finally whispered in Darla’s ear, “Try not to be such a cold, c
alculating bitch for one evening. Maybe find some well hung, young stud to ride yourself. It would do you some good.”

  “Hello, Mr. Mayor,” Darla said ignoring her husband. “It’s good to see you again.”

  The two guests of honor maintained their position greeting their guests. At one point, Tom motioned for a man to come to him. The man’s name was Clay Dean. Dean was a very special aide to the Carvers who handled very personal and delicate assignments. The governor assigned him to see to it that the young volunteer Carver had eyed up and his bitch of a wife chastised him about would be waiting in his suite upstairs.

  TWO

  The head of Carver’s security detail, a man in a dark, business suit with an earpiece in his left ear, stepped off the elevator on the twelfth floor of the St. Paul hotel. He turned left to walk down the hallway to his destination and saw a similarly attired, younger man standing in the hall.

  “Morning, Al,” Secret Service agent Steven Munson said to the agent guarding the Park Suite on the twelfth floor of the St. Paul Hotel. Munson was the agent in charge of Tom Carver’s protection detail and the guard at the door, Al Tierney worked for him.

  “Morning, Steve,” Tierney replied. “All quiet. I haven’t heard anything coming from inside yet.”

  “Is he alone?” Munson asked.

  “I don’t know. I didn’t ask,” Tierney replied.

  “It’s almost seven,” Munson said referring to the time. “The Hellcat will be along pretty soon.”

  While president, Abraham Lincoln, as his entire staff, had two young, male secretaries, John Nicolay and John Hay. The two of them worshipped Lincoln but despised his manic-depressive wife, Mary. Hellcat was the name they used, behind her back. Carver’s protection detail used it to refer to Darla Carver, also behind her back.

  “Should we check on him to make sure he’s up and getting ready to go to Iowa?” Tierney asked.

  “No way,” Munson replied. “The last time I did that, the Hellcat threatened to castrate me. No, we’ll wait here for her.” Munson quickly put a hand to his right ear and said, “Copy that” into his mic.

  “She’s on the way,” Munson told Tierney.

  Barely five seconds later, the two men saw Darla Carver come around the far corner and head toward them. Hurrying alongside Darla was her shadow and number one, joined-at-the-hip aide, Sonja Hayden. Sonja was already on her phone checking news stories and sending text messages to favored reporters.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Carver,” the two agents said in unison.

  Tierney had used the extra pass card to unlock and open the suite’s door for the two women. Darla, without a word or even an acknowledgement of the men’s presence, went through the door into her husband’s room. Sonja offered the men a slight smile and a genuine good morning to them as she followed her boss. Before closing the door behind her, Sonja held out a hand and Tierney gave her the pass card.

  As the two women walked past the suite’s dining area, Darla muttered, “I wonder what we’ll find this time.”

  When they reached the closed double doors of the bedroom, Darla stood aside. Sonja rapidly knocked three times then opened the door for Darla and stood back to let her in.

  “Oh for Christ’s sake,” a disgusted Darla said when she saw the mess.

  Lying on the floor, his head on one pillow and half-covered by a sheet was the obviously naked Thomas Carver, still sound asleep. On the opposite side of the king-size bed, to Darla’s left, was the uncovered, naked young girl Carver had been lustfully looking over the previous evening, lying on her stomach.

  “Wake the girl,” Darla told Sonja. Darla then stepped up to her husband and firmly kicked the bottom of his right foot. He made a groaning sound and stirred while Darla looked over the mess that was the bedroom. On the dresser, she saw a vial that she knew was cocaine and several pills scattered about. Disgusted, she gave Tom’s foot another kick.

  “Get your ass up!” she almost yelled.

  “What?” a groggy Tom Carver said as he blinked several times. His eyes focused on his angry wife and he sharply said, “Get the hell out of here.”

  “Mrs. Carver,” an anxious Sonja interrupted. “We have a serious problem here. She is really cold. I’m not sure, but I think she’s dead.”

  “Oh my god, no, tell me that’s not true,” Darla stammered as she hurried around the bed to check on the girl herself.

  While his wife was checking for a pulse, the commotion and thought that his plaything might be dead, stirred Tom Carver and he staggered to his feet. He stood with the sheet wrapped around himself like a toga, his hair sticking up, a befuddled look on his face watching the two women try to awaken the girl. After about a minute, succumbing to the futility, Darla gave up, stood and looked at her husband.

  “What the hell did you do, you fool?” Darla said.

  “I ah, I ah…it, ah, I don’t know. It must have been the coke. She said she’d never tried it and I don’t know, maybe it was too much. I don’t know. I passed out and I don’t know…”

  Darla took a deep breath, held out her hands palms out and taking charge, calmly said, “Okay. Everybody stay calm. You,” she continued pointing at Tom, “get in the shower. We’re going down to Iowa like nothing happened.”

  She looked at Sonja and said, “Go get Clay, right now. Find him. He and I will take care of this.”

  “Okay,” Sonja croaked as she turned to leave.

  “Sonja! Calmly. Act like nothing’s wrong and for God’s sake, don’t let any of the Secret Service people in here. Take a deep breath.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Sonja replied.

  Darla turned back and saw Tom still frozen in place starring at the girl.

  “Hey! Get your ass in gear.”

  “Yes, okay,” Tom said as he turned and hurried into the bathroom.

  Darla looked down at the girl. She had long, brown hair and was very attractive and very young.

  “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” Darla quietly said. “But I can’t let this ruin my plans.”

  While Sonja went searching for Clay Dean, Darla began to check out the room. The first thing she did was to place the cocaine and pills in a small, empty plastic garbage bag she took from a wastebasket. She looked under the blankets on the floor and found a used condom by the bed. Darla took a Kleenex, picked it up and went into the bathroom. She flushed it down the toilet then went to the shower and opened the door.

  “How many times did you screw this poor child?” she angrily asked her naked husband.

  “Ah, just once, just one time,” he replied his head still a little foggy.

  “Let me tell you something, you moron. If Clay and I can get you out of this fiasco, this kind of bullshit is done! You will keep your dick in your pants and start behaving yourself. Do I make myself clear? You are not going to fuck this up for me. We make you president first, then me. That’s the deal. You got it?”

  Tom turned around to face her and sheepishly said, “Yes, I got it. I swear, this is it. What are you going to do?”

  “Clay and I have a contingency plan in place. The less you know, the better. You slept with me last night. You got it? Now get your ass in gear. I want you out of here and on the road to Iowa in ten minutes. I’ll lay a suit out for you.”

  Darla closed the door as Tom shut off the shower. As she walked away, he heard her mutter “Dipshit” and he gave her the finger behind her back.

  Darla laid out clothing for him and placed them on a chair. She then saw the girl’s purse on the floor by the bed. Using Kleenex again so as not to leave fingerprints, Darla found the girls I.D. in her purse. Abby Connolly, age 19 with an address in Minnesota by the Wisconsin state line in Stillwater.

  “Well, thank God she’s not a minor,” Darla whispered.

  At that moment she heard the hallway door open.

  In less than ten minutes Sonja was back in the bedroom with Clay Dean. Clay was a forty-year-old former Army Ranger/Special Forces soldier and Colorado state cop. While assigned to prot
ection of Governor Thomas Carver, Clayton Dean had a personal tragedy crash down on him.

  He was the divorced father of a then eleven-year old girl, the light of his life, Samantha. She had been diagnosed with leukemia and seeing an opportunity, Darla Carver had intervened.

  Clay had shown himself to be exceptionally intelligent and resourceful. Darla believed he would make an excellent personal aide for her husband. Someone who could keep an eye on him, watch for the worst of it and clean up Tom’s messes. All he needed was a gentle nudge to become as loyal as a Golden Lab. Darla had Tom take Clay aside and promise to move mountains for his daughter, which he did. The absolute best care was provided for Samantha at Sloan-Kettering and the Mayo Clinic. And the Carvers made sure Clay Dean never saw a bill for any of it. By the time Samantha was pronounced cured, Clay Dean was Thomas Carver’s man for life.

  The first thing Clay did, while Tom Carver got dressed, was to cover the poor girl’s naked body with a sheet. He checked for a pulse and felt how cold she was and agreed she was dead.

  “What room is that kid in?” Clay asked Sonja.

  Even though he had not identified him by name, Sonja knew exactly who he meant. She opened up the folio she always carried with her, looked over a list of names and room numbers until she found it.

  “820,” she told him.

  “Okay,” Clay replied. “Mrs. Carver and I are going down to find him and talk to him. You stay here and get the governor out of here, in the car and on his way to Iowa as if nothing happened,” he said to Sonja.

  “All right,” both women said.

  “Let’s go,” he said to Darla.

  In the hallway, Clay assured the agents – there were now five of them – that the governor would be ready to go in a few minutes. A moment later, Clay pushed the down button for the elevator and looked at the lighted numbers while they waited for the car.

  “What do you think?” Darla quietly asked him.

  “I think we planned for something like this and we’ll make it work,” Clay replied without looking at her.