Saint Patrick's Day - The Gordonston Ladies Dog Walking Club Part III: A Dark Comedy Cozy Mystery With A Twist

by Duncan Whitehead

  “Get to the point,” said Doug.

  “There is another organization, and they do similar work, but they keep it strictly professional. They are mostly made up of former KGB, mercenaries, ex-IRA…you know the type, Doug; thugs, but effective thugs. They keep it strictly professional, none of those silly ‘gun for hire’ killings that unfortunately led us astray. I guess we were greedy, trying to make money, more money than we actually needed. It was stupid of us to think we could hide behind the dark web. Anyway, we do still have some friends, friends in high places. And they have a job for us. They need us to protect someone…someone they know is a target of this rival organization. And we need you to stop this assassination. We need you to prevent a death for a change. The death of a man who some want to live. People who believe that one day, this man can be of advantage to them. One day, they believe, whether right or wrong, this man may become powerful. Maybe the most powerful man in the world. They want to make sure that he does, or at least has that chance.”

  “Why don’t they protect him themselves?” asked Doug.

  “They need deniability. They can’t be involved directly. Come on, Doug, you know this. How long did you work for us?”

  Doug ignored the question and took another drink of wine.

  “Who is he?” asked Doug

  “Ironically, someone you know,”

  Fergusson passed Doug a photograph. Doug smiled when he saw it.

  “Apart from you threatening to harm my daughter, why on earth would I want to help you keep Elliott Miller alive?”

  Chapter 22

  Afternoon had turned into evening, and Doug Partridge and Peter Ferguson had remained seated at the same table, at the now bustling Balcony, the whole day. Doug had drunk a lot, which he always did, but Ferguson had paced his drinking. Doug though remained alert and sober, but Ferguson knew that it wouldn’t be long before the alcohol Doug had consumed would begin to affect him. The conversation, for the most part of the day, had been one way--Doug Partridge listening with Pete Ferguson speaking.

  Elliott Miller had had nothing to do with Veronica Partridge’s death. In fact Elliott Miller had done absolutely nothing to warrant Doug’s wrath. Ferguson had explained that Elliott had even once been a prospective target for Doug, for a client willing to pay for his death. The shit though, had hit the fan before that contract could have been carried out, a contract Doug would have been given. Things had changed. Certain people, in certain circles were worried that the Organization could no longer provide the services that they needed. Here was a chance for the Organization to prove that they could. They knew that Elliott was a target, and Ferguson had spent many hours, and much money, tracing those who wanted Miller dead. He even knew who their contractor was.

  The problem, as he explained to Doug, was that he was good; as good as Doug, if not better. It would take a highly experienced and reliable man to prevent the assassination of Elliott Miller. But Ferguson had a plan. Ferguson always had a plan.

  Ferguson had learned that the hit on Elliott Miller was planned for Saint Patrick’s and would be carried out in Savannah during the parade. It was designed to send a message, and rather than simply kill Elliott in his bed, or make it look like an accident, it had to look deliberate, a sign that those who wanted him dead had the power to make it happen in broad daylight and in front of a crowd. The power to take the life of a public figure in pure daylight and get away with it would be a sign of their power and strength. It was simple. Doug would stop the killing. They, the Organization, would send their own message. That no matter what, they were still a force to be reckoned with and those who needed their services could rely completely on them. They had to let them get close though, close to achieving the hit. But the hit could not happen. The Organization had to eliminate their best man, discredit their rival, and they needed to show that it was pointless and futile to believe that another organization could act without impunity or resistance. There could be only one Organization.

  Ferguson would take care of things at his end. He would make it seem that the assassin, even though he would fail, was not an assassin, but a crazed mad man, and that the attempt on Elliott’s life would not even be seen as such. It was a way of undermining their new rival even further. It was all about sending a message, and Doug Partridge would be the messenger.

  Dermot Lynch was good. He, like Doug, was a ‘ghost.’ But Doug was also good. Once Doug had done his job, and Lynch was dead, and Elliott alive and well, evidence and red herrings would lead everyone to conclude that it hadn’t been a political assassination attempt but a random attempted shooting carried out by a madman.

  In return, the Organization would leave Doug alone. He would be a free man. They would give him a new identity and he could take his daughter with him. The highest powers would assure him that he would not be pursued or prosecuted for any crime and he would no longer be considered a fugitive. He would receive written guarantees and could live his life as he wanted. It was indeed, as Ferguson had said, an offer he could not refuse.

  And he didn’t. Doug Partridge agreed. He would return to a place that, for him, was filled with ghosts. He would do as Ferguson asked. Peter Ferguson would arrange everything. Doug would enter the United States unchallenged. It wasn’t a trick, and as he pointed out, if Ferguson wanted Doug dead, he would be dead already.

  “So, we will not meet again,” said Ferguson as he stood from the table. “Here are all the details you need.” He handed Doug an envelope. “This is your new passport, also other documents: driver’s license, credit cards. We will pay you in advance, as of course you have too much to lose if you don’t do it, though I know you will. You will see, once the money hits your account that you and Katie will be set for life. Now, don’t lose this, don’t leave it on some whore’s bed.’” Ferguson looked Doug in the eye. “Don’t let me down. A good friend of mine had faith in you. He told me once you would be the last man standing and he was right. You are our last man. Don’t mess this up.”

  Ferguson threw two thousand reais onto the table, “I am sure this will cover your night’s entertainment. Goodbye Doug; I’ll keep on calling you Doug, not your real name, or Chris, though that one suits you. I am surprised you even remember it, your real name.”

  Doug watched as Ferguson disappeared into the throng of tourists, headed in the direction of the Copacabana Palace Hotel. Doug took the envelope, containing his new passport and assorted documentation, folded it, and tucked it into his jeans pocket.

  “So, Chris, are you looking for some fun tonight?”

  Doug smiled. Aline. His favorite girl. One last time he thought. Just one last time. The girl sat herself on Doug’s knee and poured herself a glass of wine as Doug lit a cigarette, blowing the smoke into the air.

  Santiago arrived to clear the table and Doug ordered a beer, a whiskey chaser, and a bottle of champagne. As he cleared the plates and glasses, Santiago glanced at the photograph on the table, the photograph of Elliott Miller. Santiago couldn’t place the face, but the man in the picture seemed familiar. However, for the life of him, the waiter could not remember from where.

  Chapter 23

  Peter Ferguson enjoyed the silence of his hotel suite after the noise, hustle, and bustle of the last eight hours where he had to sit in that God-awful place. Too many prostitutes, but the food hadn’t been that bad. The wine had been pretty good, but the clientele? Drug dealers, beggars, pick pockets, drunken tourists, mostly American he had noticed, and the dregs of Rio society. But it had been necessary. Though he knew Partridge was drinking and smoking too much, and of course sleeping with prostitutes too often, he could sense, by the look in his eye, he was still the efficient, well-trained killing machine he had always been. All he needed was a few weeks away from the temptations of Rio and he would be back to his old self.

  It was a brilliant plan; his plan, of course. In fact Ferguson knew it was perfect. Create a fake organization, spread the word that this new organization had been contracted to kill
a man, a man that those who used the Organization’s services, wanted to become a political powerhouse. This, in turn, would force them to hire the Organization to protect their asset. But the thing was, there was no rival organization. It was just a ruse. Yes, there would be casualties. Both Doug Partridge and Dermot Lynch would die. Doug would kill Dermot, and of course, Doug Partridge would never make it out of Savannah alive.

  The Organization would be reborn, stronger, better than ever, and deterring rivals from challenging them and breaking the Organization’s monopoly. Not that there were others or rivals, but who needed to know that? Smoke and mirrors, it was all just smoke and mirrors. Tomorrow he would fly to Washington. He would assure them that he had things covered, that Elliott Miller would be safe, and that the Organization would make a mockery of this new competitor. They would be back, regarded as the best. All of their mistakes of the past, the information leak, the discovery of bodies, and the foolishness of Ignatius Jackson would all be forgotten. Smoke and mirrors. It was all a setup.

  Peter Ferguson closed his eyes. It had been a long but fruitful day. He recalled his old friend and former Director once telling him that there were always casualties of war, but they should be avoided if at all possible. Doug Partridge would be one of the casualties of this war and it was unavoidable.

  Chapter 24

  24 Hours until St. Patrick’s Day

  Returning to the United States had been something Doug Partridge had yearned for. To be close to his daughter, to be on the same piece of land Katie had been his primary objective for the past three years. The thought of seeing her again, holding her, hugging her, and showering her with love was one of the few things that had kept him alive, focused and alert. The dream that one day, Katie and he would be together, safe, and with the knowledge that they would not be pursued, had motivated him. It had also prevented him from taking the path towards total self-destruction; a path that he had been tempted to take on more than one occasion. There had been many times he had come close to either drinking himself to death or putting a gun to his head and pulling the trigger. It was the thought of his child that had kept him alive, stopped him from giving up, and it was because of her that he had made it this far.

  The dream was now close to becoming a reality, and as he stood in line waiting to pass through immigration control at Miami Airport, one month after his meeting with Peter Ferguson in Rio, he felt a little trepidation. As the line slowly crept forward towards the booth containing an armed immigration officer checking passports and faces, Doug could not help wondering if this was all just an elaborate trap to entice him back onto American soil, therefore preventing his extradition or rendition from a foreign state. Once the immigration officer had scanned Doug’s false passport and read the alert on his computer screen, would Doug then be asked to accompany the officer to an interview room, just for a standard secondary interview? Once Doug was out of sight of civilians, in a secure room, would armed police surround him? Would he then be arrested, or worse? Would the dream of being reunited with Katie be snatched from him, now he was so close he could touch it?

  “Where have you flown from today?” asked the immigration officer, who gave no indication that he suspected Doug was anything other than a returning US citizen from abroad. Doug glanced at the holstered gun at the officer’s side. He knew that if he needed to, he could disarm the seated officer in a split second, take his weapon and shoot his way out, or take a hostage – but how far would he get? He would be outnumbered and outgunned. He had no plan, no escape route, Doug knew that if he tried to fight his way out of the airport, he wouldn’t make it. He steadied himself, and spoke both calmly and confidently.

  “The Bahamas.”

  The officer looked up at Doug and scanned his passport. It seemed like an eternity as the officer entered data and information from Doug’s passport into the computer inside his booth.

  Ferguson had arranged for Doug to ‘dry out’ in the Bahamas and for the past three weeks. Since leaving Rio, he had not drunk any alcohol. Doug had also lost weight and as well, as he was living and eating healthier than he had done for the past three years. Apart from smoking, a habit Doug couldn’t, and didn’t want to stop, he had improved his fitness levels and alertness. The facility, paid for and arranged by the Organization to ensure that Doug was sober and fit to carry out the task ahead of him, had achieved their aim; Doug Partridge was ready.

  “Welcome home, Mr. Lyons,” replied the officer politely and with a smile, as he returned Doug’s passport, “Next.”

  Using the driver’s license and credit card provided to him by Ferguson, Doug collected a pre-reserved rental a car at the airport and began the long drive northwards along the I-95 towards Savannah. It was roughly a six-hour drive from South Miami to Savannah, including the brief detour Doug had been instructed to make. Ferguson had provided him with a key to a safety deposit box in Vero Beach, a small town about 150 miles north of Miami and two miles east of the interstate. Inside the box, he would fine a gun, his weapon of choice, a Beretta M9/92F 9mm semiautomatic pistol and a M9-SD silencer, the same tools of his murderous trade that he had used to kill Tom Hudd. After collecting the weapon and silencer, he would return to the I-95 and continue his journey north towards Savannah.

  * * * * *

  At precisely the same time Doug Partridge was making his detour to Vero Beach, Dermot Lynch was also headed northwards on the I-95 from Miami toward Savannah. His instructions had also been clear and given by the same man. He was to proceed to Georgia, book a hotel for the evening and then, the following morning, make his way to the Union Bank Building, It was a fourteen-story office block that overlooked Bay Street, which formed part of the route for the parade. He would then set up his equipment and wait for his target to approach. When his target was within range, he would then shoot one shot, a kill shot, to the center of the forehead. The man from the Organization had told him that the building would be unlocked and deserted; he would neither be discovered nor disturbed. He had also been provided with precise details of his escape route. It would be quick, simple, and professional, and over in seconds. Dermot Lynch didn’t have to worry about a thing.

  * * * * *

  As Doug Partridge and Dermot Lynch both drove northwards, Peter Ferguson was at work in Miami. As his driver waited patiently in the parking lot, Ferguson was busy inside Dermot Lynch’s apartment. Tacking photographs onto walls, hiding a scrapbook filled with newspaper clippings in a closet, and strategically placing a forged diary on a bed. Before leaving he would replace the hard drive on Lynch’s computer and of course wipe away any fingerprints that he may have left.

  * * * * *

  Doug Partridge turned off the I-95 four exits before the I-16, also known as the Jim Gillis Historic Savannah Parkway, and four exits before the exit Peter Ferguson had specifically instructed him to turn off at. It was time for Doug Partridge to put into place his own plan, a plan he had formulated one month ago, the day after he had met with Peter Ferguson in Rio.

  * * * * *

  Dermot Lynch placed his car into park, yawned, exited his vehicle, and then stretched. It had been a long but pleasant drive and he had arrived at his destination according to schedule. Checking into the cheap motel where he had booked a single room for one night only, he was informed by the receptionist, a plump but pretty woman in her early forties, that he had been lucky to find a room at all. It was virtually impossible, she had told him, to find lodgings the night before Saint Patrick’s Day. Dermot Lynch thanked the lady as she handed him the key and agreed that indeed, he had been fortunate, before proceeding to his room.

  * * * * *

  Peter Ferguson had arrived in Savannah ahead of both Doug Partridge and Dermot Lynch courtesy of the private jet owned by the Organization. A trusted driver collected Ferguson from the small executive airport and drove him to the guesthouse, where a room had been reserved for him two weeks earlier. It was a familiar place, the same inn where he had convinced Ignatius Jackson to assume
the role of Director over twenty years before. The Dresser Palmer House was just as finely decorated and just as elegant and peaceful as he remembered. His only piece of luggage was a battered leather bag that had seen better days. He had managed to secure the best room at the historic Inn, despite the place being full. The Inn had, of course, been booked solid for months. Every guest, apart from one, intending to spend the day enjoying the fun and festivities of the Hostess City’s annual Saint Patrick’s Day Parade.

  * * * * *

  Doug Partridge parked his rental car in the Motel Six parking lot, lit a menthol cigarette despite the warnings informing him that smoking in the rented vehicle could incur a cleaning fee and an extra charge of $100 added to his credit card bill, rolled down his window and blew smoke into the late afternoon air. He checked the time on his watch, before taking another drag of his cigarette before placing the used and stubbed out butt back into its pack. He reclined his seat, switched on the radio, found a local music channel and waited.

  * * * * *

  Anthony Sands had arrived in Richmond Hill the night before. He hadn’t missed a Saint Patrick’s Day Parade in for the past ten years. Usually, he stayed in a hotel within the city’s historic district itself, but this year, every hotel had been fully booked for months in advance, forcing him to stay at the Motel Six a few miles out of town. It had been a pleasant drive from Atlanta, though the traffic had gotten heavier as he approached Savannah. The Interstate was packed with cars, camper vans, and buses filled with revelers headed to the festivities. Graham had spent most of the day soaking in the atmosphere downtown where already people had begun to party and celebrate, before he returned to the motel for a two-hour afternoon nap. After waking from his rest and noting that it was time for dinner, and in need of satisfying his craving for Southern food, he decided that he would dine at Johnny Harris’s Restaurant It was a thirty minute drive from Richmond Hill, and a restaurant that sold the best fried chicken he had ever tasted in his life.