The Permit

by William B. Scott

  Greel left the sniffling woman and conferred with the sheriff, assuring Uriah that his spurned bride would not publicly submarine a stellar career or reelection campaign.

  "Grovel for a few days, and she'll be back on track, sir."

  Outside, Greel dismissed the patrol officers with a few off-color comments about "crazy-assed menopausal women." He left the impression that an argument over finances had turned ugly, when "the little woman went nutso and banged off a couple of rounds."

  Nothing serious. Forget the whole thing.

  Relieved patrol officers laughed, fervently agreed to "keep this among ourselves," and beat a quick retreat.

  Mikey Greel then swung by the Northwest substation to excise all records of an embarrassing nine-one-one call. A single line item in the digital emergency-call log simply vanished. Sure, there was an unexplained break in the numbering scheme, but what the hell? Who would ever check?

  Metro employees knew who signed their paychecks, and were content to look the other way. Where cops were concerned, domestic disputes that got out of hand were nothing new, and "disappearing" all references to them was common practice behind the "Blue Wall."

  * *

  Around 2 a.m., exhausted and mentally drained, Captain Mikey Greel pulled into his garage and parked beside Carly Singer's Lexus. He shook his head in amazement. His ex-wife had barely escaped the wrath of Uriah's armed-and-dangerous mate, then blithely decided to hide out here.

  What if his girlfriend had been in the house, waiting for Greel's return? Another shots-fired fiasco?

  By mutual agreement, Carly still had a front-door key and code to the garage-door's entry pad. Such was the nature of their bizarre, purely sexual relationship, following an amicable divorce. The Metro Deputy Chief was attractive, in a husky, no-nonsense-cop way, but hardly a knockout. In the sack, though, she was awesome, a fact to which a goodly number of senior Metro officers could attest. At the moment, Carly was married to cop number four, a steroid-bulked, handsome sergeant assigned to the Southeast substation.

  Greel punched a wall-mounted switch and made sure the garage door closed completely. Inside, he tossed his car keys on the counter and headed for the bedroom. A nightstand light was on and the TV chattering.

  Carly Singer was sitting in his king-size bed, propped up by pillows. A sheet covered ample breasts, and bare shoulders suggested she was naked. Her hair was still wet.

  "Hey, stud," she smiled, muting the TV. "Welcome home."

  She cocked her head invitingly. Carly was the most brazen human being Greel had ever encountered. No attempt to explain, apologize or whatever. Just show up in an ex-hubby's bedroom and assume everything was cool.

  "Working on another promotion?" Greel asked sharply.

  He couldn't take his eyes off the woman, a fact Carly noted. Old feelings were stirring, but he managed to bark, "Do you know how close you came to getting your ass shot off tonight?"

  She shrugged, a move that exposed more than enough to hold Mikey's attention.

  "Wasn't that close, honey bun. I was damn near out the door, before the bitch got off a round. And I wasn't the target," she laughed.

  "Sweetheart, you're a ballsy witch," Greel replied, smiling. Sitting on the bed, he unbuttoned and peeled off his shirt, then unlaced a boot. He felt the mattress shift behind him and caught a whiff of Carly's freshly showered scent. She wrapped long, silky arms around his neck and nuzzled an ear.

  It was going to be a short, but good, night, after all.

  The deputy chief proceeded to express sincere appreciation for yet another brilliant Vader fix-it mission.

  CHAPTER 17

  MEMORIAL

  "It is in the darkest skies

  that stars are best seen."

  THE LETTER

  Richard Paul Evans

  LAS VEGAS COUNTRY CLUB/SATURDAY, JULY 17

  "We're Erik's family, here for the memorial service," said Kyler Steele.

  A security guard muttered a condolence and directed the driver to a reserved area. Kyler parked the low-slung Chrysler four door, powered-off its air conditioning system and twisted the ignition key.

  "God, I really don't want to do this, Dad."

  Win Steele surveyed the stylish country club building.

  "We'll get through it, son."

  He clasped Kyler's thigh, opened the door and was assaulted by a blast of Las Vegas in July. Despite the heat, he slipped into a dark-blue suit coat.

  Kyler and the lone rear-seat passenger, U.S. Army Major Kit Caldwell, retrieved jackets from the trunk. Caldwell had been the late-Erik Steele's team leader, during Erik's plebe or freshman year at West Point. The erect, muscular major had "branched" to infantry, served a tour in Iraq, then landed an assignment to law school, courtesy of Uncle Sam.

  Caldwell was currently a Judge Advocate General attorney at Fort Benning, Georgia. Having arranged a military honor guard for today's service, he would sit with Erik's family.

  Towering trees, sculpted shrubs and well-trimmed grass created an inviting oasis around the dignified country club's main entrance. On a shaded sidewalk leading to the club's entry, the men joined Layna Steele, her mother and other relatives from Northern California. Win took his wife's hand and led the party inside.

  "How're you doing, Mom?" Kyler asked, soft brown eyes searching Layna's.

  She was nervous and tight-lipped, still in stunned disbelief that she had become an unwilling star in a nightmare of unbelievable proportions.

  "Like a plate of shattered safety glass," she replied, a tremor riding each word. "A slight touch and the glass will crumble."

  She offered a folded sheet to Win. "I wrote out some memories, but I don't know if I can get through them. Would you… ?"

  Layna hated speaking before large crowds.

  Win lightly squeezed her upper arm. "If you can't, don't worry about it, Princess. Everybody will understand."

  He glanced at Kyler. "Las Vegas has heard Erik's old man spouting off all week. Today, they need to see the family's other faces. Are you up to speaking, son?"

  Kyler nodded.

  "Excuse me… ." Diana Decimus joined the Steeles. "I'd like to run through the service plan with you."

  She quickly outlined the sequence of events, noting that she would serve as master of ceremonies and quasi-moderator.

  "And you're not going to speak at all?" she asked Win.

  "That's right. I've already told Erik's story."

  She nodded, then escorted the Steeles to their seats. Win was astounded to see neat rows of padded chairs stretching to the far end of a huge room bordered on two sides by expansive windows overlooking a golf course.

  "You really expect this many?"

  "There could be two-to-three hundred people here," Diana said. "That's why we had to change venues twice. Erik touched a lot of people here in Vegas!"

  For the next 40 minutes, Win and Layna greeted a steady stream of guests expressing solemn, tearful condolences. Stage-whispered messages of comfort and sympathy were accompanied by hugs and firm handshakes from former coworkers, longtime family friends, and dozens of Erik's friends and colleagues.

  Layna eventually took her mother, sister and other family members to their seats, leaving Win to greet a line of patient well-wishers. Those he knew embraced the tight-jawed father. Others gripped his hand, expressing sincere sympathies.

  Win was humbled by the sheer number of tearful, choked greetings delivered by complete strangers. Many repeated a soon-familiar refrain: "I'm so sorry, Colonel Steele. Our cops are completely out of control!"

  Win thanked each man and woman, gently correcting a news-media error that somehow had promoted him from an Air Force captain with nine years of uniformed service to a retired full-bird colonel.

  The depth of feeling and support for Erik and the Steele family was often expressed by mere presence—dozens of completely unexpected attendees: A Boeing vice president and his brilliant workforce-development business partner, both treasured friends.
Retired Air Force friends and flight-test colleagues. A close friend and former managing editor of Aerospace International, who had dropped everything and flown in from Washington, D.C., because "Someone from the magazine had to be here."

  One of Erik's high school friends had spent twenty-plus hours on an airliner, flying to Vegas from Shanghai, China. Dozens of local friends and colleagues were present, augmented by a sizable contingent of West Point alumni, representing decades of the Long Gray Line.

  "Win… ," a tentative voice said, drawing the elder Steele's attention. A diminutive, beautiful girl with long sable hair and tear-soaked eyes stood to his right. "It's Vicki… ," she choked.

  "I won't stay, if you don't want me."

  "Vicki! Oh, thank God! I'm glad you came!"

  Win and Layna had not seen Erik's first wife, since the divorce in the early 2000s.

  "Of course I want you to stay! I was afraid you wouldn't come!"

  He stooped to hug the barely five-foot-tall woman. She held him tightly, sobbing.

  "I'm so, so sorry, Win! I loved Erik so much! I can't believe he's gone!"

  Win was unable to reply, battling tears. If he lost it now, there would be no turning them off.

  "I know. I know," he whispered. "He loved you, too. You guys were just too damned young and hotheaded."

  Vicki wiped her eyes and extended a thick manila envelope.

  "These are pictures of Erik I found this week. And a letter he wrote a few years ago, saying how sorry he was that we hadn't stayed together. By then, I had remarried—to a really wonderful man—and had a little boy."

  Unspoken questions hung between them: What if Erik and I had been reunited? Would Erik still be alive today?

  Win nodded and suggested the pretty woman take the envelope to Layna. "She'll be glad to see you."

  Vicki flashed a skeptical glance.

  "I guarantee she will," Win assured, giving the young woman another hug.

  * *

  At the rear of the expansive room, Gray Manor stood alone, watching Win greet a seemingly endless column of guests. The retired Marine Corps general had never met the elder Steele, but had checked him out thoroughly, after watching the Channel 7 interview, and deciding to attend his deceased Checkmate operative's memorial service.

  Winfield Steele had an unusually detailed government file, thanks to extended background investigations the feds had conducted on two occasions, before granting Top Secret security clearances with "Special Access Program" add-ons. He'd flown super-classified nuclear-sampling missions in the late sixties, before the Air Force sent him to a California state university to complete an electrical engineering degree.

  Commissioned as an Air Force officer, he'd worked on space communications security programs at the ultra-classified National Security Agency, and as an instrumentation engineer for a flight test unit. He'd spent an intense year at the prestigious U.S. Air Force Test Pilot School, graduating as a Flight Test Engineer.

  Steele had tested airplanes for twelve years, before joining Aerospace International, the "bible" of aerospace and defense. He had retired from AI in early 2007, and was now a moderately successful techno-thriller author.

  After perusing the man's file and reading a smattering of the 2,500-plus articles Steele had written, Manor had concluded that Win Steele knew one hell of a lot of movers and shakers in the aerospace industry, high-tech national laboratories, Pentagon and the inner circles of Washington's power brokers.

  That implied he also had solid contacts in the so-called "black world," as well. Because that shadow-world was a labyrinth of off-the-books organizations, contractors and operators, Manor had been unable to map Steele's web of covert colleagues, friends and informants—despite being an integral node of that "black" web.

  The Las Vegas Country Club's sea of chairs was filling rapidly. Manor staked his claim at the end of a row, giving him a clear view of the lectern. A bank of flower arrangements flanked the small stage and podium. To the right stood several three-legged easels supporting large posters dominated by photos of a smiling Erik Steele.

  A TV camera and operator were positioned at the end of a center aisle, directly in front of the stage. A young female reporter was conversing with a familiar figure: Sofia Knight.

  Manor was surprised to see her. Sofia had been Manor's lead intelligence officer, during the second Gulf War in Iraq. A captain, at the time, she had impressed Manor with unvarnished assessments of critical intel data, never hesitating to challenge his senior staff and conventional group-think.

  Ultimately, the general had personally signed her officer-effectiveness report and recommended Captain Knight be selected for law school.

  Manor's attention shifted to a couple of men dressed in casual slacks and bicep-hugging golf shirts. Perched on bar stools, around the corner from the main room, they didn't fit the profile of country-club golfers quaffing a beer, after a quick nine holes.

  The two pretended to be chatting, but were closely monitoring people streaming into the Steele memorial service.

  Metro cops, Manor concluded, jaw tightening. The one with short-cropped black hair and the stereotypical, cop-standard mustache, never took his eyes off the crowd, occasionally speaking over his shoulder. The other, a steroid-enhanced skinhead, jotted something into a spiral notebook now and then.

  What the hell are they doing here? Spying on the Steeles?

  The officers were definitely "surveilling."

  Manor was infuriated by their mere presence.

  Kill an innocent man, then stake out his memorial service? Christ!

  The more he learned about the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department, the less respect it warranted.

  * *

  Ironically, at that moment, Win Steele was listening to a retired Las Vegas Metro police officer. The elderly gent was gripping Win's hand and struggling to speak.

  "I'm very sorry about your son, Mr. Steele. I served thirty-one years as a Metro police officer. I had to come and tell ya personally that we're not all like those bastards, the ones who killed your boy. Metro's got some bad ones now… but, we're… ."

  The man's lips quivered, as he squeezed and pumped Win's hand, struggling to apologize. Distress ran deep, and his embarrassment was sincere.

  "They murdered your son, sir. I'm so, so sorry… ."

  "Thanks for coming," Win said, grasping the man's upper arm. "And thanks for your service, sir."

  The man nodded, mournful gray eyes searching Win's. Then he was gone.

  A poised, upbeat Diana Decimus kicked off the service, thanking the roughly 300 guests for coming to honor "a terrific man, who was taken from us far too soon." She previewed the service, noting that after family and friends related special memories, the stage would be open for any others who wanted to speak.

  Kyler initially focused on the fun-loving, irreverent side of Erik Steele. Lacing accounts with observations that ranged from Erik's propensity for gastrointestinal thunder to his die-hard patriotism and commitment to America, family and friends, the handsome former college basketball star evoked both laughs and tears.

  Layna took the stage, unfolded her notes and glanced at Win, who gave his wife a reassuring wink. She cleared her throat and recounted a mother's memories of an exceptionally bright boy, who walked and spoke in complete sentences at a very early age; was the real-life incarnation of Dennis the Menace, a redheaded, mischievous blur, who literally ran everywhere, prompting an uncle to dub Erik "Road Gear;" expressed a boundless curiosity by aiming a full-blast garden hose into a window well to "see the bugs float," thereby flooding the Steeles' basement; and, with an eighth-grade classmate, set his sights on landing an appointment to the U.S. Military Academy at West Point.

  "We shared those exciting West Point years," Layna continued, her voice calm, but strained. "We visited the historic fortress on the Hudson River for Parents Day, the Ring Ceremony and the Class of Ninety-Four's graduation day.

  "We watched Erik grow into a wonderful, accompli
shed adult, who had a fun-loving, adventurous spirit." She recalled her son making five parachute jumps to get his Airborne wings, running with the bulls in Pamplona, Spain, parasailing off a cliff in Brazil, flying Cobra attack helicopters in Korea, backpacking across Europe, and engaging in myriad sports—football, track, boxing, skiing and scuba-diving.

  "Erik was willing to try anything, and determined to accomplish what he set out to do. Because he was funny and charismatic, he attracted friends easily and was a natural leader. He was witty, had an infectious, rich laugh, loved life, and lived it to the fullest.

  "Erik truly reached for the stars, always going for that new challenge. He was never satisfied with the status quo."

  Layna paused to compose herself, then lifted her eyes to a spot above the audience. "He was only with us for a short period, but was destined to go on to higher, even bigger challenges. To perfect his soul in another dimension.

  "Now, we are left with only memories. We'll miss you Erik! And we hope to see you again someday."

  As Layna stepped off the stage, three-hundred pairs of eyes watched her embrace Win. Not a one was dry. Only a mother, who had given life to a precious son, then nurtured, taught, scolded, guided, nursed, comforted, counseled, encouraged and loved him from diapers to death, could have captured Erik Steele so well.

  Win held Layna's hand, until Katrina, Erik's girlfriend, pulled her chair next to his. The young woman was crying uncontrollably.

  Win put an arm around her and whispered, "Hang in there, Kat. We can get through this."

  She desperately wanted to stand at that podium and tell everybody about the love of her life, the man with whom she had expected to spend the rest of her life. How she and Erik had intended to marry, have children, travel and, maybe, live abroad.

  Because Erik was fluent in Spanish and had a graduate business education and valuable sales experience, he was ideally suited to play a major role in an exploding global economy.