The Girl Who Wrote The New York Times Bestseller: A Novel (Thaddeus Murfee Legal Thrillers Book 8)

by John Ellsworth

  "It was self-defense."

  "Two and three weren't. That was an execution, you ask me."

  "It happened so fast—"

  A voice came up behind Trooper Warren. "Officer, when will you be removing the body from my parking lot? I'm Mr. Nesbitt, the manager. We need this mess cleaned up. Our guests are afraid."

  "You want I should put the body in my squad car? Sit it up and belt it in?"

  "I'm only thinking about the guests I'm responsible for."

  "Do something with him, Winston," said a gruff male voice from the crowd. "Give Billy the dignity of a towel over his face."

  "He's not allowed to move anything around," a very intoxicated woman said. "Ssshhush."

  "No, you shush."

  "No, you shush!" she giggled.

  Trooper Warren was exasperated. He wasn't used to working homicide scenes. He said to no one in particular, "Do you see an ambulance out front? Do you see any EMTs checking for heart sounds? No, you don't. That's because the first responders are running Code Three to get here and take over the scene. You'll all have to wait."

  Mr. Nesbitt shook his head and wrung his hands. "What do I tell my guests? Do they have to wait in the restaurant?"

  "I don't want them mingling with the witnesses. Tell 'em to stay put. I have witness statements to take."

  "And how long will that be?"

  "Mr. Nussbaum—"

  "Nesbitt." He indicated the nameplate on his suit jacket.

  "Mr. Nesbitt, let's just pretend this part of the club isn't yours anymore. Pretend that I'm in charge now. In fact, don't let's pretend. I am in charge!"

  "I'm not challenging you, sir. I'm only after information."

  "Here's your information: one of your guests murdered another guest tonight after they were drinking in your restaurant lounge."

  "It was self-defense!" Tony Folachnaya shot back.

  "Why in God's name in my parking lot, sir?" Mr. Nesbitt asked the prisoner.

  "He was charging at me. He was going to push me into traffic."

  Overhearing this, Darnell Sykes, a thirtyish man wearing Army camo, sidled over. His fatigues were bloused into his boots. The boots were desert tan. He pursed his lips and said, "He was chargin' him, officer," pointing at Billy, then at Tony. "I seen the whole thing." Sykes was built like an ape and wore GI issue eyeglasses with a sports band. He crowded up to the cop and cocked his head. "The whole thing."

  Trooper Winston fished his cell out of his breast pocket. He pressed RECORD. "State your name, sir."

  "Corporal Darnell Sykes, United States Army. I'm over to Fort McDowell. I saw the dead guy charge your prisoner. Tell the truth, I woulda shot him too, if I was as slight a man as your prisoner."

  "But he shot three times," Trooper Winston argued.

  "First shot didn't drop the guy," says Sykes. "He kept comin' on like a raghead in Jihad week."

  "See what I mean?" said Mr. Nesbitt the manager. "Corporal Sykes, I'm sorry you had to see this."

  "Hell, this ain't nothin'. Seen worse than this in Iraq every day. This is tame stuff y'all got goin' here." Corporal Sykes pulled a swig off a Bud he pulled from his fatigues pocket. "Ahh," he belched at the officer.

  Trooper Warren turned away. "Listen up!" He commanded the crowd. They were mostly broken up in twos and threes then, chewing over God knows what. Some of them looked at the cop, but most ignored him. He said in his police academy command voice, "Anyone who claims to know anything about this incident, please come up to me one at a time and give me your name and phone number."

  In response, most of them turned back away and resumed their conversations. Except for Darnell Sykes. "Corporal Darnell Sykes. You want my cell or my old lady's number?"

  "Here," said Trooper Warren. "Write it down on the back of this sheet. Use my pen."

  Word traveled fast in the Bar M. When it reached Jocelyn and Gloria, Jocelyn announced she was going out and give her name to the cop. "I damn near saw the whole thing," she told Gloria. "You should come too."

  "But I didn't see anything," Gloria shook a Marlboro from a hard pack. "We were in here."

  "You saw as much as I did. We were almost the first ones out there."

  "I did hear them arguing at the end of the bar. Before they went outside."

  "Same here. Billy Strawberry was calling the little guy a fucking Italian."

  "And the little guy was calling Billy Strawberry a gap-toothed Ape-a-zon."

  Both giggled. "Stupid."

  "Uh-uh. Men."

  "Let's get our story straight."

  "Let's."

  "We're going outside to go home and we see—"

  "We see the little guy flip off Billy Strawberry. Then he pulls a silver pistol."

  "It was premeditation."

  "And Billy laughs him off."

  "Exactly."

  "So the little guy starts walking directly toward Billy."

  "Aiming the gun."

  "Aiming the gun."

  "When BLAM! It suddenly goes off."

  "How many times, how many shots did we hear?"

  "God, it must have been seven—six at least."

  "He emptied it on Billy."

  "Poor Billy. I went home with him once."

  "You didn't! Tell me you didn't!"

  "I did. Not bad. Nice enough guy. He bought me breakfast out at Zonell's."

  "But he's married!"

  "Not like you think. She sleeps in back with the door locked. He sleeps on the couch."

  "Sick."

  "They can't afford to get divorced. That's what he told me. So I went along."

  Gloria shook her head. "So Whosit shot Billy in cold blood."

  "Pretty much that must be what happened."

  "Pretty much."

  "Let's go tell the cop."

  "Let's. We can get paid time off to go to court and testify."

  "But Joce, we didn't actually see all this."

  "But we heard it. That's damn close. Even a fool can fill in the missing parts."

  "There's the point of it."

  "There's the point. C'mon."

  The EMTs arrived and made the pronouncement. They stood aside when the detectives arrived.

  "All right, Trooper," said the detective in blue jeans and red windbreaker, "you can stand down. We've got the scene."

  "Here's your prisoner."

  "Did you get witnesses?"

  "Names and addresses, right on the back of this fire exit strategy. I pulled it off the wall."

  "How about you, sir," said the female detective to Tony Folachnaya. "Are those cuffs OK?"

  "Too tight. I already told Andy of Mayberry."

  "Whoa, hoss," warned Trooper Warren. "No need to get smart here."

  "You're in no place to get smart, sir."

  "Bull’s-eyes!" Said the examining detective, who by now had unbuttoned Billy's white shirt.

  "What do you have, Kent?"

  "Look at this pattern. A three-tap, all in the heart."

  "Some shooting."

  "Where'd you learn to shoot like that, sir? That's pretty damn good."

  The detectives were both up close and eyeing the bullet holes. They nodded and continued to make remarks about the terrific shooting.

  "You gonna call next-of-kin?" Trooper Warren interrupted.

  "Your arrest. You call," said Kent in the blue jeans.

  "I'd rather not."

  "Excuse me," said Jocelyn, who touched the female detective's elbow. "What's your name?"

  "Miranda. Not to be confused with your Miranda rights."

  "We saw the whole thing, Miranda. Me and Gloria."

  "We saw the little guy almost run at Billy Strawberry," said Gloria. "He was holding the gun like this," she indicated a two hand grip. "Like the cops on TV."

  "Did Billy have a weapon?" Miranda asked.

  "Just his big dumb look."

  "No weapon," said Trooper Warren. "I've already been over that."

  "He was going to push me into traffic. Ba
ckward," Tony Folachnaya muttered. "I didn't approach him at all."

  "You didn't?" said Jocelyn. "That's not how we saw it."

  "That's just it—you didn't see it. There was no one out here but the soldier," said Tony. "And he was loaded down with his duffel and didn't stop."

  "Right, ma'am, I had my duff on my shoulder. I wasn't about to get between those two."

  "What did you see?"

  "I saw the little guy gettin' charged by the big guy. He was runnin' right at him. Full on head of steam."

  "Then what happened."

  "Well...the little guy holds up the pistol sideways, like to show the big guy, but the big guy just sort of like laughs and keeps a-comin'."

  "That's not what we saw at all," said Jocelyn.

  "No ma'am," said Corporal Sykes. "Because you wasn't out here."

  "Says you, Soldier Boy." To Trooper Warren, she continued, "Truth was, Soldier Boy had his duffel bag hiked up on his shoulder. It blocked his view of me and Gloria. And I would have to say it also blocked his view of the shootout."

  "You're saying it wasn't possible he was an eyewitness?" asked the trooper.

  "Only with X-ray eyes. He don't look like no Superman to me. But he is cute."

  "Sorry ma'am, but that's bullshit, all due respect. My duffel was in my hand."

  "No, it was on your shoulder," said Tony Folachnaya, "but on your outside shoulder, the wall side. You could have seen everything."

  "That's—"

  "Now, how the hell would you know," said Gloria, the less drunk of the two women. "You were aiming your gun, not looking around for eyewitnesses. You couldn't have seen Army."

  Trooper Warren raised his hand for quiet. "Detective Ramos, here are your three eyewitnesses. Please statementize them now."

  "When we're ready, Winston. If you hadn't tracked through our crime scene—"

  Trooper Warren let out a long sigh. To the detectives, he almost pleaded, "If you two have it under control, I'm taking my break. I've been on-scene nearly two hours and need a piss break."

  "Got it Winston. Go drain the snake," said Detective Miranda. She tossed her head as she said this, just one of the guys.

  The case made the Tucson Times newspaper every day for two weeks. In the end, the Russian was found not guilty. Thaddeus had testified how Billy Strawberry was the one who had started it all. It also turned out Thaddeus had gone on break just before the shooting and was standing five feet from the valet stand when the gun went off.

  He saw the whole thing. And he was the only witness who hadn’t been drinking. The valet would have seen it too, but he was running to retrieve a ’59 Chevy for some AARP members.

  Thaddeus’ testimony set Tony Folachnaya free. Tony came up to him after the trial and told him if he ever needed anything just to call.

  Thaddeus said he was sure he'd never need anything.

  He just didn't know, at the time, that one day he would need a Russian. A Russian with strong ties to Russia. A Russian with access to certain government documents in Moscow.

  A Russian Mafioso in a Russia ruled over by thugs.

  37

  Jacques Lemoneux hadn't returned to the U.S. and his work at the French Embassy following the skyjacking. From Moscow, he called his manager in New York and told her he was being delayed by Russian authorities following the skyjacking. She wanted the French Embassy to officially intervene, but he assured her he would be released much faster on an informal basis than if they escalated it to an international incident. In the end, she relied on Jacques' judgment and he promised he would be back in the states "within days." While she was an official at the French Embassy, she didn't know he was a CIA plant there. The French knew nothing about his dual role. So he was vague and ambiguous, telling her she could expect him "soon."

  Whatever that meant.

  Meantime, he had found an unused office in the CIA/Moscow. And he set to searching for the GRU operatives who had held him and poisoned him, particularly one who was called "Karli" by his fellows.

  He was paging through snaps of GRU operatives when one stopped him cold. Karli Guryshenko. He considered his quarry: crewcut gray hair, long face featuring a boxer's flattened nose and very tired gray eyes. There was a set of Russian alphabet characters below the picture, which Jacques could more or less make out. Truth be told, he spoke better Russian than he read.

  Jacques studied the headshot. He wanted the man dead. There was no room inside his brain for any other form of resolution. Not after being poisoned. The man had sent him to his death—which had failed—and now Jacques wanted to repay the favor. But there was a problem with that approach: Jacques wasn't authorized to act in Russia. If he did, he would be considered rogue and the CIA would cut him down. Literally, they would terminate him.

  So he considered other forms of revenge. Who else, he asked himself, would like to see harm come to Karli Guryshenko? He considered what he knew. The American woman, Christine Susmann, working under deep CIA cover, had been taken captive and badly beaten—he could tell from frame-by-frame examination of the Russian video floated on Russian TV. She was now being held in a Russian prison, probably under less-than-humane conditions.

  The answer was simple. Thaddeus Murfee, her customary employer, had the most interest in her of anyone, save, perhaps, her own husband. But Sonny Susmann was in Chicago and was a civilian, which left only Murfee.

  CIA Sheremetyevo had eyes on Murfee. CIA Sheremetyevo had picked him up the night he and the reporter and Christine had checked into the Holiday Inn. That would have been the night of the skyjacking.

  Jacques caught a cab and headed for the Holiday Inn.

  38

  The guards agreed with Karli: the key to getting results was to elevate the prisoner's feet and legs above the torso and head so the immersion felt real. Then the Karminskaova rosebud towel would be laid across her face and water poured into her mouth and nose.

  So they brought her into the windowless room with the dentist's chair in its center and strapped her in. Her forearms were lashed to the chair arms and her legs encircled with a belt of Russian cowhide that was then cinched up as if a bull were about to be ridden. The electro-pneumatic chair adjusters were activated and her feet were swung high above her head, while her head and torso were lowered to Karli's knee level. Which made application of the towel and the water flow from the hose that much simpler.

  Matrosskaya Tishina prison in northern Moscow had four such rooms; political prisoners were ever-abundant during President Irunyaev’s reign and would be while he held office. Dissidence in the Russia of 2015 was dangerous and only the very brave or the very foolhardy dared tread there.

  Captured foreign agents were an altogether different matter. They were brought to one of these four rooms, tortured for several days until admissions were obtained, and then returned to the Russian prison system, usually Siberia. Their confessions played on CNN and Isvestia—wholly embarrassing to the agents' home countries and damaging to presidential careers. Which was the final aim of the Ama Gloq/Christine Susmann attack on the Russian president:the de-unification in the United States of the president from his base. De-unification meant destabilization and destabilization meant the implementation of Russian economic and military stratagems around the world.

  They started in with the water. First, the towel placement: across eyes, nose, and mouth. Then the small hose shot water into her nose and mouth. She began choking and shaking, violently jerking her head back and forth but unable to escape the flowing water.

  "W-w-w—" she cried. "Wait!"

  The water choked off the rest of it.

  Her entire body spasmed as she lost consciousness. Then she was limp and the introduction of water into her airway was discontinued. Hands reached to administer CPR, her airway was clear, oxygen was force-fed to her lungs. Ever so slowly her eyes blinked open.

  Karli leaned into her view.

  He smiled.

  "We would ask again. Will you give your full cooperation in fr
ont of our cameras?"

  "Go to hell!"

  Karli shrugged and motioned to the guards.

  The water again flowed into nostrils and mouth. Immediately the towel was dripping wet and the prisoner was coughing and violently turning away. Again, the spasm and loss of consciousness. This time they were slow to revive her.

  Karli watched the digits on his watch. At thirty-five seconds, he motioned to his assistants. Again the airway was suctioned and oxygen administered. Again she slowly opened her eyes.

  "Had enough? Will you give us your statement?" he asked.

  Her eyes were glassy and refused to focus. She looked into a white disk and recognized its voice. Him again—Karl? Karli?

  "Go. To. Hell."

  Once again, he nodded. Once again the process repeated.

  She opened her eyes minutes later. Water was trickling out her mouth and nose. She inhaled sharply and took in a rush of half-water-half-oxygen. She choked; coughing, a small lump of stomach contents ran out her mouth and down the side of her face. No one moved to wipe it away.

  "Disgusting," spat Karli and turned away.

  "Help me," she said.

  "Will you cooperate with the cameras?"

  "Go to hell."

  Karli sighed. He told the guards to repeat the process over the next two hours and then to place her in the box.

  Two hours later, the three guards wedged her inside the box, which was a steel contraption the size of a coffin in which the prisoner could almost sit upright, but not quite. There was no light and no sound. She was soaking wet and struggling to breathe. She turned her head to the side and tried to sit upright, but the clever design prevented a full sitting position once again. She struggled to make it work but could not. So she laid back, her head horizontal, which required that she pull her knees up to her chest.

  They left her like that.

  She cried, she prayed, she wet herself. Then there came the feeling of the box being moved on its wheels. She could just hear the electronic buzz as prison doors opened.

  Thirty minutes later she was cold. Then shaking from the cold as her body heat evaporated.

  They had moved her outside, into the prison yard.