Run, Girl, Run: A Thriller

by Alex C. Franklin

  “Grab your things. We’re heading North again.” Young pushed his way into the room.

  Williams bent his head and raised his arm to shield his eyes from the light that flooded in.

  “Damn, what time is it?”

  “Who cares? We’re pushing out.”

  “What’s up?”

  “Quinn called this morning. The boss from the last job has something else he wants done.”

  Williams grabbed his jeans off the chair and struggled into them.

  Young took out a cigarette from his pocket and lit up.

  “So, what’s this job like?” Williams pulled a t-shirt over his head and grabbed his coat. He picked up his duffel bag and followed Young out the door.

  “Well?” Williams said.

  “Some bastard needs some sense knocked into him.” Young fished keys from his jeans pocket as they approached the car. “Some high-up paper pusher. Name of Dromel.”

  Chapter 70

  The elevator was empty when Simmons stepped in. It was two-thirty in the afternoon and the grumbling in his stomach finally drove him to leave his office in search of lunch.

  He pressed the button for the ground floor and pulled out his mobile. His thumb scrolled through pictures of his son, which he’d taken at the Hirshorn Museum the previous weekend. The kid had enjoyed the cultural experience; well, had mostly enjoyed turning up his eyes and laughing at the modern art. Simmons stroked his chin as he scanned the pictures and congratulated himself on having scored some points as a dad.

  The elevator doors opened.

  It wasn’t the ground floor. Simmons looked up just in time to see five men, who had been waiting in the corridor, turn around and head toward the elevator. In the midst of them was Director Hutton, gesticulating as he spoke.

  His heart suddenly pounding violently, Simmons stabbed the button to close the doors.

  “Hold that elevator!” one of the men shouted.

  Just before the doors shut, Simmons’ eyes met Director Hutton’s. He was sure the director made him out.

  The tiny box continued its downward cruise, and Simmons slammed his palm against the wall.

  “Damn, that was not cool,” he shouted.

  The Mahler investigation was still scrappy and Simmons didn’t feel confident enough to see the director just yet. Now his sophomoric reaction in the elevator was sure to make Hutton get down on his case. He was certain there’d be a call ordering him into a meeting before the week was over.

  He took the stairs to Sarah Cohen’s floor. Lunch would have to wait.

  Her door was open and he strode right in.

  “So, how’s this Mahler picture shaping up?”

  Cohen narrowed her eyes and stared at him. “Haven’t you ever heard of calling ahead, or knocking before entering?”

  “Has anyone ever told you that you look cute when you’re annoyed?”

  “Spike Simmons, you could get into trouble for going around making comments like that.”

  “Hey, I don’t ‘go around’ making such comments; I don’t tell anybody else I work with that they’re cute.” He pulled up a chair at the side of her desk and sat. “Well, that may be because everyone else I work with is a hairy, male agent.”

  He laughed. She didn’t.

  Cohen shook her shoulders and drew her chair closer to her desk. She tapped on the keyboard to call up the Mahler file.

  “We’ve got no new leads.”

  “Why am I not surprised?”

  “The latest news, though, is that the wife is now dating a much younger man. A different one from the guy she was with shortly after the funeral. This one’s moved in with her. Has the title of business affairs manager, apparently.”

  Simmons rolled his eyes.

  “She’s trying to install him at Magrelma, it seems, even as pre-action protocol letters for the lawsuit are flying about.”

  “Business affairs manager, huh?”

  “And as for the other partner, Maitland, well he’s practically drinking himself under the table these days. Who knows how long that situation can last.”

  Cohen lowered her voice. “And as for Angela Roseau, I’m not sure how we can get anything more on her.”

  Simmons shook his head. “Don’t take me there.”

  His stomach growled. Cohen widened her eyes.

  “Haven’t had lunch,” he said.

  Cohen nodded. “Pushing yourself too hard on this Mahler case?”

  Simmons hardly heard the question. “Look, maybe this Dromel guy in Canada can turn up some answers. There’s something fishy going on there. I can just smell it. Whatever Greene had in mind, Dromel has the power to make it happen or to kill it. I mean, has Dromel been in cahoots with Greene all along?”

  “Well, we’ve been looking into all Dromel’s relationships and activities going back to when Greene took over from his father to see whether they intertwine. Nothing much there. But Dromel did spend all of last summer in Europe. Mind you, he was mostly in Paris with his common-law wife and they traveled around together a bit. Then, late last year, he took a quick trip to Belize, by himself.”

  “Belize?” Simmons perked up. “What do we know about his time there?”

  “Nothing. We just know what flights he took.”

  “I have a contact there who I can tap. Something tells me Dromel didn’t fly down the Belize just to go snorkeling. That’s one of those sunny places for shady people; major tax haven right there.”

  “His fooling around with this girl from the hearing is just bizarre. He must know this could cost him his job. And he’s got a partner he’s cheating on too, to boot.”

  “Come on, Sarah, it’s really not that hard to understand.”

  “No?”

  “Well, from the picture in the local paper, she’s not bad looking. Young. Nice body. Once he realized all that was available to him — bam! He was a goner. Don’t matter what hell may break loose.”

  “Men are that stupid?”

  “Some men are that simple. If it’s there for the taking, they take, no matter what the consequences.”

  Simmons chuckled as he saw how Cohen narrowed her eyes and scrunched up her nose. “And then you have guys like me,” he said, “the more evolved type. My lady will know she can count on me to not be distracted, no matter what’s dangled before my eyes.”

  Cohen loudly cleared her throat.

  “Coming back to the case,” she said, “well, maybe it’s more than simple lust. Maybe the girl’s somehow tied up in Dromel’s entanglement with Greene. The operative who’s been keeping tabs on them says that from what he’s heard using a laser microphone, it looks like Dromel and the girl are heading down to the Caribbean.”

  Simmons threw his head back and chuckled. “Well, what’d ya know? That bastard made out as if I was the Devil himself to make him go up to frigid Canada to tail Dromel. And now he’s gonna get a trip to the sunny Caribbean out of the gig. Ain’t life sweet sometimes?”

  An hour later, Simmons settled back at his desk and licked his lips to savor the grease that lingered from his late lunch of barbecued pork ribs.

  The blinking light on his phone indicated a message on his voicemail.

  “Hi, Spike. It’s Meryl from the director’s office. Call me back as soon as you get a chance.”

  Damn, that was faster than he’d expected.

  He dialed the number.

  “Hi, Meryl. I got your message.” He tried to sound as cheerful as he could.

  “Spike, the director wants to see you. He said he wants an update
on that Mahler file.”

  “What mood’s he in?”

  “Crabby as hell. Truth be told, he’s got the whole floor feeling tense.”

  “He couldn’t be that upset about a missed elevator.”

  “What are you talking about? Haven’t you been reading the papers?”

  “Not really. Been buried in this case.”

  “Well, the director’s all over the news with this bombing by the Texas student. They’re blaming the Bureau for letting the guy slip through the cracks and the director’s getting it from all sides.”

  With the phone cradled between his ear and shoulder, Simmons typed in Hutton’s name in Google and did a news search. The media smelled blood and were hounding him. Story after story threw up questions about the competence of the Bureau; some called for the resignation of the director. Congress was set to haul him over the coals in a hearing over the next few days.

  This was not looking good.

  The big fish were eating up the little fish, and he was the lowest on the food chain. He couldn’t show up in the director’s office with just a pile of conjecture.

  He slipped into his most sultry voice. “Meryl, we both know that as the director’s scheduling secretary, you’re the most powerful person in the building. Hell, you’ve got control over the director himself. And you’re the only one who can save my skin this afternoon, because there’s no way I’m going to make it out alive if I step into his office right now.”

  She erupted in giggles. He waited for them to subside.

  “Don’t worry, Spike. There are only two spots left in his schedule this afternoon. I’ll put Peter Aker from the Latin American section ahead of you. There’s no way he’ll finish in time for the director to see you before he has to leave for a meeting outside. After that, the next I can fit you in would be for Monday, at three in the afternoon. How does that sound?”

  “If I was right there in front of you, I would drop to my knees and kiss your feet. You’re a goddess.”

  More giggling.

  As soon as he was off the call, he rang up Bruce “The Bruiser” Coswell in Belize. Coswell was a CIA agent whom he’d met years ago at a joint CIA-FBI training exercise in Quantico. A good agent. Really intelligent. But lacking a certain finesse in his investigative techniques.

  They exchanged pleasantries. Although the voice was familiar, Coswell spoke at a more sluggish pace than Simmons remembered. Probably the result of the years catching up on the old rogue, or more likely, it was due to some strong Caribbean rum, Simmons thought.

  “So what can I do you for?” Coswell said.

  “There’s a Canadian regulator I need to check up on. Guy by the name of Benoit T. Dromel. Came down your way recently. I’ll have a file sent over to you on him.”

  “Why’s he on your radar?”

  “We have reason to suspect he may have come into some moolah that he doesn’t want to have to explain anything about.”

  “So a bribe-taker, then.”

  “Yeah, we think so. I need to know everything about his little jaunt. If he slept somewhere, I need to know the thread count of his sheets. If he met somebody, I need to get their present and three last known addresses. If he’s hiding money in a secret account there, I need to know how much, down to the last penny.”

  “You’re asking a lot, there.”

  “The heat’s coming direct from the top.”

  “You mean Hutton?”

  “Yeah. This Dromel guy’s mixed up in a matter that the director’s keeping close tabs on. He’s breathing down my neck and it ain’t funny. So, I don’t care what your boss thinks. If you have to crack a few skulls to get the dirt on Dromel, I’d greatly appreciate it.”

  Chapter 71

  Thursday, March 03

  I packed a small suitcase then sat at my table, with the phone by my side, waiting.

  It was six-thirty in the evening, the Thursday before Trinidad’s Carnival. I stared out at the snow-laden trees, and thought that, instead of soaring as it should have on the eve of a trip like this, my heart felt as weighed down as the branches bowing under their cold burdens.

  Half an hour later, the shrill ringing pierced the silence.

  “All set?” Dromel said.

  “I guess. I’m taking the bus tonight to Sudbury. I’ll catch a flight from there to Toronto and then it’s straight on to Trinidad. So what’s the plan? When will you arrive?”

  “I’m heading down to Grenada tomorrow afternoon. I know somebody there with a yacht. We’ll sail over and I can meet up with you first thing Monday morning, for the opening of the Carnival.”

  “For J’ouvert, you mean?”

  “That’s the part where they bathe in mud and wear face masks, right?”

  “Well, um, yes, kinda. Some people wear masks.”

  “So, we’ll meet for J’ouvert, then. You’ve got a number I can reach you on the island?”

  “I’ll email it to you.”

  “Okay. Have a safe flight and I’ll see you Monday.”

  “Have a safe trip, Ben.”

  I replaced the handset and sighed. In spite of our previous conversation, I’d hoped – yes, against reason, I know – that planning our first trip would have felt like marking a significant step in our status as a couple. But it felt like nothing more than scheduling any ordinary rendezvous, except this one required hopping on a plane.

  There was no togetherness in the arrangements. He wouldn’t meet my friends. And my blood ran cold at the thought that he might be planning to wear a mask when meeting me, in order to avoid being seen with me.

  And then there was the class action lawsuit.

  I’d thought that after recusing himself, he could become my confidante and adviser as I pressed on with trying to hold the mining company to account for the spill. I missed Osgood in that role and longed to turn to Dromel to take up his place.

  I’d been bursting all day to share the news that Kobec, Crayton & Vohles had filed the lawsuit that morning. But I couldn’t see how I could get in a word edgewise about it.

  This relationship was beginning to feel like a raw deal, and some part of me wanted to protest.

  But he was older, wiser, more worldly. Hadn’t he explained why things had to be the way they were? He’d probably think me a spoiled brat if I protested.

  So far, I’d known only immature boys and had been left reeling by those experiences. I’d never had a man as good as Benoit Dromel in my life before. I wanted to be with him…so I would play by his rules.

  Chapter 72

  Early on Friday morning, he called in a personal emergency. Said he would be unable to make it to work for a couple of days. The deputy chairman was in Japan attending a conference, so there was no one to question him.

  Cynthia had somehow remembered he existed and had rung him up. Her husband was out of town. Dromel saw no reason to blow her off. In fact, her call had made him begin to feel like his luck was looking up.

  He had a flight to catch in the late afternoon, he’d told her, so they could meet at his place mid-morning. She was fine with that as she would be free after she dropped her kids off to school.

  He figured it was a waste of time trying to get his majordomo to bring around the leased car at such short notice. He caught a taxi over the bridge, then switched to another one, arriving at his Hull bachelor pad with enough time to prepare to receive his auburn inamorata.

  Fueled by a couple of little white pills, the morning rushed past in a heady romp that left him exhausted. When Cynthia left, he slept a couple of hours. It was not till two in the afternoon that he taxied back to his condo to get his passpo
rt and bag.

  The phone was ringing when he opened the door. Was it Stella? Bernice? The office? He hesitated, but eventually gave in to the shrill cry of the phone that had rung well over a dozen times.

  “Well, finally,” the voice said. “I’ve left five messages since this morning. Don’t bother to listen to them.”

  “Who is this?”

  “Firestone. I called for you at the office. They said you weren’t going to be in. So I got your home number. The prime minister is leaving tomorrow for a two-week tour of Asia but he wants to see you before he goes. There’s a driver in a car outside your building. He’ll take you to meet the PM’s car and bring you back.”

  “Who the hell does he think he is that I should agree to see him at the last minute like that?”

  “Well, if you were at the office where you were supposed to be, then you would have got the call this morning and it wouldn’t have been so last minute.”

  There was silence on either end.

  “Well, Dromel, so what do you want me to tell the prime minister?”

  He had a few choice words. But if he sent them in a message through Firestone, then he wouldn’t have the pleasure of seeing Peabody’s reaction himself.

  “You’re in contact with that driver?” Dromel asked, finally.

  “Yes.”

  “Tell him to meet me right outside the front door. I’ll be downstairs in two minutes.”

  Chapter 73

  The prime minister’s SUV stopped in a leafy Ottawa suburb. Dromel got out of the car that pulled up behind it. A security officer, wearing dark shades and an ear piece with a white cord that ran down his collar, jumped out of the front seat.

  He frisked Dromel — this one did a thorough job, this time. Dromel didn’t care. He wasn’t wearing his pen recorder. That was safely hidden away in the Hull apartment. All he wore now was a deep resentment of John J. Peabody, which the prime minister’s security detail had no way of knowing was more dangerous than any weapon he could tuck away on his person.