One Man Two Votes (The Robert Carlton Series Book 1)

by J Russ Briley

  Carey came over as the Senator went out the restaurant door. “The Senator looks guiltier than usual. That guy has a hand in every DC pocket,” he snarked.

  Robert was startled. Carey’s inscrutable Secret Service manner had uncharacteristically disappeared. “It’s neither of our places to consider Senator Farrell’s appearance as ‘guilty’ looking,” Robert reprimanded, wondering what had prompted Carey’s comment. Did Carey have some axe to grind with Farrell? He tried to casually slide the envelope over the side of the table. “As far as I know, Senator Farrell hasn’t been accused of, or charged with any crime. If he has a hand in anyone’s pocket, I haven’t been presented with evidence of that.”

  “Understood.” Carey answered, reacquiring his reserved demeanor. “I’ll get the car.” He left for the parking lot.

  Robert watched him for a moment. He realized, too late, that he’d made his meeting with Farrell sound important. The last thing he wanted was Carey reporting to Hunt, or anyone else for that matter, that he’d received information from Farrell. He fumed at himself for the error as he opened the envelope.

  He found that it contained one memory stick, along with three pictures. Gregg was in the pictures. Only an arm showed that another man had been with Gregg. Robert stuffed the photos back into the envelope, closing it securely.

  Blair sat in the parking lot. He had watched Farrell rush out and drive away. He now watched Carey go to his car. Everything was falling into place. He’d taken care of Karelonski earlier, in order to put Carey in position for departure. Karelonski had made himself a liability by reporting a break in department procedure by another agent—one of Blair’s recruits. He hadn’t told a superior, just the agent himself, but the agent had reported the incident to Blair. Blair had decided that Karelonski was getting in the way.

  It had been surprisingly easy to take him out of action. Peter made the mistake of taking the same route home each day. Blair’s man pulled out in front of Peter in traffic and drove just slowly enough to build a gap between their cars and any traffic in front of them. An accomplice was waiting down the two-lane road at a convenient curve, with a tire-puncturing strip he quickly unrolled across half the lane. In the early winter darkness it was nearly impossible to see on the blacktopped surface.

  Blair’s man kept Peter close behind him, pulling off onto a side street just before the curve to avoid the narrow row of spikes. Peter had accelerated into them. His front tire hit the spikes. The spikes sank into the rubber, then were yanked free by a tether tied to a tree. The spike strip was thrown off the road and out of sight.

  The tire had immediately gone flat, causing Peter to pull over. He stood on the side of the road, trying to examine the tread in the failing light. Blair’s second man waited for another gap in the thinning traffic, then pulled up alongside. He rolled down his window and leaned over.

  “Need any help?” He called out.

  Peter turned to face the man’s car, realizing too late that a silenced pistol pointed at him. The shot ripped through Peter’s forehead, killing him instantly.

  Karelonski’s body slumped to the ground beside his car. It was a simple process to pull the accomplice’s car in front of him, and block any remaining view of the body. The first driver had parked on the side road. He walked over to the scene. The two men waited for a car to go by, then heaved Peter into the trunk. Blood, skin, and hair evidence was irrelevant. The car was going to be completely dismantled. One man drove away as the other calmly changed Peter’s tire, subsequently driving the car away to be cleaned and sold to a parts dealer.

  Blair loved simple and direct plans. They worked reliably, leaving no loose strings. Farrell had delivered. This plan was proceeding nicely. Now he had another detail to manage. It was time to finish the day’s chores.

  As Carey approached the Secret Service car, Blair started to count quietly to himself.

  A smile almost formed across his tight lips as he watched Carey pull the vehicle up to the restaurant. He knew Robert would wait inside until the car was out front. Standard Secret Service procedure was so predictable. It was a factor he counted on. When he reached the count of thirty, he pressed the remote button.

  Robert saw the front bumper of the car through the restaurant window as it slowly rolled up to the outer door of the restaurant. As he walked toward the inner set of doors, reaching for the handle, Carey’s car exploded violently, sending large chunks of metal into the air. Fiery pieces landed on the employees’ parked cars, and far out into the road. A chunk hit the door to the restaurant. The impact shattered windows and cracked the doors, blasting them open.

  Robert was slammed backward into the wall. He slid down to the floor, stunned. Flame and smoke burst through the open doors as waitresses ran for cover. Their screams were matched in pitch by two car alarms squealing and honking outside.

  The inner doors of the restaurant had protected Robert, blocking most of the impact before they swung open. The outer door hung by one hinge, flames rolling up both sides, blackening the ceiling above it. Dark smoke billowed into the room past jagged remnants of window glass.

  Robert was groggily lifting himself up on one elbow when a second explosion ripped through the car. Its fuel tank burst in red flames. The blast launched the car’s back end over the front, landing the vehicle onto its roof, and collapsing it to the ground. More debris flew into the air, while another blast of hot air shot into the restaurant. Robert fell back hard on the linoleum floor again, shielding his face from the heat.

  The partially open trunk lid could be seen through the shattered entrance windows. As the black smoke lifted, it revealed an arm hanging from within the trunk. Robert watched from the floor in shock, as flames wafted back and forth across the car, charring the arm’s pale flesh to a black and cracking macabre sculpture. The hand’s fingers curled up like a withered flower. Robert couldn’t tear his eyes away from the burning flesh.

  It had been a busy twenty-four hours for Blair. It felt like old times—like the days when he had been the “go-to” operative. He didn’t do his own work often these days, but it was gratifying to know he still had his touch.

  He didn’t stay to gloat, driving away as soon as he’d hit the button that would detonate the car. No one had noticed the dark sedan leave amid the commotion. He smiled as he drove. It was too bad he couldn’t stay and watch the fun of seeing how the Secret Service would handle the police and fire fighters. Blair’s men had delivered Agent Karelonski and Carol to Carey’s car while Blair kept watch. It had pleased him to watch their efficient work. It would have been entertaining to see a swarm of Secret Service trying to explain a dead agent, with another in his trunk, along with a high-priced call girl.

  Blair’s satisfaction was short-lived. With a busy schedule, he now had other concerns.

  Chapter 69

  Robert was still shaking. Agent John was rolling past on a gurney after being hit by several chunks of flaming debris. He was severely injured, but not fatally. Robert had not even noticed John in the alcove between the two doors. The firemen had lifted a section of ceiling and found him underneath. The ceiling, collapsing onto him, had probably saved John from burning alive.

  The scene was incredible. Fire trucks and police cars filled the parking lot. The entry to the restaurant had caught fire, but the nearby firehouse responded in minutes. They didn’t need a 911 call. The explosion and smoke had brought them out. The car was a smoldering wreck. Plumes of black smoke still rose from the tires pointing up towards the sky. Acrid fumes stunk up the air. Everything nearby was scorched and blackened. The police were holding everyone in the area while they investigated the incident.

  Despite his injuries, John had managed to hit his panic button. His GPS locator and distress signal had brought another agent to the scene. Agent Brown had arrived, ascertaining the condition of his fellow agents, and calling for a Secret Service investigator. He’d then managed to get Robert checked over by the paramedics. Robert was told to see a doctor, but the
paramedics released him to Brown. Robert just wanted to get out of there.

  Agent Brown drove Robert back to his house. Two more agents and a doctor were there when they arrived. Brown had been busy making arrangements while Robert had been detained.

  Robert now sat in his study. His ears were still ringing from the blast, but a shower and fresh clothes had proved soul cleansing. Robert refused a trip to the ER. After using a portable sonogram device, the doctor pronounced Robert sound, but left instructions with the agents on how to spot internal bleeding symptoms. Brown was back in the hallway in his usual location for evening duty. One of the other agents paced outside Robert’s window. Robert hadn’t asked his name. Carey’s fiery death was too fresh. He didn’t want to know any other agents at the moment.

  Driving back with Brown, Robert had overheard that Agent Karelonski was AWOL. He was not at his house, and his car was missing. He was considered to have disappeared under suspicious circumstances. Robert wondered about that briefly. Still disoriented from the explosion, he wondered if he was being paranoid when he thought that Karelonski’s disappearance was too coincidental. Could the Agent have been involved in setting up the explosion?

  The death toll surrounding Robert was mounting up. He felt that it had become overwhelming. He had called Tracie twice, but only got the answering machine.

  Brown called Agent Crandall, who was with Tracie and the boys. He brought Crandall up to speed, which apparently activated a more secure procedure that included not taking any more outside calls, even from Robert. Agent Crandall would have to listen in during their calls, after confirming the source.

  Robert asked to speak with Tracie. She told Agent Crandall she didn’t want to talk to him. The cold war still raged.

  Robert sat, holding the phone, with Crandall still on the open line. He had to admit that some of Tracie’s anger was justifiable. There were things about this situation he might not ever be able to tell her. She would either make up her mind to forgive him, or not. He hoped the agents would successfully protect her and the kids. That thought made him queasy, and an odd feeling swept over him. He managed to say to Crandall, “Tell her I love her, and the kids.” The echo of that statement sounded lame. He wasn’t even sure he meant it. He turned toward the picture of Tracie and the kids on his desk. She seemed to be glaring at him. Robert turned the picture away from his view as he hung up the phone.

  Pulling the manila envelope out of his coat, Robert placed it on the desk and stared at its curled corners for several minutes, thinking. Opening the envelope, he slid out the contents and looked at the photographs again. The first two showed a slightly younger Gregg on what seemed to be a large motor yacht. He was standing near the transom of the boat, and looked as though he had just accepted a small white envelope from a man’s hand. The man’s face and body were outside the frame of the picture. The envelope was clearly filled with a stack of greenbacks, visible through the envelope’s open flap.

  Robert dispassionately considered the photo. While the money appeared to be a payoff, or perhaps a bribe, the picture could be explained many ways. The sequence in the two photos was unclear. It was possible that Gregg was preparing to hand the envelope to the other man. Without context, the photographs were at best suspicious, and possibly damaging, but not criminal.

  The third photograph was of a more current Gregg at an event of some kind, shaking hands with a man Robert did not recognize. On Gregg’s other side stood Chris Stoker. Robert sat back and pondered. How had Chris ended up at an event with Gregg? He racked his brain, but couldn’t imagine any situation that would put Chris and Senator Gregg anywhere near each other. The photo was curious, and frustrating, but meaningless as far as implications, or conclusions.

  Snatching up the memory stick he went to the computer and plugged it in. It had two short voice files recorded on it.

  Robert played the first one. It was easy to recognize Gregg’s voice. The other man’s voice was garbled. It had been electronically modified, and was not familiar. Robert guessed that the voice was male, and would originally have sounded deep. It had little or no accent.

  The key sentence seemed to be Gregg’s voice saying, “You handle security, let Robert handle the money.”

  Robert could not connect this statement to anything. Money? Money for what? He didn’t have anything to do with money, and Gregg had not mentioned the subject around him. Robert drew a blank. Why had Gregg used his name in that conversation?

  In the second conversation Gregg was speaking to the same man, his voice still disguised, and as before, Gregg’s voice was clear and easy to recognize.

  Gregg: “We have to move up the schedule.”

  Other: “Why?”

  Gregg: “Don’t ask stupid questions. Just do it.”

  Other: “We don’t have the information, or know who all his contacts are.”

  Gregg: “That doesn’t matter. The run will go as planned. That’s all set. We don’t need him, and he could cause problems. I want you back here to take care of it personally.”

  Other: “What about Barlow?”

  Gregg: “Have it done tomorrow. Make it look like an accident, or whatever makes sense, but you get back here.”

  Other: “I’ll take care of it.”

  Robert stared at the memory stick. No date showed on the recording. Had it been made before Grady’s attack, or did they know where he was?

  Farrell had been sitting alone in his Georgetown home all day, shaking. He had seen nothing of the explosion. The envelope situation and the lack of a fix had him drinking heavily, but the booze wasn’t helping. His hands quivered uncontrollably. Hunt had been true to his word. There was nothing left anywhere. He’d searched everything. Drawers throughout the house lay scattered, along with their contents. He had torn the place apart looking for even a little of the white powder to ease his craving. He rocked back and forth talking to himself, “I did what he asked. He promised I’d get it.”

  The doorbell rang, sending him stumbling across the room to answer it. He looked through the peephole. A blonde of impeccable shapeliness faced away from the door, the bright sun illuminating her body. “Carol,” he whispered as he unlocked the door quickly and swung it open.

  “Carol, thank God...” Farrell almost sobbed, then cut himself off. Staring, he stepped back, saying, “Who are you? What do you want?”

  “Hello, Morgan.” The woman said calmly. “Carol couldn’t make it. She asked me to bring you something.”

  Farrell looked skeptical. He hesitated. His instincts for survival still remained intact. Something seemed wrong about this. He tried to focus, but his forced drug withdrawal and excessive alcohol consumption were rapidly eroding his self-control. The woman was beautiful. Athletic legs, slender waist, long blonde hair and bright green eyes made her a stand out. She’d dressed to show off her figure. She was standing on very high heels, with her coat now open to show a form-fitting dress. Carol knew what he liked, and he needed what this woman had undoubtedly brought him. He knew what that was—what it absolutely must be.

  Farrell must have been staring too long, and too silently, without acknowledging her.

  “I understand.” She smiled gently, and turned slightly away. “I’m sure Carol will be able to come by later.”

  “No. No!” Farrell’s initial defensive paranoia dissolved at the thought of the drug that must be in this woman’s designer purse. He couldn’t stand the thought of waiting a second longer for his fix. “You’ve got it wrong. Come in!” Farrell grabbed her gloved hand and pulled her into the entryway. “Where is it?” He reached for her handbag.

  “Not so fast, Morgan.” She pulled the bag away from him. Walking past him to the living room she prodded, “Where are your manners? You haven’t offered me a drink.”

  Farrell looked around the room, saying, “What do you want? I’ve got everything. Just tell me….” He realized that he hadn’t asked her name.

  “Melanie,” she intoned.

  “Yes, of cour
se, Melanie. I’m happy to get you whatever you want.” Farrell became servile in his attempt to make sure she didn’t leave. “Just tell me what you want.”

  “I hope it’s not too early for Champagne.” She purred.

  “Yes! Of course!” He raced to the bar and pulled out a bottle of Crystal.

  “Oooh, that’s nice, Morgan. I appreciate a man who knows what to serve a lady.” She seemed to be enjoying his discomfiture. She sat down on the couch, luxuriously stretching her legs down the length of it. The skirt of her dress rode up high.

  Farrell pulled out a champagne flute, placing it next to the bottle.

  “Not joining me?” She looked disappointed.

  “No…yes. Of course.” He quickly grabbed a second glass.

  “Did you bring enough?” Farrell asked. “Let’s have some now with the champagne.” His hand shook as he attempted to remove the foil from the bottle, almost knocking over a glass with his arm.

  “Here, take it, Morgan.” She pulled a small vial out of a pouch in her purse and set it on the coffee table. “You’re making me nervous.”

  A small sound, almost a giggle emanated from Farrell’s throat as he hastily put the Champagne bottle down. He rushed over to grab the vial. His shaking hands spilled a little onto the table as he dropped to his knees on the rug. He tapped the bottle on its edge to dump out more. He made no attempt to make nicely formed lines, simply dropping his face to the table and inhaling. The white powder stuck to the end of his nose as he breathed in the drug. His hands rapidly collected the residual, rubbing it onto his gums. He fell back onto the floor with a thud, and loud sigh of relief combined with anticipation. The drug sank quickly into his system. A broad smile formed as his head leaned back, and closed his eyes.