by Trevor Scott
All right, Jake thought. Time for some soft interrogation. Their driver went back to the SUV to run the AC while Jake, Sirena and Bob went into the bar.
Jake bought a cold beer and turned to see Sirena and Bob hitting it off at a table with a view of the sea. He drank down a long swig of beer and went to the table, taking a seat across from Bob.
“What’s so funny?” Jake asked.
“I was telling your girlfriend that you nearly scared the piss out of me,” Bob said. “We don’t get many of your type here in the Caymans.”
His type? “What type would that be?”
Bob shrugged. “Scary as shit types. This place is mostly Brooks Brothers and Abercrombie and Fitch. Maybe Tommy Bahama. And you’re.” He considered his words carefully. “Terminator Chic.”
By their second beer, Jake was assured that this man Bob was an innocuous participant in the organization run by Carlos Gomez. Which was all wonderful. But it still didn’t make sense to Jake. Considering what Gomez knew about them, why would the billionaire feel compelled to provide security for Jake and Sirena?
7
Portland, Oregon
Rain pounded the Rose City relentlessly, the dark dank winter deluge in full swing as the new year approached.
Senator Ronald McDougal, Mac to his friends, sat in his home office in the family house built in 1898 by his great grandfather with lumber money. He and his wife had restored the place in the past twenty years to its former glory, with full wood coffered ceilings and Douglas fir wainscoting throughout most of the first floor. The chandelier in the grand entry had cost them nearly twenty thousand, since the Swarovski crystals had to be special ordered from Austria. On a clear day, which rarely came in the winter months, he had a splendid view of Mount Hood with the city center in his foreground.
Now his world was about to change. He, and only he, knew it. His wife had no clue. Or she didn’t want to know. After all, she was used to the good life as a U.S. Senator’s wife. She didn’t want the state dinners at the White House to end. Or the exclusive parties with rich and influential people from around the world. On a local level, here in Oregon, she was at the top of her influence. If she didn’t like someone, she could say the word and blackball that person from all parties in Portland.
He got onto his laptop and drafted a potential resignation speech. Was he ready to give all of this up? Or could he fight it and hold onto power? That would depend on who he eventually spoke with, he guessed. Senator Digby, the Senate Minority Leader and the de facto leader of his party and caucus, would ask him to step down. It was a no brainer, since the Governor of Oregon was of the same party and would get to appoint his replacement for the next two years until a new election. Digby was a dick and had his own replacements waiting to take over Mac’s positions on the various committees he was assigned to over the years. But he also had his allies who would tell him to fight for his seat. His wife was probably in this category, since she would eventually want to run for office herself. Maybe the Oregon governor would appoint his wife to the seat. Especially if she was the aggrieved wife who had been wronged by her husband’s salacious scandal. Yeah, she could file for divorce and try to kick him out of his own house. But she would not succeed at that, he knew. The house had been placed in a family trust and would only pass down to DNA relatives. Which meant one of his two sons.
He switched away from his Word file on his laptop and went back to the encrypted email that had come through with the demand for money and his resignation. Attached to that file was a folder with photos of the young woman, along with a video. He flipped through the photos, and got aroused by the sight of that beautiful brown woman. Her skin had been so smooth and flawless. Not a single blemish. Her only fault had been a few crooked teeth, which he only noticed as she performed fellatio on him. The little blue pill working in its full glory.
Mac closed out these files and closed the cover on the laptop. Then he gazed out his window at the glow from the setting sun lighting up the city below. He thought about how this would impact his two sons. They each had families of their own, but at least their children were young and would be spared from this embarrassment. His wife was the problem. Where was she tonight? Right, it was one of those monthly gathering of wives of the state and federal politicians at the Governor’s Hotel downtown.
It was too early for a resignation, he thought. He could write that speech in his sleep. It was time to spend more quality time with the family. Blah, blah, blah. He could even delegate that to his chief of staff or one of the young interns directly out of his alma mater, Lewis and Clark Law School. But then what? Go back to the law firm with his name still on the wall? Or would they force a partnership buyout based on the morality clause in his contract—a contract that he had mostly written himself. Note to self. . .amend the partnership contract in the morning. He was only sixty. Too young to retire. No, he would fight this scandal tooth and nail.
When he heard a noise out in the foyer, he first thought that his wife had come home early. But she only did that if she was not expected to be the center of attention. She was famous for her non-existent migraines that only happened under those circumstances. That would not have been the case this evening, though. The governor’s wife was not expected to attend, making her the wife of the highest ranking politician in the state.
His office door opened slowly and the first man entered quietly, without saying a word. The second man who followed was larger than the first guy. Both of them wore dark clothing. Mac tried to memorize the features of each face, but their most distinguishing features were their guns, which they held with leather gloves.
“Who the hell are you?” Mac asked with indignation. Then he picked up the phone on his desk and was about to call 911 when one of the men pointed his gun right at his head.
“Put down the phone,” one of them said.
“What do you want?” Mac asked.
“We’ll start with your laptop,” the man said.
“This is a simple robbery?”
“Nothing is simple, senator. You have a decent security system. Not great, but functional. Let’s make sure we even want to take your laptop. Fire it up, senator.”
Mac thought about the gun in the top right desk drawer. But could he pull that and shoot both men before they shot him? Not likely. So, he did what they asked, lifting the top on his laptop and typing in his password. What if he sent a quick email to one of his staffers? They could send the police.
But by now the man who seemed in charge was around the desk and looking at his computer screen. He pulled the computer away from Mac and turned it for the other man to work across the front of the desk. Then the man pushed Mac in his wheeled chair away from his desk and against the wainscoting wall.
Now, as if the man knew exactly where to find it, the man in charge opened Mac’s top right desk drawer and found his old six-shot revolver, which had been his father’s when he served in World War II.
“Nice gun,” the man said. He set his own gun on the edge of the desk while he fondled Mac’s heirloom. Then he released the cylinder to check on the bullets. “You really should shoot this once in a while. Guns are to be shot. These bullets look like they might be from the Reagan era.”
“It’s a family heirloom from my father’s honorable service in the second world war.”
“Did you serve, senator?”
“I’m afraid I didn’t have the pleasure,” Mac said.
“More like you didn’t have the balls,” the man said. “Trust me there’s usually not much pleasure in serving in the military—especially in combat. It’s something to be endured. A defining moment in one’s life. But instead you continue to vote against every military appropriations bill that comes up on the floor. You’ve spearheaded the systematic destruction of the finest military in the history of the world. How do you plead?”
“Excuse me?” Mac asked.
“You’re a lawyer. How do you plead?
“I don’t understand.” Mac
understood.
“Let me save you the time,” the man said. “You plead guilty. How can it possibly be anything but that? You have a record.”
“I do what my constituents ask me to do. What they hired me to do.”
“Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong,” the man said. “Your constituents are not only here in Portland. Or Eugene. They’re in Pendleton and Baker and Burns. You represent all of the people of Oregon. Yet, you only do as those in the western part of the state ask for. You should be voting at least forty percent of the time as the rest of the state demands.” He hesitated long enough to glance at his partner, who was typing something on the laptop. Then, after a nod from the second man, he continued, “This is truly ironic, senator.”
Confused, Mac asked, “How is that?”
The man who had been typing, turned the laptop for the leader to see. He read and smiled. Then he lowered the top and placed the laptop in its normal position. The second man rounded the desk and stood before the senator.
“You have voted in favor of gun control ever since you entered the U.S. House of Representatives, and for both of your terms as U.S. Senator,” the leader said. “Yet, you have a loaded handgun in your desk drawer.”
“As I’ve said, it’s a family relic from my father.”
“An heirloom, senator, is not loaded. It’s displayed in a place of honor. Yet, before entering this office, I took a look around and can’t find any link to your father or his service to our country. Why is that?”
Mac lowered his head slightly. The man had a point. At first, while growing up, he had despised his father, not wanting to remember his strict upbringing. He had been a tyrant at times. Had woken up in the middle of the night screaming quite often, a remnant from his service in the Marines in the Pacific. Yet, his father had never talked about what he had seen or what he had been required to do as a Marine.
“My wife decorated our house,” Mac said, trying to explain his actions.
“It looks like a debutant puked all over the place,” the man said, bringing a slight chuckle from his friend.
“Please. Take what you want.”
“We will,” the man said. “But first, you must plead guilty.”
“Guilty of what?”
“Crimes against the people of this great state. And, of course, crimes against the morality of humanity.”
Now Mac was starting to understand. The most troubling part was that both men didn’t cover their faces. “How do you know?”
“How do we know that you’re a fucking pervert?” the leader asked. “You weren’t the only one to receive the email, senator.”
Mac leaned back in his chair, defeated. If others had gotten the email with the photos and the video, then why did those who sent the email ask for money from him? Why not at least get the money?
“I will pay,” Mac said. “The deadline isn’t until tomorrow at noon.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, senator. Your deadline has been moved up to. . .” He checked his watch. “Now.”
The second man grabbed Mac’s right arm and shoved him back in his chair with his free hand. Then the leader put Mac’s gun in his right hand and helped him shove the barrel into his mouth.
The last thing Mac thought about was the idea that this was truly the end. He didn’t see his life flash before his eyes. He didn’t wonder what these men had typed on his laptop, because he knew it had to be a suicide note. What else could it have been? The police would find his suicide note, hidden behind the veil of his password protection. Then they would also find the photos of him with the young girl. And the video. But the most damning thing of all was a photo of the girl’s passport from Chile, which clearly showed her age. Thirteen. They had told him she was eighteen.
When the shot came, Mac didn’t hear a thing. The back of his skull exploded, sending blood spatter and brain matter onto the wall behind him. One of Mac’s DNA relatives would earn the legacy of this death, and no amount of cleaning or scrubbing would remove the stink of Mac’s actions. His failure of the family name.
8
George Town, Grand Cayman, The Cayman Islands
Late evening had encroached on the island, and Jake Adams sat at the hotel bar watching people drink tropical crap with little umbrellas hanging out the top. He guessed the Ritz-Carlton used lower-shelf booze in those drinks, plying tourists with crap at an exorbitant price. But look how pretty they are, Jake thought.
Jake had spent the late afternoon and early evening in his hotel room catching up on some sleep and searching the net on his phone for anything he could find out about this group meeting in the Caymans. What did he find? Not much. Money bought privacy. But he was able to read about the Danish politician who had died mysteriously recently. Either the police there didn’t want to let the public know much, or they themselves were clueless. There was a lot of wild speculation on social media about the man’s death. The man’s support was about ten percent, based on what Jake had read. Of course, those with the loudest voice were usually heard, while the silent majority kept to themselves. He avoided clicking any links to the photos and videos that had precipitated the politician’s death. Then, just as he was about to stop his search prior to coming down to the bar, a story flashed onto his phone saying a U.S. Senator from Oregon had died unexpectedly in his Portland home. Details were sketchy at best. They hadn’t ruled out foul play, but did mention that the senator was sixty, as if that were an outrageous age to attain.
Sitting at the far end of the bar with a view of the entrance, his back to the wall, Jake noticed immediately when Sirena wandered into the bar wearing a yellow and white sun dress, her feet in sandals. He had never seen her in anything but slacks and bulky tops that allowed her to hide her weapons. Running his eyes across her from top to bottom, spending more time than he should on her breasts on prominent display, he wondered where she held her gun.
She pulled up next to Jake and said, “What?”
“I’m stunned,” Jake said.
“Why? Because you’ve never seen me in a dress?”
“Well, there’s that. But also I’m wondering where you have your weapon.”
She smiled and swiveled a very small purse from her back to her front. Sirena tapped the little clutch and said, “I’ve got that little pocket pistol in here, along with one of the extra ten-round magazines. What are you drinking.”
“Dominican rum,” he said.
“I thought you were into that Nicaraguan stuff.”
“I am. And you’d think the Ritz-Carlton would have the good stuff, but no.”
“We should head outside,” she said. “It’s cooled down with a nice breeze.”
She grabbed a cold beer and Jake got a fresh rum. Then they wandered out to the patio area by the massive pool, which overlooked the sea, finding a table strategically situated near one edge with a view of the entire area. They didn’t expect trouble, but it was better to be prepared.
“Did you hear about the senator from Oregon who died?” Jake asked.
“No, I haven’t watched the news.”
Jake explained how he had been researching the Danish politician’s death when news flashed about the Oregon senator.
“What are you thinking, Jake?”
“I’m thinking we need to see if that senator had a similar problem as the Danish politician.”
“Why do you jump to that conclusion?” she asked. “And what does it have to do with our current job?”
“Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. Did you read about the girl who was with the Danish politician?”
“No.”
“She was from Peru.”
“Was she one of those reported missing?”
“I don’t think so. But it doesn’t mean she wasn’t one of them. If she came from some mountain village to the big city and nobody knew she was missing.” He let it hang like that.
“Good point.”
Jake pulled out his phone and tapped in a number from memory.
A
fter a couple of rings, Kurt Jenkins answered, “Jesus, Jake. Don’t you ever sleep. You know you’re not getting any younger.”
“I had the early bird special for dinner and took a nap,” Jake said.
“How is the Ritz-Carlton?” he asked.
“Bastards don’t even have my favorite rum.”
“Don’t shoot anyone over that.”
“I’ll try to restrain myself.”
Sirena gave him a wicked glance. “Is he talking about me?”
“No,” Jake said. “I didn’t even tell him how hot you look tonight.”
“Are you hitting that?” Kurt asked.
“No.” Although Jake’s mind was thinking of Sirena as more than just a colleague this evening. He was, after all, still a man.
“You called for a reason,” Kurt said.
“Right. I have two things for you to search.” Jake told his old friend about the meeting in the Caymans with the rich and powerful, asking to find out who was involved.
“Can’t you just ask Carlos?” Kurt asked.
“I could. But I thought I’d ask you instead. I have a reason for everything I do. You know that.”
“Roger that. And the second thing?”
“Tell me what you know about the U.S. Senator from Oregon who died tonight.”
“Senator Mac McDougal? How’d you find out about that already. The man is barely in rigor.”
“I do have a phone and the internet. You do the math.”
“Understood. Yeah, I don’t know much. They’re calling it a suspicious death. Maybe a home invasion. His wife came home from a social event and found him in his office with his brains splattered all over the wall.”
“So you can rule out accidental death,” Jake said. “Unless the guy cleans the barrel of his gun with his tongue.”
“Good point,” Kurt said. “I’ll look into it.”
Something wasn’t adding up with the senator’s death. “Could this have been politically motivated?”
“I don’t know. That’s part of the speculation on the cable channels. But he was in the minority and will be replaced by another in his party based on the affiliation of the Oregon governor. The irony is that this particular senator was staunchly anti-gun and a second amendment denier, believing that only those in law enforcement and the military should be allowed to own or carry them.”