Okay, it was true that his father had a secret room in the basement of his home designed specifically for the purposes of hiding stolen art. And there was a chance he’d be going off to federal prison—perhaps for the rest of his life.
But until a trial was held, and his father had been convicted by a jury of his peers—not simply in the media-biased court of public opinion—Declan Mulvaney was an innocent man. And a war hero. As such, they would damn well listen to the poem he wrote.
Bruce glanced at his watch. He’d been invited to attend a luncheon sponsored by the NRA, and, as much as he supported second amendment gun rights, he simply wasn’t in the mood.
Bruce managed to find the limousine that brought him to the cemetery, but, when he opened the door, he discovered a distinguished-looking gray-haired man sitting in the back seat.
“I’m sorry,” Bruce said. “I must have the wrong—”
“No, this is your limo,” the man said. “Climb in.”
Bruce froze.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Mulvaney,” the gray-haired man said. “I’m not with the mob—unless you consider politics to be organized crime.”
When Duty Called
by Declan Mulvaney
When duty called you questioned not
As others slowed, you sped ahead
Toward the fiery flame-throwers, hot—
While others ran and hid, you bled.
Regretting not the choice you made
You took your place in line, and when
Faced with bullet or live grenade
You sacrificed for other men.
Each time you took the harder road
Your pack so heavy, the day so long,
Yet helped to carry another’s load
When the bugle sounded strong!
Honor pledged, and promises kept
Your soul turned over to the night,
While those you loved, they sat and wept
O’er coffin draped: red, blue, and white.
You’ve found your final resting place,
Within this sea of endless rows,
Of brothers, brave, who kept the pace
And sacrifice this nation knows.
So turn your collar against the cold,
Your valiant service, proudly done
And take your place among the bold
Who fought and died too young.
What can we offer you this day?
Mere words seem to pale beside
The sacrifice you made for us,
Now at our feet your souls reside.
What can we offer? What can we say?
With hearts as heavy as armored tanks
We, here, head home—yet you must stay:
With our tears… and our prayers…
And our deepest thanks.
CRIMSON COVE, OREGON
JANUARY 1, 2006
The irony of the situation was so thick Noah could cut it with a knife—pun intended. His need to come up with $20,000 had caused a very weird chain of events:
1)Four years earlier to the day, Noah had lost control of his band after being unable to come up with $20,000 to cut a demo record…
2)While Noah was at his grandfather Alistar’s funeral, someone stole his grandfather’s $20,000 Fender Stratocaster guitar, which would have been Noah’s…
3)Noah’s grandmother, Kizzy, offered him $20,000 from his grandfather’s insurance—providing Noah used the money to go to chef school, not for the band...
4)Noah’s tuition at the Culinary Institute in Napa and his cherry red-handled knife set, combined, came to exactly $20,000…
5)When Noah returned home, the only job he could find was working as a line cook at P.O.S.H.—a restaurant in the exact location where his grandfather’s law office used to be—at a starting salary of $20,000...
6)While at P.O.S.H., chopping onions and listening to his old band’s first hit song on the radio—a song about him—Noah sliced off the tips of two of his fingers. The bill for the ambulance and emergency care came to just under $20,000…
7)Kizzy hired a lawyer from his grandfather’s old law firm who threatened to sue P.O.S.H. for allowing employees to listen to the radio, thereby creating an unsafe work environment. P.O.S.H. offered to pay a $30,000 cash settlement if Noah dropped the suit, from which the lawyer took 33 percent, leaving Noah with $20,000…
8)While at the hospital, someone stole Noah’s motorcycle—for which he had no insurance. By pure serendipity, Noah saw an ad for a 2005, lava-red Harley-Davidson Fifteenth Anniversary Fat Boy with a big bore, fuel-injected 1550cc Twin Cam 95 engine and silver cast aluminum disc wheels in a magazine in the lawyer’s office when he went to get his $20,000 settlement check…
9)The MSRP on the bike was $22,349. Noah told the salesman he had exactly $20,000—take it or leave it. They took it.
10)Noah ran an ad in the newspaper and sold his chef knife set for $175, which he used to attend the New Year’s Eve bash at P.O.S.H. and get very, very drunk.
It was New Year’s Day 2006:
Noah Ashley was band-less…
Noah Ashley was jobless…
Noah Ashley was penniless…
Noah Ashley was fingertip-less…
Noah Ashley was knifeless…
Noah Ashley was severely hung-over…
But damn if he didn’t come away from the four-year ordeal with a box of handwritten stories about a hundred-year-old woman who lived in a lighthouse—and one hell of a Harley.
Noah took three Advils and sat on the living room couch with his grandfather’s box of stories and an omelet made with New Year’s Eve leftovers slipped to him by the chef at P.O.S.H., who liked Noah and had no hard feelings over the lawsuit.
Noah pulled all the papers from the cardboard storage box and separated the material in stacks by category:
Stack #1: Stories about Onyx Webb
Stack #2: Contracts between his grandfather and Onyx
Stack #3: Songs his grandfather had written
The biggest of the three stacks, by far, was the stack of stories—which were in no specific order. The earliest stories Onyx had shared with his grandfather were not necessarily the oldest. It was all a mishmash. The dates on the top of the pages were not the dates the events being described took place. They were the dates his grandfather had taken the notes.
Putting the chapters of Onyx’s story in chronological order was going to require considerable time and effort, which actually made Noah happy he was unemployed.
The truth was, Noah was relieved he no longer worked as a cook. He never wanted to be a chef any more than his grandfather had wanted to be a lawyer. Yet each of them ended up taking the wrong path—for exactly the same reason:
Kizzy.
In fairness, it wasn’t her fault. Not really. It was theirs. They’d been too weak to pursue their dreams. Millions of people had achieved great things in this world, and they were up against obstacles more daunting than his grandmother.
In his grandfather’s case, it had been too late to do much about it. But not for Noah. Noah had a second chance to get it right—even if he was missing two fingertips.
And if he could do something with the stories? Maybe he could raise enough cash to start another band. But nothing could be done until he answered the big question: Was Onyx Webb still alive?
She had to be dead by now.
Didn’t she?
NEW YORK, NEW YORK
NOVEMBER 7, 2010
Olympia Fudge dialed the number she’d been given for Declan Mulvaney and waited. If she could establish a connection between the elder Mulvaney and Stormy Boyd, it would increase the credibility behind Nathaniel’s claim that the bowler-wearing ghost had been sent to kill him to hide Mulvaney’s secrets.
The phone was answered on the third ring. “Mulvaney residence,” a deep voice said.
“Yes, I’m trying to reach Declan Mulvaney,” Olympia said.
“Mr. Mulvaney is unavailable,” the man said. “Might I ask wha
t this is in regards to?”
“No, you may not,” Olympia said, trying to regain control of the call. “It’s personal.”
“Well, I am Mr. Mulvaney’s personal assistant and anything you say to me remains with me.”
“Listen, jack. I’m a personal friend, and I’m pretty sure Declan isn’t going to be happy with the way you—”
“If you’re a personal friend, why have you called on the main house line? Mr. Mulvaney’s friends call on his private line. Good day.”
“Wait! Don’t hang up,” Olympia said. “I’m a reporter, okay? I’ve got a show on TV—The Fudge Factor with Olympia Fudge. I’m Olympia Fudge. And you are…?”
“My name is John Boyd,” Stormy said.
“Stormy Boyd?” Olympia said.
“An old nickname, yes,” Stormy said.
Olympia abruptly hung up the phone.
Nathaniel was telling the truth.
CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA
NOVEMBER 10, 2010
Stan Lee laughed so hard when he saw the video of Mika Flagler hitting TV reporter Domingo Gutierrez in the face with the pumpkin pie he literally choked and then proceeded to shoot chocolate milk through his nose all over his new HP laptop.
Stan Lee got up and went to the sink, found a rag, and wiped down the laptop keyboard and surrounding areas of the kitchen table. Then he placed the cursor on the play arrow and tapped the built-in mouse.
Again, he laughed so hard he could barely breathe.
God, how he hated that bitch.
A year earlier, Mika had given Stan Lee his big break—hiring him to perform as his alter ego character, the Southern Gentleman. She’d even invited him to attend the ultra-exclusive Black Midnight after party.
He’d rubbed elbows with multi-millionaires.
He smoked a $1,000 cigar.
He drank a glass of 115-year-old Louis XIII from a black crystal Swarovski nocturne.
Stan Lee had arrived.
And this year she blew him off. Wouldn’t take his calls. Refused to return his messages.
Stan Lee started the video over for the third time.
Hysterical.
It wasn’t until the fourth time he’d watched the video that he stopped laughing long enough to hear what the reporter was saying:
“…The twenty-fifth anniversary of the murder of reporter Skylar Savage… her naked, dismembered body was found on the porch swing… right over there…”
Stan Lee gazed at the porch in the background on the video. It really was the house where he’d dumped Skylar’s body.
Stan Lee had forgotten many of the details about the women he’d killed. Actually, most of them weren’t really women—they were girls. Teenagers in many cases. But a few he remembered well.
Juniper Cole, taken from near the fountain on the night of her senior prom. That was a lifetime ago, but he remembered it as if it had been yesterday. And he sure as hell remembered Skylar Savage.
Skylar thought she was hot shit. Who knows, maybe she was. But she was stupid. Inviting the photographer from the Savannah PD to the bar at the Forsyth Park Hotel for a drink—to “pick his brain”—having no idea he was the killer.
Stan Lee remembered taking Skylar back to the house in Charleston, wheeling her on the metal cart to the kill room, and showing her his leg collection.
That’s what she wanted, wasn’t it?
To know the truth.
The big mistake Stan Lee made was accidently letting some of the photographs he’d taken of her that night while she was alive get mixed in with the pictures he’d taken the following morning, after she was dead.
In the photos where she was dead, her eyes were black.
In the photos where she was alive, the eyes reflected red. The camera flash had reflected off the blood in the capillaries of the eye, and back into the camera.
Once Leo Igler and the coroner figured it out, they both had to die. Stan Lee disabled the generator at the morgue, leaving the two men in darkness—and set fire to the building.
The clever thing he did, however, was take a body from one of the refrigerated drawers and put it in his wheelchair, along with his camera and his ID.
Sergent Elton Nahum was now dead, too.
Yes, Stan Lee had lost a great job as a result of his own sloppiness, but he was alive and free.
Anyway, back to Mika Flagler.
Stan Lee had just discovered where Mika lived.
Admittedly, Mika was not exactly his type—but it had been a while since he’d killed anyone.
Besides, what else did he have to do?
CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA
DECEMBER 9, 2006
The meeting took place in a conference room on the second floor of the Charleston Federal Courthouse on Broad Street, with eight people in attendance:
Declan Mulvaney.
Declan’s lawyer.
The lead prosecutor from the Department of Justice.
Three additional DOJ lawyers.
The head of the FBI’s Stolen Art Division.
And a court reporter.
The first shot across the bow came from Declan’s lawyer. “Why do we have a court reporter here? My client has not agreed to be placed under oath nor is this a deposition.”
“We agree,” the DOJ prosecutor said. “But so there are no misunderstandings later, it will be recorded.”
Declan shrugged.
“Well, friends, how about we cut to the chase,” Declan’s lawyer said. “My client is a busy man with no desire to spend all day being dragged through the mud by a bunch of civil servants.” The message was clear. Declan had no intention of rolling over like an obedient puppy dog.
“Wow, I’m surprised,” the DOJ prosecutor said. “We were kind of hoping you’d want to hear the deal first, but if you’ve already decided to go to court, then there’s not much to talk about.”
The prosecutor and all three of the government’s lawyers pushed their chairs back and stood in unison, almost as if it was a practiced move. Which it was.
Declan’s lawyer pushed his chair back and stood as well.
The only person who remained seated was Declan.
“What’s the deal?” Declan asked.
“Doesn’t matter,” Declan’s lawyer said. “We’re not taking a deal.”
Declan put his hand on his lawyer’s arm, cutting him off. “Let’s hear the deal,” Declan said.
Everyone returned to their seats.
“You plead guilty to possession of stolen art in federal court, with cameras rolling, a public statement of willful forfeiture of the art in question, followed by eighteen months of house arrest with an electronic ankle bracelet,” the prosecutor said. “Plus, a reasonable amount of financial restitution.”
“You’re out of your mind,” Declan’s lawyer said. “We can drag this thing out for the next ten years. I’ll file motion after motion until—”
“How much restitution?” Declan asked, interrupting his lawyer.
“Thirty million,” the prosecutor said.
“No,” Declan said.
“Thank God,” Declan’s lawyer said. “There’s no way my client is going to pay—”
“The restitution is too low,” Declan said. “Make it fifty million, and I’ll take it.”
“Jesus,” Declan’s lawyer said, shaking his head.
“Okay, fifty,” the DOJ prosecutor said. “We can put you on a payment plan if you like?”
“My client is bending over backward here,” Declan’s lawyer said. “Your sarcasm is not appreciated.”
“You’ll have the whole amount in thirty days,” Declan said.
One of the DOJ lawyers cleared his throat and pointed to something scratched on his legal pad. The DOJ prosecutor glanced at the pad and nodded. “There is one other thing. We’re going to need to know who sold you the art.”
“That was a lot of years ago,” Declan said.
The DOJ prosecutor laid his pen on a notepad and slid it across the conferen
ce table. “The name, Mr. Mulvaney, or no deal.”
Declan picked up the pen and began writing. When he was done he slid the pad back to the DOJ prosecutor who read aloud: “The Schröder Gallery, New York. Lucas Schröder.”
“Yes, he was the owner,” Declan said. “I don’t even know if they’re still in business.”
“Well, if they are, they won’t be for long,” the DOJ prosecutor said.
“God, that was beautiful,” Declan’s lawyer said after they’d gotten outside.
Declan nodded.
The meeting had gone off just as they’d hoped. Better in fact. They’d expected the offer to be thirty months, and the restitution amount to be at least $100 million.
“And that thing with the increase from $30 million to $50 million? That was priceless! We can get that reduced, you know.”
Declan shook his head. “No, leave it at $50 million.”
“What’s wrong with you?” Declan’s lawyer asked. “You should be swinging from the lamp post like Gene Kelly.”
“I’m a rat,” Declan said.
“For what? Being an art lover?” the lawyer said.
“No,” Declan said. “For literally being a rat. In the orphanage you never ratted someone out. Ever. But I just did to save my own skin.”
“No, that’s where you’re wrong, Declan. You didn’t do it to save your skin—you did it to save your family.”
CRIMSON COVE, OREGON
JANUARY 4, 2006
Noah put on his helmet and climbed on the Fat Boy, which was, without a doubt, the most beautiful thing he’d ever owned. It wasn’t as beautiful as the Fender Stratocaster, but that belonged to his grandfather. It was never really his.
Onyx Webb 7 Page 11