Donna realized she would look very suspicious if she walked the path, shovel in hand, even though with her cap and eyeglasses she felt she would not be recognized. Instead, she drove to the area where the Tamiami Trail closely bordered the bike path. Although the ebb and flow of businesses next to the trail had been significant over the years, she was still able to identify a familiar landmark; a large microwave tower whose presence overwhelmed the placid country side. “That’s it,” she said. She parked her car near the trail and in less than ten minutes she found the spot.
As she was digging, a Sarasota cop on a bicycle was pedaling down the trail. Hearing the noise of the shovel, he pulled his bike off the trail and approached her from behind.
“What the hell are you doing, lady?”
Donna had never heard him approach. She turned and put one hand behind her back, grasping her weapon which was secured by her belt under her jacket. At that moment two more bicycles passed her on the trail.
I can’t afford to kill him unless I have to, she thought, this bike trail is too populated with bikers and joggers. Donna thought fast, even though she had not prepared for this eventuality. “Why, I’m on the county charity scavenger hunt.”
“What the heck is that?”
“You must have read about it in the paper, it was organized by the mayor and each participant contributes ten dollars; all the money goes to the homeless. And it’s all kept within the county.”
“What do you get out of it?”
“The winner gets two hundred dollars; I could really use the money with all my college expenses.”
“You seem a bit old to be a college student.”
“Yes, I have a child, and a full time job. But now I’m going back to school after all these years.”
Donna observed the cop closely. He seems to be buying my story, she thought.
“You said something about the scavenger hunt being in the paper, I don’t remember seeing it.”
“Well it was on page four of the Sarasota Living section just two days ago. They gave it a pretty good sized article.”
Donna hadn’t read the local paper since she escaped from prison; she hoped that the paper still had a Sarasota Living section.
“Well, good luck and make sure you refill that hole you’re digging.”
“I sure will. And we’ll be planting roses after this is done in order to beautify the entire area.”
Why the hell did I say that, she thought. I’m pushing this envelope too far.
The policeman didn’t say anything but waved goodbye and returned to the bike path continuing his journey toward Venice, pedaling past two elderly bicyclists as he took off.
Donna heard a definitive metal clanking sound the next time she pushed her shovel in the ground. As she pushed the dirt away, a rusty metal box started to appear. She didn’t dare open it until she got to her car out of sight from curious bikers. The box was too heavy for her to carry so she pulled it painstakingly inch by inch from the bike path. When she finally was able to open it, she viewed the absolute magnificence of one million dollars in gold bullion. She remembered her aunt often bragging about its fungibility. Donna never knew what that meant until she looked up the word and found that it pertained to its ease of trading as an investment. During the FDR era, gold was purchased by the feds to take it out of private circulation. In fact, at the time it had been illegal to hold gold beyond certain limited amounts. In 1971 Nixon removed the nation’s gold standard, and suddenly gold was made available to the private market. Donna’s aunt followed the strict rules of her sect. She didn’t want to put her money in a bank or to invest it in any form of government currency. So for years she had maintained all of her wealth in gold bullion because she felt that way she would not violate the strict dictates of her religion. It had been undisturbed all these years after it was removed from the house Donna’s deceased aunt had been living in.
Now I only have a couple of tasks to complete, Donna thought. First I’ll kill Maureen and then wait awhile to allow Fred to suffer the right amount of grief. Then I’ll systematically get rid of him. Finally I’ll eliminate that lousy lover of mine, because he might well provide too much information to the cops when I depart this area. Then I’ll take on a new identity and relocate in Europe, maybe Barcelona, Spain where the weather is moderate. Yes, the future looks bright.
She decided to put the gold under her back seat bar by bar and throw the container off the highway somewhere. Hidden anywhere else in the car would be too risky, but no one would think to look under the seat. Good decision, she thought.
* * *
When the bicycle path cop returned to the office, he asked Jim about the scavenger hunt.
“What hunt? What are you talking about?”
“You know the hunt that was detailed in the local paper—the one for the homeless.”
“There’s no such hunt. Where did you get that information?”
“I came by a woman digging next to the bike trail and she told me that’s what she was doing.”
“I’m not sure what this is all about, but get back there right away. What did the woman look like?”
“She was quite small. She had her hair covered by a cap but I could see that she was blonde.”
“It’s probably too late by now, but get back there and bring me any evidence you find. I just have a strong premonition that the person you came across was Donna Lang.”
An hour later the policeman returned to brief Jim. “Sorry, boss, but I found nothing except the hole where the woman had been digging and a trail of crushed grass all the way to the edge of the highway; but damn it, I had told her to cover up the hole before she left.”
“If it was Donna Lang, I don’t think she took your directions too seriously. Did you find anything else?”
“Yes, there were tire tracks. I recall having seen a car parked near the area where the woman was, just off the Tamiami Trail.”
“What was its make and model?”
“I can’t recall; it was red, and in places the paint had peeled off; it had white primer below.”
“OK, get someone out there right now to get a cast of the tire print. Maybe we can at least get a hit on the type of car she was driving.”
Chapter 16
Fred awoke around seven the next morning. As was his routine, he took Molly and Who Knows downstairs for their food and water and afterward immediately out the backdoor so they could dispense with their previously processed meals and drink. When he re-entered, he was surprised by the presence of Officer Paul Lewis sitting at the kitchen table. Lewis was the patrolman of the day that Jim had rotated to guard Maureen. Because of different schedules and limited resources, Jim had to shift the watch duty to various policemen based on their availability. Unfortunately, their level of competence varied significantly, too.
Lewis was no friend of Fred’s; in fact in a moment of lost control he had once tried to kill Fred. Only Fred’s support saved Lewis from a jail term and the loss of his job.
Lewis had at the time been resentful that Fred had jumped over him in the selection process for promotion to lieutenant. But over the ensuing years his anger toward Fred seemed to abate, since he now was infuriated even more at Jim Hebert who hadn’t even served the intermediate step as a lieutenant before he rose to captain. Lewis believed longevity should be the only legitimate way to progress through the ranks, and he was incensed that it no longer seemed to be the code that his department was following. Due to some convoluted logic, Lewis blamed the benefactor more than those who altered the past precedents.
Part of Fred’s continuous frustration with Paul was that he was totally rooted in processes and procedures and didn’t seem to be able to stray from his strict bureaucratic interpretation of his job. He was effective when it made sense following procedures to the letter of the law, but appalling when the situation dictated that he employ some discretion and creativity. All that notwithstanding, Fred was sure that Paul was professional enough that he would e
nsure the safety of Maureen. In fact, Fred was positive that Paul would give his life in order to execute his job as required, even if he had little respect for Fred as his superior.
Fred had a few hours to spare before he was scheduled to meet with Debra Black. He decided to drive to the 17th street ballpark to watch some of the senior softball games in progress. Whenever he did that, he found he could fully relax and mentally transport himself to a distant future point in time when he too would be happily retired and competing as actively as these aging Social Security and Medicare recipients.
He watched the seniors exit their cars in the field’s adjoining parking lot—some had knee replacements, many with obvious painful arthritis, a few with non- functioning arms—but regardless of their afflictions they shared one thing in common. When they put on their sponsors’ uniforms, they suddenly felt and seemed young again. Many went into their car trunks to retrieve a prerequisite necessity before the big game, a couple of pain pills quickly gulped down. Thus rejuvenated they walked with a new-found spring in their steps from the parking lot to their respective ball fields. In their minds’ eyes they were eighteen again, competing once more for their coveted championship, energized with the same amount of gusto and loyalty to their present teams that they had exhibited to their high school and college teams many decades earlier. Maybe they were no longer as fleet of foot, and their athletic abilities were definitely limited by age, but they competed and they competed well. Fred guessed that before they had left their houses, many of them drank some sort of combination of B-12, Geritol and a Jack LaLanne special concoction. Fred couldn’t help noticing that the air was saturated with the smell of Ben-Gay.
Fred had gotten to know the various players—Howard Quinn, an effective pitcher with an artificial knee whose volley of new off-color jokes kept his team in stitches; Bob Powell, a former football coach and now a senior softball manager, whose highly technical directions to his confused teammates often resulted in throws from outfielders in every possible direction but the right one. Earlier, Fred had met with Larry Catchpole, also a manager and still a natural athlete who could seemingly play any position when he substituted for the frequent age-related medical absences of his players.
While sitting in the bleachers, Fred mentally reviewed what he was going to say to Black. He wanted to tell her about the stolen monolith, but he was fearful such a confession would lead to his immediate arrest. Damn it, he thought, why did I keep the thing anyway? As he walked unhurriedly back to the parking lot, he was still undecided how he would deal with his meeting which was coming up in less than an hour. As he started to enter his car, a home run ball whizzed by him. It was a powerful drive that had to have traveled over the fence 300 feet from home plate and at least 20 feet beyond. Fred smiled and took his cap off to the elated player slowly limping around the bases.
Chapter 17
A petite, attractive dark-haired brunette got off the Washington Yellow Line metro stop. She walked briskly in the direction of the National Institute of Health Library while fighting a head-on blustery northern wind encasing the Washington DC area in its coldest day of the mid winter season. She was clad only in a light black unlined outer coat; her cotton nurse’s uniform underneath provided virtually no protection from the frigid temperature. As she entered the library, a sleepy attendant at the front desk asked if he could help her. He noticed she was quite attractive, but she had pulled her hair tightly into an unflattering bun looking somewhat like a rapidly aging schoolteacher. In his eyes, her puffy cheeks further diminished what could have been a very attractive woman.
Hoping to strike up a conversation, he smiled and said, “Nice weather for a polar bear out there.” She didn’t return the smile or respond to the banal comment, but headed directly to the specialized medical research area that she was seeking.
All day long, streams of medical personnel filtered in and out; they completed their research and left. She continued to breeze through several medical books focusing her reading only in the single area that interested her. When the lights flickered twice, signaling the end of the library day, she put the last illustrated book she was reading under her coat, and left the building. She knew how to prevent the alarm from going off, for that would have notified security that one of their treasured books was being stolen. It was about nine at night as she returned to her metro stop and took her train to the Pentagon City exit where her car had been parked. She left the gated area, paying the attendant and thinking, it has been a productive day. I now know where I’m going from here.
Chapter 18
Fred was a few minutes late for his meeting. A steaming cup of black coffee was waiting for him across the table from Debra Black.
“Thanks, you remembered how I take it.”
Fred had kept his secret about coffee hidden from everyone, even his CIA associate. Secrets must be kept undisclosed from everyone, he thought.
“Fred, I’m trained to recall the slightest details. Now, why did you want this meeting?”
“Donna Lang has escaped from prison.”
“Really? I just got back from Europe and haven’t gotten caught up with all the details of what was happening in the States, let alone Sarasota. I recall that she had it in for you, since you were her arresting officer.”
“That’s right; in fact, I have officers guarding my house 24 hours a day to protect my wife.”
“I’m sorry that’s happening to you, but what do you want from me?”
“Do you remember Marv Atwell?”
“Of course I do—the damn little egotist. As I recall, he helped you capture Donna, didn’t he?”
“Right again. At any rate I need to get in touch with him. I’m hoping that he can help me capture Donna again.”
“I don’t understand. Unless he’s a fugitive from justice, you could get as much information as I can pertaining to his whereabouts. I have much too much woman’s intuition not to realize that there’s something else on your mind.”
“There is, but before I talk to you about that I want to get in touch with Atwell.”
“Okay, but you understand that the CIA is only authorized to get involved with international situations which potentially impact our national security; we’ve historically been precluded from getting into anything that’s domestic.” She paused, “But since recent Congressional legislation has loosened those restrictions, I can now talk with the FBI a bit more freely about things domestic. I’ll get in touch with my contact at the Bureau and have him check it out for you.”
“Thanks.”
“Is there anything else, Fred?”
Fred hesitated, still turning over in his mind the desirability of informing Black about the stolen monolith. “No, not for now—I appreciate your help.”
* * *
In a couple of hours Debra Black contacted Fred, providing him with Atwell’s present address and place of business. Atwell was now the CEO of Corporation Assistance, incorporated in San Diego.
Fred had Atwell’s phone number but he felt a face-to-face meeting was best. It was an understatement to say they had never been the best of friends. So it was entirely possible that Atwell would hang up on him if he tried speaking to him via phone.
Early the next morning Fred was on a direct flight to San Diego. His plane’s stale breakfast was a scrambled egg sandwich, at least a cruel imitation of one, but it temporarily satisfied his appetite.
He hailed a waiting yellow cab when he got out of the terminal, and proceeded directly to Atwell’s place of business. Atwell was located on the 12th floor of a large brown stone office building which directly overlooked the old town section of San Diego. The Corporation Assistance Company occupied the entire 12th floor. He must be doing well, Fred thought.
Fred entered Atwell’s outer office and immediately was greeted by a stern middle-aged woman. Her over-used makeup made her look significantly older than she was. The room was permeated with a slight stench. Fred could not discern the issuing source.
&
nbsp; “Do you have an appointment?” she briskly asked.
Fred said, “No, but I’m sure he’ll see me.” The woman started to say that Mr. Atwell didn’t see anyone without an appointment. But before she could get the words out, her intercom lit up and on the other end Fred recognized Atwell’s penetrating voice. He said, “Send the great lieutenant in right now.”
As Fred entered the interior office, he started to ask Atwell how he knew he was there; but then Fred remembered the strange extensive powers that Atwell possessed.
Atwell sat at a desk which was almost a replica of George Schultz’s mahogany one in Sarasota. The only difference was that Atwell’s desk was at least two feet both wider and longer; and it contained a name plate twice as large as Schultz’s with the word PRESIDENT embossed in gold on it.
Atwell was not a large man, so he was almost swallowed up by the desk. Atwell had worked for Schultz for several years, and this apparently was his validation to his own ego that he was now financially the better man.
Atwell had two photos of beautiful women on his desk. They were pointed toward any visitor who would walk in the room. Maureen had told Fred when a picture is pointed away from the owner of the desk it is an indication of an ego trip, trying in effect to impress a guest with what he possessed. Fred couldn’t help smiling.
Atwell’s cigar was significantly longer and fatter than a normal cigar. Now Fred knew the source for the odor, the scent of which had escaped into Atwell’s reception room.
“Want one?” he asked. “They’re Cuban and damn hard to come by.”
“No thanks, I still comply with the law.”
The Monolith Murders Page 8