The man had done well for himself, but I couldn’t help but wonder, at what cost? In Washington D.C., success is never, and I mean NEVER, achieved without some measure of sacrifice, be it something as simple as time, or something far more valuable and dangerous, like one’s own humanity. Most often it was both, and simply a question of degrees. My sacrifice and resulting choices had left me nearly dead not so long ago, and looking at the tapestry of riches so evident in my current surroundings, I felt a twinge of foreboding as I began making my way up the steps to the grand, White House styled entrance of Bruce’s home.
To have done so well, how much of Bruce Morehouse’s own humanity, yet remained?
5.
I looked up at the security camera installed above the cream colored, nine foot entrance doors to the Morehouse residence, knocked twice, and then stood waiting. Nearly a half minute passed before I could hear the tumbling of an automatic locking mechanism, followed by the doors swinging slowly inward to a large, marble floored foyer. Beyond the foyer area, standing at the foot of a massive set of dark wood stairs, was the tall and unusually youthful looking Bruce Morehouse.
It was stunning how little Morehouse had aged since I had last seen him almost a decade ago. He was at least ten years older than my own age of sixty four, yet could easily have passed for someone in their late 50’s.
“Well-well, Frank Bennington, it’s been a very long time!”
Morehouse strode across the marble floor, his body as tall and lean as I remembered, his face exactly the same, his full head of hair with the same bits of grey on the sides. He extended his right hand and firmly shook my own, looking down at me and beaming with a wide, ultra-bright smile. I noted the exquisite gold cuff links that poked out of the sleeve of his hand crafted suit jacket, and the blinding sheen of his perfectly polished, Italian leather shoes.
The man oozed money from every pore of his body.
“Please, follow me into the study, Frank, and we can sit down together and you tell me what prompted this unexpected phone call of yours.”
I trailed Morehouse to the left and down a wide hallway, past several closed doors, until we walked through a set of massive, dark wooded double doors into the study – a room easily several times the size of my entire studio apartment. The intricately molded ceilings were at least twelve feet high. An entire wall was a massive built in bookshelf that would have looked appropriate for the Library of Congress. At the opposite end of the bookshelf was a huge, dark stone fireplace with a hearth large enough for me to stand in. High above the fireplace was an oil painted portrait of Morehouse himself, his eyes gazing over the study with determined indifference.
“Sit down here. Can I get you a drink, perhaps a nice single malt?”
I sat down upon one of four matching, rich leather sofas, all organized to face one another, surrounding a low, black metallic and glass coffee table.
“Yeah, I’ll take you up on a Scotch. Thanks.”
Morehouse moved to the far left corner of the study where a built in bar made of the same dark stained wood used for molding throughout the residence, stood, behind which was housed several rows of bottles containing alcohols from all over the world. He brought out two scotch glasses and proceeded to fill them halfway, then dropped a single cube of ice in each one.
I found myself rubbing the tops of my arms as my body tried to warm itself from the abnormally cold temperature inside of the mansion. Bruce Morehouse noticed my movement and nodded his head toward me.
“I keep the temperature at an even sixty degrees in here at all times. Forces the body to work just a little more to regulate its core temperature, which in turn keeps the metabolism active and strong.”
Morehouse stood over me and paused, his eyes holding my own for a moment before handing me the glass of Scotch.
“And I’m sorry to hear about the congressman’s death. He was a good man. Could always be counted on to help out when asked to do so.”
I made no remark about Congressman Latner’s passing. He was a demented prick and the world was a better place with him no longer in it. The Scotch on the other hand, was remarkable – a light floral introduction followed by a hint of creamy butter and chocolate, with an amazing, sea-salt like finish.
“What is this?”
Morehouse took a slow sip from his own glass and smiled.
“That is something very special Frank. It was forgotten in a cellar on the island of Jura. A special blend, and only one cask of it is said to exist in the entire world, and I bought up two bottles a few years back through an underground source. Won’t tell you what I had to pay because it’s ludicrous really, but life is short, so what the hell, right?”
I took another sip of Scotch, momentarily distracted by its depth of flavor.
“So why are you here, Frank? You said you needed some advice, is that right?”
I nodded, cradling the glass of Scotch in both of my hands.
“Yes, there’s a piece of pending legislation stuck in committee. It’s apparently being stalled due to opposition by forces within the FDA. I’ve been asked to find out who in the FDA, and why?”
Though Morehouse’s face betrayed no change in emotion, the air inside of the study seemed to grow heavier. I sensed his body tensing slightly at my words, his fingers clasping his whiskey glass a bit more tightly.
“Is this regarding the fast track legislation? The effort to bypass established FDA protocols?”
I felt my eyes widen in surprise at how quickly Morehouse pinpointed exactly what I was referring to.
Just doing a little consulting work my ass.
“Yeah, that’s exactly it. You know of it then?”
A thin smile crept across Morehouse’s oddly youthful face.
“Yes I do, Frank, and my suggestion to you right now, is to drop this. That legislation is nothing but a fool’s errand, and dangerous trouble.”
I finished off my Scotch and placed the glass down onto the thick glass covered coffee table.
“Isn’t the FDA’s job to comply with Congressional legislation, not work to prevent it? They work for us, right?”
Bruce Morehouse chuckled as he shook his head slowly.
“I’m sorry you came out here for this. I can’t help you anymore than to tell you again, drop it. That fast track legislation is dead, and you don’t want the stink of that corpse anywhere near you.”
I couldn’t tell if Morehouse was sincerely trying to warn me off, or doing a bit of passive-aggressive intimidation. Maybe it was a bit of both. Either way, it pissed me off.
“You know who’s behind the push back on the bill, don’t you? Can you at least give me a damn name?”
Bruce Morehouse rose to his feet and extended his right hand toward the study’s double doors.
“I’ll see you out, Frank. Sorry, but our little reunion here has come to and end. No hard feelings.”
I stood up as well and glared back at Morehouse.
“Why the hell are you so afraid, Bruce? What’s going on here? Who the hell are you working for on this?”
Now I’d seen a man’s eyes looking back at me grow hard and cold before, but not like what took place in the study of Bruce Morehouse. It was a brief glimpse, but I saw it. They were the eyes of a man both very afraid, and on the verge of serious mayhem - the eyes of temporary madness. I’m certain he stood there seriously considering my imminent death. The moment passed quickly though, and his eyes returned to a more normal, if guarded, tone.
“I said we’re done here, Frank. Goodbye.”
A few minutes later I found myself standing outside of the imposing, dark metallic gates I had so recently walked through, my mind trying to determine why the congresswoman’s FDA fast track legislation would make a man like Bruce Morehouse so fearful.
As that question repeated inside of my head, I looked over at the red boxed security camera outside the Morehouse property gates, a chill running down my spine as I sensed I was once again being looked upon by eyes of murderous intent.
That evening found me sitting in the darkness of my small studio apartment, working the angles of this increasingly odd case. Morehouse shut me down, kicked me out, and that just left me wondering why. Who, or what, gets a guy liked that so damned spooked?
My thoughts were broken by the sound of the T3 cell phone demanding attention.
“Figured you were getting around to checking in on me.”
Dedra’s reply sounded tired – very tired. Like she was running on no sleep and had just finished an intense workout.
“How did your meeting with the FDA source go?”
I paused for a half second, wondering if I should ask Dedra why she sounded so much less than her normally energetic and focused self, or simply keep my words to the task at hand. I opted to not mention her apparent fatigue – for now.
“It was an interesting meeting, that’s for sure. This guy, he is, or he was, a high roller at the Capitol for a long time. Was kind of a liaison between the FDA, the drug companies and Congress. Anyways, he already knew about the fast track legislation, and as soon as I brought it up, the meeting was ended. And I mean, it ended just like that. He seemed upset, afraid, pissed – we didn’t leave on what I’d call friendly terms.”
The sound of Dedra inhaling sharply filled the ear that had the cell phone pressed to it, followed by another question.
“What did he say to you specifically?”
“He told me to drop it, Dedra. Said it was dangerous, and by the sound of his tone, I’m figuring he meant every bit of it.”
Dedra mumbled under her breath a profanity I couldn’t quite make out.
“So is that it? You have no one else to contact?”
I have to admit, I was a little offended by Dedra thinking I would give up so easy on something. Hell no, that wasn’t it. Not even close!
“Not quite. I’ve been in this shithole city for a long time, and there’s still a name or two who might be able, and willing, to point us in the direction of who’s squashing the legislation. I’ll be back at it first thing in the morning.”
“I’m very happy to hear that. Thank you.”
While pleased to hear Dedra’s relief and gratitude, her fatigue was becoming even more pronounced. Something was wrong.
“Hey, Dedra, you ok? You sound tired.”
This comment was greeted by a long pause, confirming for me that Dedra was in fact, not ok.
“I’m fine, Mr. Bennington. I’ll check in again with you the same time tomorrow evening. Be careful.”
The call ended, dropping me once again into the silent darkness of my apartment.
That is, until the hard knock on the door smashed that silence into smithereens.
Now I don’t know about all of you, but I never liked the sound of somebody slamming their fist on a door demanding to be let in. Maybe I come from a long line of people hiding behind doors or something, but it sets me on edge. There’s an aggression to it, an overly assured, bullying kind of threat directed at the inhabitants inside that made me think of the millions of people in this world forced to live under the oppression of a police state, where rights of privacy and possession were non-existent.
The hammering knock continued.
I walked over to the door and pressed my right eye up to the peephole, staring at the face of a man I had never seen before. He was middle aged, of average height, nearly bald, with wide, powerful shoulders and dark, almost black eyes that seemed to look directly back at me through the door.
“I know you’re there, Bennington! Open the damn door, or I swear on the Virgin Mother, I’m kicking it down!”
I stood still, not realizing I was holding my breath as well. Letting an overly determined stranger into my home didn’t seem like the prudent thing to do at the time.
“Hey! I saw you go in there. Open the door! I have information for you.”
My eyes narrowed as I placed my right hand on the door, contemplating unlocking it. I decided staying quiet was doing no good, as the man already knew I was inside the apartment.
“What kind of information?”
There was a long pause. When the stranger replied, it was in a hushed voice just loud enough for me to hear.
“I know you met with Bruce Morehouse today. I also know it was likely regarding the fast track legislation.”
The man had my full attention, but that didn’t make me feel any damn safer.
“Who are you with? And how do you know about my meeting today?”
There was another prolonged pause before an answer came.
“I don’t want to discuss it through a door, Mr. Bennington. Let me inside, and we can talk. Please.”
I shook my head.
Now this asshole is saying please?
“I asked who are you with? You’ve made enough noise a neighbor has probably called the cops. So tell me who you’re working for or get the hell out of here.”
There was silence. I waited for a moment and then slowly pressed my eye to the peephole once again. The man had removed his overcoat and stood a few feet away from my door, wearing a simple black shirt and matching slacks. It wasn’t the shirt and slacks that caused my eyes to widen in shock though, but the pristine white clergyman’s collar that encircled the man’s thick neck.
This guy’s a damn priest?
“Please, Mr. Bennington, it’s not safe for us to be talking in public. Open the door.”
7.
Now people have called me all kinds of things over the years, from arrogant asshole, to one hell of a guy. I don’t recall ever being described as stupid though, but after I opened my door up to that priest, stupid was the word that planted itself firmly in my own head.
“Sit down, Mr. Bennington. I have a few questions for you.”
The business end of the priest’s handgun was just inches from my forehead, his eyes lit with the kind of manic fire that told me he was ready to see my brains splattered on the cheaply painted walls of my doghouse studio apartment. If my right foot could have managed it, I’m sure it would have been kicking me right in the ass.
Why are people always pointing guns at my face?
“Right over there Mr. Bennington, on the couch.”
“I know where to sit in my own home.”
I was slightly shocked at myself for saying the words, and even more surprised at how confident and nonchalant my tone remained while speaking them. Maybe I had a knack for this private investigator racket after all.
The priest remained standing while I sat down, his gun still pointed at me. His voice issued forth in a low growl.
“Why were you at the house of Bruce Morehouse today? Do you work for him?”
I gave my head a shake, and smiled.
“Noooo…if anything, I’m working against him.”
The priest’s eyes narrowed, dancing between suspicion and gratitude. He liked my saying I wasn’t with Morehouse, but wasn’t sure anything I said could be believed.
“What do you mean by working against him? You work at Capitol Hill, just another errand boy for the political machine.”
I again shook my head.
“Not anymore, I’m a private investigator. Morehouse was just somebody I was hoping could help me out on a case.”
The priest glared down at me, the gun in his right hand trembling slightly as he held it.
“You think maybe you could not point that thing at me?”
My request was met with a sneer as the priest took a step toward me.
“Don’t presume I don’t know how to use this. The stakes involved in this situation are very high, and your life means very little to me.”
I folded my arms across my chest and shrugged.
“Got no clue what you’re going on about, but hey, you want to put that gun away and talk about it – your call. I would like you to tell me how you know who I am and what I did for a living though.”
The priest’s eyes softened as he gave a sly grin. I noticed his face had not been shaven in several day
s, and dark circles had taken residence under his eyes.
“Simple, I asked around, and then I googled you.”
Damn Internet, will be the death of us all one day.
“Oh, I see. Well, like I said, that was then, and this is now. I’m a private investigator working a case, so no need to go waving that gun at me. What kind of priest goes around carrying a gun, anyways?”
The priest’s eyes returned to their more aggressive, borderline panicked tone.
Private Detective: BENNINGTON P.I.: A thrilling four-novel political murder mystery private detective series... Page 37