by Alan Chaput
“If you don’t mind.”
Still disconcerted from Father John’s threat, Willie returned with the copies and a carafe of coffee. He poured two mugs, shoved one across the table, and sat opposite him. “I found something interesting.”
“What’s that?” Father John asked.
“Henrietta worked in the Peace Corps in the same village where the present pope was born. Sometime later, her parents took an interest in the Holy Father’s work.”
Father John shrugged as if it was old news.
“But that alone wouldn’t explain why you’re investigating her death. So, what gives?”
“I’m investigating the circumstances of her death, not her relationship with the Sovereign Pontiff. Anything else?”
“I’d really like to work with you on this.”
“I work alone.” Father John’s eyes again bore into Willie’s. “And I will not tolerate any interference from you. Find something else to work on.”
Willie waggled his hand. “Just trying to do my job.”
“At this point, Willie, your job has absolutely nothing more to do with Henrietta Snyder.”
Yeah, right. Willie slid the file copies across the table to Father John.
“Not a word of this to anyone,” Father John said as he took the file and stood.
“I understand.” Willie’s skin tingled. You bet he understood. He understood there was a huge story here. That’s what he understood. And nobody, not even the Pope, was going to stop him from getting it.
Chapter 16
Trey’s four Cotton Coalition colleagues and their aides had all arrived at the secure bunker within ten minutes of the two o’clock start time. Not an easy thing for any of them to do on short notice, but none groused. The murder of the port official had to be addressed promptly since he was a friend of Henrietta’s. Trey didn’t believe in coincidences.
“Let’s get started.” Trey scanned the faces of his peers and, seeing no objection, continued. “Chief Patrick has concluded the port official shooting was a professional hit. One shot. Large caliber rifle bullet. From elevation. Middle of the day. No witnesses. No evidence at the presumed shooting site.”
“Other than our Russian visitors, no one in town has this level of expertise,” Alton said, his voice weak having just returned from radiation treatments.
“Plus, Vladimir has made it clear his organization would like to control at least a portion of the port,” Beau added. “That’s certainly motive.”
“Before we jump to conclusions, we need to be sure it’s the Russians,” Hempfield said in a booming baritone. “After all, our dialogue with Vladimir has been cordial if not decisive. We’re making progress in our discussions with him. Why would he risk offending us with an assassination? He’s well aware of our position on felony criminal activity in Savannah.”
Trey could always count on Hempfield, a former state senator, to prioritize logic over emotion. “At this stage, we don’t know Vladimir well enough to fully understand his methods,” Trey said. “But if he’s behind this, we have to quickly shut down this kind of activity.”
“Confront him?” Hempfield asked.
“Not until we’re certain he’s behind it,” Trey replied. “Beau, let’s bring his associates into the operating room, one at a time, and see if we can get a reliable confession.”
Beau smiled. “I’ll get on it as soon as the meeting is concluded. Hempfield, I’ll need to know where his three thugs are today and their pub preferences. Potter, I’ll need your magic for half an hour at five.”
Potter, an amateur magician as well as a noted architect, nodded.
Hempfield texted. Moments later his mobile phone chirped. He read the text and then said, “Vladimir’s boys live in separate rooms at the same hotel. Each drinks and eats alone. Apparently, they feel they’re harder to track individually. They do more drinking than eating. Same bars each night. All in the historic district within walking distance from their hotel.” Hempfield keyed his laptop. A photograph of a man came up on Trey’s laptop. “Based on our psychological profiles of the men, this one, Boris, seems the one most likely to break.”
“Why?” Trey asked.
“Lack of commitment. He’s in with these thugs for the easy money. If things get hard for him, we believe he’ll turn.”
“We’ll take him tonight at happy hour,” Beau said. “If he doesn’t cooperate, we’ll take the other two after dinner.”
“Sounds good,” Trey said. “Any new leads on Henrietta’s murder?”
“We’ve dug into everyone who saw Henrietta on the day of her death,” Potter said. “Everything fits. There’s nothing suspicious.”
Trey’s back stiffened. He’d been hoping for a breakthrough. “What do you have, Hempfield?”
“As you know, Sonny had considerable contact with the Russians the week before Henrietta’s death. Other than them, Sonny’s contacts were normal. I spoke with Vladimir this morning. He said they use Sonny to handle large sums of their money. I’ve confirmed the money is still in their escrow account. They also used Sonny as a front for some large land acquisitions near the port facilities. Vladimir said he didn’t realize Sonny was missing, but wasn’t surprised. He wouldn’t go into specifics.”
“You may be onto something there. Keep digging,” Trey said.
“Sonny’s activities on the day of Henrietta’s death were normal,” Potter said. “Until he disappeared.”
“What time is the last documented record of activity for Sonny?” Trey asked.
Potter consulted his laptop. “A five-minute cell phone call at ten a.m. from Preston Somerset, a long-established client. Preston has no known connection to Henrietta or to organized crime. Sonny took the call at home. After that, nothing.”
Trey straightened. He didn’t much like Preston. The man was always scheming. Not as bad as Preston’s father, but scheming nevertheless. “I’ll look into Preston’s relationship with Sonny.”
“Chief Patrick says his homicide investigator is baffled by Henrietta’s case.” Alton cleared his throat. “He asked if we’d found anything yet. I told him no. Apparently, the church is looking into her death as well. A priest from out of town contacted Chief Patrick and asked for information.”
“Why would the church be interested?” Trey asked.
“Chief Patrick asked the same question and was stonewalled by the priest.”
“Is he cooperating with the priest?”
Alton nodded. “When the priest showed Patrick a papal letter of authority, Patrick, as a loyal Catholic, offered full cooperation.”
“See if you can get the priest’s name, photo, anything from Chief Patrick we can use to identify him.”
“My daughter’s working on it as we speak,” Alton replied.
“Beau, did you have an opportunity to look at the country club security tapes from the day of Henrietta’s death?” Trey asked.
“I did. She appeared somewhat unstable when she left the club after lunch. She was stable going in.”
“Indicating?”
“Possible intoxication of some sort.”
“Did you check her lunch receipt?”
Beau nodded. “She consumed no alcohol at lunch.”
Trey bolted from his seat. “She entered stable and came out wobbly. Something had to have happened to her at lunch.”
“Hold on, Trey,” Beau said. “Ruling out intoxication, there are possible medical causes of wobbliness.”
“You’re her doctor.” Trey locked eyes with Beau. “Did she suffer a medical condition that would explain her sudden unsteadiness?”
“No.”
Trey raised his hands, palm up. “So, she had or developed a condition you were unaware of?”
“Possibly.”
Trey narrowed his eyes. “Doesn’t sound like murder.”
“It wouldn’t be, unless someone induced the condition.”
Trey cocked his head. “We have the hair sample. Could that reveal a chemical that would affect her motor
functions like balance?”
“It might, if she used or abused the chemical over an extended period of time.”
“When will we receive the lab results?”
“A couple of weeks for the detailed analysis we requested.”
“Too slow.”
Beau sighed. “It’s been expedited, but because hair grows so slowly the analysis won’t help if the inducement occurred the day of her death.”
Trey took a deep breath. “So, someone who works at the club could have put something in her food that would cause her death, and it wouldn’t show in her hair?”
“Yes. That’s a possible scenario.”
“Potter, check everyone at the club who had access to her food or beverage on the day of her death.”
Potter nodded.
“Anyone have any other business?” Trey asked. “If not, we’ll adjourn.”
* * *
Beau watched the Russian known as Boris traverse the shaded square and lumber into the corner pub, a well-known local hangout frequented by lawyers and business people. All the historic woodwork had been salvaged from a reclamation project in Ireland. A touch of home for those who could pay the price of a drink. Beau checked the time on his smartphone. Happy hour. The place would be busy.
A minute later, Potter, dressed in black slacks and a gray short-sleeved shirt, followed the Russian in.
With an eye on the pub, Beau sat on a park bench and stretched his legs. His muscles were cramped with tension. He didn’t like exposing himself to the possibility of criminal charges if he made a mistake and got caught. But, tension or not, this nasty business required his expertise.
He rose from the bench. As he walked toward the bar, touched the vial of doctored vodka in the front pocket of his slacks. Tasteless. Colorless. Odorless. Just enough to produce the right symptoms.
He glanced down the adjacent side street. The ambulance that would respond was in place. Soon the Russian would be stretched out on Beau’s operating table.
Beau’s heart hammered as he followed a young couple into the bar. Happy hour chaotic. Perfect cover.
He wiped his sweaty palm on his pants, moved to the entrance wall, and waited for his eyes to adjust. He scanned for security cameras and saw one focused on the cash register. No others were apparent.
Beau loosened his tie and adjusted the scratchy collar of his starched oxford shirt. His anxiety was too close to the surface and would draw attention to him. He was known; his picture was often splashed on television and in the papers. He had to calm down and blend in with the crowd, until needed. He took a deep breath.
Someone tapped Beau on the shoulder. Beau turned to face a severely inebriated redhead he didn’t recognize.
“Thank you, Doctor Simpson, for saving my husband’s life.”
So much for being inconspicuous. “My pleasure.”
“Can I buy you a drink?”
“I’m on call.”
“Coffee? Tea?”
“I’ll take a pass.”
“Well, thank you again for saving his life,” she said, then turned and headed deeper into the pub.
Potter sat at the bar next to the Russian, keeping to himself. The Russian was chatting up a young blonde half his age.
Beau came up behind Potter, their eyes briefly meeting in the mirror, then leaned his elbows on the bar between the Russian and Potter to yell a drink order at the bartender. Beau’s hand lingered over Potter’s drink and emptied the drugged alcohol into Potter’s glass. Beau retreated when the bartender filled his order.
Potter, an amateur magician, stretched his arm in front of the Russian to grab a menu from a vertical stack clipped to the bar. As his shoulder blocked the Russian’s forward view, he deftly exchanged drinks with the Russian.
Beau headed for the men’s room to clean and dispose of the vial.
Potter paid his bill and, when Beau emerged from the men’s room, went to the front of the pub.
Beau moved closer to the bar and kept an eye on the Russian.
One minute after the Russian took a hefty gulp of his vodka, he slumped to the floor. Patrons around him backed away.
Beau rushed in. “I’m a doctor,” Beau shouted as he knelt by the man. “Someone call 911.”
Potter noticed the bartender reaching for his phone. “I’ve already got it,” shouted Potter, elevating his phone. Potter called the driver of the complicit ambulance, then left.
Beau gave CPR to no avail until the fake EMS crew arrived.
“We’ll take it from here,” a paramedic said.
Beau, shoulders bunched from the CPR, left.
* * *
The Russian was already prepped and strapped to an operating table when Beau, dressed in surgical scrubs and mask, entered the mock surgery room. The Russian, Beau and Trey were the only ones in the room. Beau, his hands still unsteady from being recognized at the pub, glanced at Trey standing in the shadows above the head of the bed so he couldn’t be seen. The Russian was in the twilight of conscious sedation under the influence of a common truth serum. Aware, but relatively immobile.
Beau looked at the Russian’s scowling face. Glaring eyes. Flushed cheeks. No fear there, just raw anger. The thug was partially drugged and fully restrained. He could hear and speak. He might pee himself, and he’d certainly spew all his secrets.
After checking the Russian’s vitals and finding them in order, Beau turned on the overhead light.
The Russian’s eyes snapped shut.
Beau settled on a stool next to the operating table and brought his masked mouth to the Russian’s cauliflower ear. “Can you hear me, Boris?”
“Da,” the Russian said in a husky voice.
“English, please.”
Boris remained silent.
Beau quelled his impatience. Bedside manner was critical at this stage. Boris was a professional criminal. He certainly knew the drill, as well as the likely consequences for resistance. He just needed some encouragement. “This can be short or long, Boris. If you cooperate you’ll be back in your hotel room within the hour. Vy ponimayete maniya? Do you understand?”
Boris remained silent.
“Zhdu vashego otveta. I’m waiting for your response.”
“Da.”
Beau sighed his displeasure. “English, please.”
The Russian’s blunt features softened. “Yes.”
Beau sat back on the stool. “Good. Now that we understand each other, let’s get down to business and get you right back to your hotel.”
Boris nodded.
“A port official was killed yesterday. I’m interested in knowing if Vladimir was involved. If you or Vladimir were involved, I’m not here to punish. I only seek information.”
“I understand,” Boris mumbled. “No one will know of this?”
“No one.” Not even you, thanks to the amnesia effect of the conscious sedation. “So, tell me, was Vladimir involved?”
“Vladimir ordered assassination so certain others would know how serious he is about success here.”
“Others?”
“A secret local organization we know as Cotton Coalition. Bad people. Very dangerous.”
“Thank you. Just two more questions and then we’ll return you to your hotel. Was Vladimir involved in the killing of Henrietta Snyder?”
“No. But he vas interested in purchasing all her property near the port.”
“Did he actually purchase her land?”
“No. But the negotiations were ongoing.”
“Thank you. Last question. Was Vladimir involved in the killing of Sonny Carothers?”
“Killing? Mr. Carothers is dead? Where? How?”
“Thank you.” Beau reached a gloved hand up to the drip line and added more sedative.
Moments later Boris was fully sedated. He’d awaken hours later in his hotel bed with a headache and no memory of the interrogation.
Chapter 17
The front door bell pealed. Patricia went to the foyer and checked the secu
rity monitor. She froze. It was the reporter who had slandered her mother. The bell pealed again. She doubted he’d leave of his own accord, so she released the deadbolt and opened the door.
“Hello, Mrs. Falcon. I’m Willie Maye.” He extended his hand.
“I know who you are,” she said, not accepting his offered hand. “And I don’t have anything to say to you.”
“Was your mother on any medications?”
“No comment.” Patricia began to ease the door closed.
He stepped forward. “Was your mother murdered?”
She wasn’t about to get into any discussion with him. “No!”
“Then why is the church looking into her death?”
She opened the door and stepped up to the man. “Who told you that?”
“A source.”
“And your so-called source thinks she was murdered?”
He stepped back and nodded.
“And you think she was murdered?”
“It would make a good story if she had been.”
“And you’re looking to tell it?”
“I am.”
“Look, you can’t report on that right now. There are things going on that you don’t understand.”
“What things?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
“OK. I have a fair amount of details. I’ll print what I know.”
“You know you don’t have enough to go to press. That’s why you’re here talking with me. Hold off and I’ll give you everything when I get the full facts. An exclusive.”
“Are you directly involved in the investigation?”
She nodded.
“Are you working with the police?”
She nodded.
“Then I can talk to them.”
“You know better than that, Willie.” She locked eyes with him. “Their spokesman will say they can’t comment on an active case.”
He let out a long sigh. “But you will? Exclusively?”
“Of course. Provided you hold off.”
“Okay. I’ll hold off publication for a week. After that, I’m going with what I have.”
He extended his hand.
This time she took it.