CONTENTS
Dedication
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
To Those Who Keep Us Safe From Those Who Wish To Do Us Harm
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Edited by Ellen Scharf
Copyright © 2015 T Patrick Phelps Writing Services, Inc
All rights reserved.
Connect with the author on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/authortpp
Or send him an email at [email protected]
CHAPTER ONE
5:15 pm
August 15, 2014
It was cooler than he wished. Though he did not know if the temperature might alter the expected and desired aftereffects, he believed the cool weather would keep people too comfortable. If it were warmer, even hot, more people would be driven outside to enjoy the late August weather. And when the heat proved to be too much, those same people would be forced to retreat inside for the cooling comfort of air conditioning, coupled with a thirst quenching drink. Inside, was where he needed them to be.
He switched the key of his car to “on” and waited for the touch screen display of the 2010 Lincoln Navigator to jump to life. There were only two things he cared about; the time and the temperature.
“Sixty-eight degrees,” he sighed. “Too cool. Much too cool for August.”
The display only told him that his time was drawing to an end. The display could not remind him that he still had a choice. A choice was something he believed he still had. Though his thoughts were cloudy and his head, fuzzy, having a choice was something he knew.
“Just a few more minutes until I am free,” he thought, trying to force the fuzziness from his mind.
A cell phone sat beside him on the vacant passenger’s seat. Though he was sure the phone's signal would be strong and battery near full, he grabbed it, flipped it open and pressed a few numbers, grateful to hear the tones. He didn’t expect his mentor to call for another few minutes, making him wonder why he was instructed to arrive so early.
“It will make people nervous,” he said to his mentor the day the plan was detailed to him. “A car sitting outside a restaurant in that part of town will make people nervous. Someone might say something. Especially now after everything that has happened.”
“Things must be well timed,” his mentor said. “Our plan needs to be flexible in case of interruptions. Do not worry about being seen. They will all notice you when the time is right. And then, no one will ever forget you.”
He knew better than to question his mentor. Aahill was so new to the organization, and his mentor had already proven himself to be brilliant. He felt that he was not worthy to question someone as brilliant and as well respected as his mentor. But soon, in a matter of minutes, his name would be listed among the great ones. The ones who sacrificed all so the truth could be told and the non-believers, punished.
Still, he wished for less time to wait. Or perhaps, more time.
Aahill turned the key to “off” and waited. He studied the people passing along either side of the street, some with a direction, others ambling by. He wondered why more were not walking into his target. The research the organization had done listed his target as a popular and highly-rated place: One of the most “liked” taverns in the area.
Having lived in Manhattan for only a few months, Aahill was far from an authority on taverns in the Upper East Side. But of all the places listed in his instruction list to “check out,” this became his favorite. The location was perfect; near both office buildings and apartment buildings.
The two times he had been inside, he found the bar and seating areas packed with patrons. Most inside wore crisp, white shirts, ties and sport jackets; telling him this was the place where people who lived in the nearby apartments stopped for dinner or a few drinks on their way home from work.
As he sat waiting, Aahill could not prevent his thoughts from returning to the sudden and unexplained events that ended with him sitting outside the tavern, several days before the original planned day.
“Friday is your day, Aahill,” his mentor said. “Friday will mark your entrance into greatness and the day that the infidels will mourn for generations.”
“But that is not the day you told me before?” he said. “I thought I had more time. That our plan was not ready yet?”
“Our leader knows things you and I cannot possibly understand. And our leader says Friday is your day. This Friday.”
Aahill didn’t question his mentor. He was, after all, respected by so many and guided by something divine. His mentor always seemed patient while others, those of Aahill’s “other life,” were cruel, quick to insult or, worse, to dismiss. When his mentor praised him for choosing this tavern as the location, Aahill remembered the stirrings in his soul when his mentor said, his face filled with a smile, “You are guided by Allah. Who am I to question your beliefs?".
But now he only sat, despising the time he had left to sit in the car, parked across the street from his selected target. Aahill scolded himself for not questioning why his mentor insisted on the time of 5:46 pm and not the time that Aahill had suggested.
“Allah, keep me strong in my thoughts,” he said with his eyes closed. “Keep me strong.”
CHAPTER TWO
August 11, 2014
As he sat behind his newly purchased, solid mahogany desk, Derek Cole was torn between competing emotions. Though he knew he needed to make changes to expand his investigative firm, as he watched the hired movers and delivery men trudge up the twelve flights of stairs carrying new desks, new computers and new everything else, he missed his old, 300 foot, one-person office. His new office, in the heart of downtown Columbus, had a more impressive feel. From the entrance lobby, complete with a security desk, a three-story high water feature and expertly crafted synthetic marble floors, to the receptionist welcoming area of the office, everything was designed to both impress and to suggest success.
Derek did not rush into the decision to expand hi
s team. He had been contemplating hiring someone to help with his caseload (which had grown significantly since he had appeared on several national news shows after playing key roles in solving two recent murder cases) and to offer clients another competent professional to work with when he was busy working a case. But as he sat behind his desk, three months after Victoria Crown accepted the job as his personal assistant, Derek wondered if he was moving too quickly.
Victoria Crown was the eighth person who interviewed for the "Investigator Assistant" position he had posted on an Internet job posting board. As soon as she walked into his office, she assumed that the job was hers for the asking.
"Can you tell me a little about yourself and why you are interested in working as a private investigator's assistant?" Derek had asked.
"Slow down a minute," Crown said. "This get-together isn't about me and my goals. My coming here is all about what you need and what you expect. I know why I'm here. What's important is why you and I are sitting in a Denny's having an interview?"
Victoria was approaching 50 years old, a fact that her multiple layers of makeup couldn't disguise. Her shoulder length, reddish brown hair denied her desire to retain the youthful look that had enabled her to land two well-off husbands, as it displayed the marks of a losing battle against gray hair's advances. Twice married, and twice divorced, Victoria did not need to work, but her life-long battle against the possibility of ever being bored drove her actions.
When she grew tired of traveling the world and of seeing the sights that most others read and dream about, she tried her hand at settling down to a comfortable life. Three days after her attempt began, she was combing through the online job postings.
"I've worked for two of the top legal defense firms in the county," she continued before giving Derek the chance to respond. "One for eight years in Grand Rapids and the other for six years outside of Boston. Matter of fact, I married two of the top legal defense lawyers in the country. So don't ask me for references because I don't want those shitheads to find out that I'm working again. Bastards will go running to a judge to have their alimony payments lowered." Victoria turned serious as she stared into Derek's eyes. "I know what you're up against and what you need to take your little agency to the next level."
"I never said I was looking to get to the next level. I'm doing okay at the level I'm at."
"Really?" Victoria said. "You think you're doing just fine, do you? So you think running an agency out of a 300 square foot office, that, based on what I've seen, isn't professional looking enough to bring any clients to, is doing well? Flying all over the country to meet with your clients in public parks before deciding whether their case is one you want to take on is a sound business strategy I suppose? Not being able to figure out how to make your multi–functional printer, the one you bought for $299 at Staples last year, do anything except receive a fax now and then is a sign of an agency on the rise? Listen Cole, your phone system is comprised of one iPhone, you still use a Rolodex for your contact management system, you have one six-year old laptop for your IT department, and you can only work one case at a time because you're sucky with your time management. You ain't doing okay, Cole. There are only two reasons you're getting enough clients to keep your head above water: You do a damn good job when a client hires you, and you got free advertisement when Dateline flashed your pretty-boy face all over TV screens across America. You need me way more than I need you."
"Not sure if you understand how job interviews are supposed to go. See, I ask the questions, and you give the answers."
"Cole," Victoria said, shaking her head, "this isn't an interview. This is an intervention. I'll tell you what we're gonna do. You play the owner's role, and ask me some lame-ass questions about how I would respond to an angry client. Ask me about a time in my career when I had to choose between doing what was best for the client or the business. Shit, ask me about my favorite position in bed if you think that will help. Go ahead and ask me anything that will make you feel all warm and fuzzy. After this sit down, I'll pretend to sit by the phone, hoping that you call me and offer me the job. I'll come into your office next week, all dressed up as pretty as I can make all this," she said while she gestured towards her face and body, "and you can tell your buddies down at the lodge about how tough you are when interviewing people."
"I still don't think you understand what I'm looking for," Derek said.
"You may think you're aware of what you're looking for, but I'll tell you what you should be looking for. You need someone that will keep you organized, focused and with clients pulling out their wallets, begging for you to take their case. You need someone to turn your little no-name agency into one of the top investigative firms in the country. You may not know it yet, but you need to decide whether you want to keep doing 'okay' or you want to really make an impact. Hire anyone else besides me, and I will guarantee that either they quit after four months or, worse yet, will stay as your pretty little assistant for 30 years.
"You got a huge gift when your face and name were spread across the country on that TV show. You can either get damn used to turning clients away because you can't handle more than a few cases a year, or you can maximize the opportunity, and make a name for yourself. I get it, it's your call. You're the boss. You decide. But I'll tell you this; make the easy decision and hire an ex-librarian with fake tits and a mouth filled with corrective dental work, and you'll be shitting all over this opportunity. What's your decision?"
Victoria Crown started as Derek's assistant three days after the interview at Denny's.
"I don't want you calling me Victoria. My father had a sick sense of humor naming me after a Ford car model. It's Crown or Vic. Not Crown Vic. Call me Victoria, and I'll slip something nasty into your morning coffee. And, just so we’re clear about my job, if you do ever ask me to make you coffee in the morning, I'll piss in your coffee mug. Deal?"
CHAPTER THREE
5:46 pm
August 12 2014
Derek was cautiously optimistic. In the three plus years he had been a freelance detective, each of his clients was a private citizen. Many were a corporation or political figure that needed help that public authorities could not or would not offer. But as he walked out of the coffee shop, his impromptu meeting having just concluded, he needed to temper his excitement and concerns.
He received the call less than 20 hours ago and was told that if he wanted to be part of the case he’d need to be in Yonkers, at a specific coffee shop, by 5 pm the next day. Derek was visiting his friend, Ralph Fox, in Albany when the call came in. Ralph Fox was Chief of Police in a small, upstate New York town that was the center of one of Derek’s more challenging cases.
“Ralph,” he said, “I’m afraid I have to cut our get-together short.”
“Whadya got?” Ralph said, his Texas drawl sounding out of place in the upstate New York diner where the two were enjoying an early lunch.
“Believe it or not,” Derek continued, “that was the FBI.”
“Unless my recollection is faulty, the FBI is a tad bigger than a small town police department. I’d say that that call you received is a sign you’ve made your mark. What’s the case?”
“He didn’t say. Just that the FBI heard about me and my history and that my skills are needed to protect the public interest.”
“Ain’t nothing too vague about that,” Ralph said.
“Nothing at all,” Derek said.
As he walked down the crowded street, towards the parking lot to his car, Derek went over what few details the FBI agent shared with him during the meeting in the diner.
“As you probably know,” Special Agent Mark Henderson said, “a lot of our information comes from what we call ‘chatter.’ We picked up a lot of chatter over the last several months about an event in Manhattan. About three weeks ago, the chatter went dark.”
“Called off?” Derek asked.
“Not likely. When communications go dark, it often means things are in place and are read
y for execution.”
“Where was the chatter coming from?”
“Anywhere and everywhere. That’s the biggest problem. Usually, we know who’s talking, what they’re talking about and what they are targeting. This chatter didn’t give us any solid targets to go after.”
“Why did you contact me?” Derek asked. “Matters of homeland security aren’t shared with people like me.”
“True, and this isn’t being shared with you, either. Understand me?” Special Agent Mark Henderson looked nothing like what one would expect an FBI agent to look. He stood only five foot six, weighed under 155 pounds soaking wet, and had a face so smooth and free of hair that people would estimate his age to be under 20. There was a kindness in his eyes: A look suggesting that his eyes had seen too many horrors and were terminally impressed with sadness. His high-pitched voice, soft brown hair and fair complexion added to his “harmless” appearance.
“Understood, but still confused,” Derek said.
Mark glanced at his partner, Special Agent Juan Cortez who was sitting next to him in the booth. Cortez said nothing after introducing himself and kept his eyes fixed on his mug of black coffee.
“There are some cases,” Mark said, returning his gaze to Derek, “which need outside assistance. This being one of them.”
“Since the chatter you picked up is about an event in New York City, can I assume the NYPD is involved?”
“To an extent, yes.”
“Any others like me working the case?”
“No. Though this concern has been on our radar for a while, we were recently alerted the issue’s status was raised to ‘imminent’ two days ago. The FBI has been vetting people for years. Finding out who can do what, who could be of service and who has skills that may come in handy. Your name was the only one I was given to contact.”
The Observer (Derek Cole Suspense Thriller Book 3) Page 1