by D. A. Bale
She’d become nothing more than their little bitch, always doing as told and asking no questions. Well at least not very often.
Marcus’ stride didn’t change. “Do you even know the meaning of the word patience? It will all come together in good time. For now, the gym.”
The smelly He-Man hole again. As they entered the blue matted arena, the stench of sweat assailed her nostrils and joined the scent of blood floating around her sinuses of late. The moment they’d finished surgery for the day, Dr. Marcus had dragged her butt from the medical unit to change into her black Lycra workout gear. The catsuit fit like a glove, showing every curve and flaw of her body. She hated it because Marcus’ eyes roamed every square inch as if he were preparing to give her a proverbial gloved exam.
“Today I am going to teach you the fine art of kickboxing,” Marcus proclaimed.
Surprise stayed concealed beneath her furrowed brows. Things were certainly going to get interesting real quick. Could it possibly be that they didn’t know or was this just another test?
Instead Samantha played along and whined, “I’m exhausted. Can I get some sleep first after last night?” At least it was true. Her limbs felt like lead weights hanging from her torso.
“I’m in no mood for your mouth today, so zip it.”
After guiding her through limbering and stretching exercises then hand and foot positions, Marcus showed off a series of kicks and punches against the matted walls. She feigned ignorance, enjoying the feeling of having precious knowledge to herself. For a moment she got in touch with her sense of dignity again.
Hours ground on and exhaustion wore on her like a wilted blanket. Marcus’ voice droned on in the recesses of her mind, his cocky attitude grating on her last nerve as they finally faced off against each other. Samantha didn’t expect him to actually strike her but his heel connected with her temple, her reflexes sluggish as she slammed against the mat.
“Get your sorry ass up and be ready next time.” Marcus smiled.
Fine. Time to grind that smile into the mats. The blow had warmed her blood as it raced hot through her veins. Her head throbbed, but her mind focused for the next blow.
His eyes registered shock as Samantha face-kicked him before smacking him back in the temple with a spinning sweep kick. A sense of power rose as the mighty Dr. Marcus fell to the mat, his lip swelling and bleeding at the unexpected attack.
As she bent to stare into his glazed eyes, she touched her nose to his. “Turn about’s fair play, don’t you think?”
To drive the point home she pressed her foot on his chest, enjoying his grunt, as she stepped over him and strode toward the exit. They were done for the day.
Marcus spat blood and sputtered. “Where the hell did that come from?”
Glancing over her shoulder, Samantha stared innocently at his pathetic form. “Didn’t you know? Well then you should do your homework a little more thoroughly next time. My college roommate won the state kickboxing championship our junior and senior years.” She smiled. “I was practice.”
Samantha turned to leave as Marcus yelled after her. “Hey – hey, get back here. We’re not finished yet!”
Let him shoot her in the back if he wanted. She called back without stopping. “Looks to me like we are finished. I’m going to bed.”
His silence surprised her. But as Samantha plowed through the gym’s double doors she heard following the low rumble of Marcus’ laughter.
***
Marcus leaned on his elbow as he watched the sway of Samantha’s retreating form. So she had it in her after all. For months they’d waited for a glimpse of the real Samantha, a haughty confidence Debrille had referenced in her mother. But this he hadn’t expected. Her leg had flashed like lightning against his head – swift and to the point. Rising respect erupted as laughter.
The time had come.
Chapter 21 - Something’s Up
Joe stormed into the chief’s office. “Who authorized the demolition?” The glass rattled as he slammed the office door.
Chief Snowe raised his heavy brows at the uncharacteristic outburst. “Gotta problem, Roberts?”
Joe plunked down in a chair and took a deep breath to calm the force of his frustration. It wouldn’t be a good time to get fired. Snowe leaned forward as much as his paunch would allow. Sitting behind a desk for a decade hadn’t done much for his figure.
“I just went out to the explosion site – the one in College Hill several months back. Castor’s been there sometime in the last couple of days, demolished the site and spread fresh dirt. I never signed off on the demolition notice. Did you?”
“The Bartlett file? You know I’d have told you if I was going to pull rank on your case. You still had a few weeks left until I made good on my last threat.”
Even though they’d had their differences over the years and had butted heads, Chief Snowe was a good man and one smart investigator. The plug in the leg was the only thing that had ever slowed him down. If nothing else, the man was trustworthy.
Joe paced the room. “I’m screwed. The tunnel would have come out somewhere eventually, but now I can’t get back in there.”
“Keep your voice down, Roberts. It’s not good to let too many people around here in on that tunnel. Let me see if I can find out who gave Castor the authorization without consulting me.”
Joe stewed, his mind roaming through all manner of possibilities while the chief scrolled through his cell records. In all the years they’d known each other, Sam had never mentioned a tunnel connected to the storm cellar. What purpose did the tunnel serve? Had Sam even been aware of it? If so, could she have been buried beneath the rubble? That would explain why they’d never found her body. Now what chance did he have to close this case? What chance did he have to close the hole she’d left in his heart?
Snowe dialed the number on his phone and propped his feet on his desk. Pity the poor person who answered the call. It never bode well for anyone to cross him.
“Sherie, Chief Snowe here. Is McMillan in? Well in that case, would you be available for a moment to look something up for me? Little city demolition job earlier this week in connection with one of our cases. Yes ma’am – Castor Construction. No problem.” He glanced back at Joe and winked. “You get further with most females when you’re pleasant. I sure could do without this elevator music though.”
“I’d listen to anything right now if I could just find out who’s responsible for setting my investigation back.”
“It’s just a good thing I got Sherie on the phone instead of Donna. Now that woman is nothing but an impenetrable and unbending icicle. Strictly by the book.” Snowe propped the phone back up to his mouth. “Yes – Bartlett. Tuesday? He did? I’d love a copy for the file if you could just fax it on over. Sure, email’s fine. Thanks for checking, Sherie.”
Joe could hardly contain himself. “Who?”
Snowe lit a cigar and blew out slowly, disregarding the city’s smoke-free policy. One thing Joe loved about the guy – some rules were just made to be broken. But you always had to know which ones to break, and you better have one hell of a reason for doing so.
“Now it gets interesting.”
“Who?”
“Mayor Spencer.”
***
“Meet me tonight. There’s a whole slew of shit here.”
Joe tucked his hand around his other ear to hear Bill Proctor over the precinct chaos. The cell phone connection crackled. If Bill had called his personal cell instead of his office land line or work cell, things didn’t bode well. He must have found a load of dirt.
“Where? When?” Joe asked.
“You know that coffee café down in Riverside?”
“The Percolator?”
“That’s the place. Meet me there at five-fifteen.”
“What’d you find?”
“It’s gonna hit the fan with this one, and you-know-who is going to fight it all the way.”
The excitement in Bill’s voice sent his mind ree
ling. That old familiar sense of dread sat like a rock in his stomach, but nothing he’d said gave any reason for triggering it. Only thing he knew for certain – he didn’t like feeling this way one bit.
“Bill, you okay?”
“Gotta go. Just meet me.”
“You got it.”
***
Five-fifteen. Joe fiddled with his watch and took a bite of his beef tenderloin sandwich. The place was an eclectic dive, but the food was homemade and usually melted in his mouth. But he only went through the motions, hardly tasting the food as it went down. The music wouldn’t start until seven so the crowd was thin thus far. The place always drew an interesting cross-section of the community later at night.
Five-twenty-five. The large windows allowed clear sights for Bill’s white SUV down all quadrants of the intersection. The cheese peeled off the last edge of the sandwich as Joe absentmindedly munched a fry before sucking down more strong coffee. The stuff was going to rot a hole in his gut if Bill didn’t arrive soon – that and thinking too much about what had happened to Sam.
Two-plus-two usually equaled four. Why not this time? Logic said Sam had died in the explosion. She’d not surfaced since. Still they’d found no DNA traces in the ash, and they’d taken more than thirty samples. Chief Snowe about came unglued when he’d seen the lab costs for the case. Then he kept coming back to that crazy tunnel under the house – and the lady at the cemetery. If he’d only realized before the limo disappeared, he could’ve at least questioned her.
Five-thirty-five. Something felt wrong. Bill had found out something about Castor. Was it connected to Sam’s house? About why Mayor Spencer had usurped the department’s role in the investigation? Bill had tried to temper what he’d said on his end of the conversation as if he were afraid of someone overhearing and catching onto the drift of their discussion. Maybe it’d be best to get Bill to quit sniffing around for awhile, lay low and stay cool to avoid suspicion.
At five-forty-six, Bill’s Explorer came careening through the intersection and slid into a parking space along the opposite side of the road. Joe breathed an audible sigh of relief as Bill hopped from the vehicle carrying a bulging manila envelope close to his leather bomber jacket.
“You’re late.”
Bill folded his lanky frame into the booth opposite Joe and waved down the waiter for a works burger and a straight coffee – black. If not for the knee injury during his second year of college hoops, the guy could’ve had a shot at the pros.
“I had to wait for some people to leave the office. Didn’t want to be seen taking this out of the building.” He slid the packet over to Joe.
“I usually tuck them inside my shirt.”
“Well I’d meant to take it out to my car under my jacket earlier, but the more I searched the more information I came across until it got too big to hide. And this isn’t all of it, I’m sure. Doubt if I’ve done more than scratched the surface.”
Joe lowered his voice when another patron entered the café. “Today we learned there’s a possibility of some connection between Castor and the mayor. Lay low on the searching for awhile, okay?”
“It’s no secret Castor’s been a huge contributor to the mayor’s elections, but the info I’ve put together alone has made me really nervous. Buddy, you’re onto something with this Castor thing. There’s something really weird going through their hands.”
“Through?”
“Had our friend at IRS email me a few choice items from back in the sixties and seventies. Wish now I would’ve run over there on my lunch break instead. Castor’s cost of goods sold continued to rise steadily until they were more than sales.”
“Bill, you’re talking to a guy who passed Accounting 101 by the skin of his teeth. Speak English.”
“Slacker.” Bill smiled. “Okay, when you have a product to sell it costs you so much money to make it or have it made or whatever. So when you sell it you need to recover your costs of manufacture and then to cover your overhead and finally have something to put back in your pocket. It’s called a profit. Got it?”
“I’m with you so far.”
“Castor’s cost of goods began to exceed their sales quite heavily in the sixties and it went on for decades.”
“So logic says they should have gone out of business,” Joe stated.
“Businesses eventually do if they don’t adjust their pricing to recoup some of those costs. Others have sales under the table and don’t report them. If this goes on for more than a couple of years, it usually triggers an audit.”
“So what about Castor?”
“That’s just it. No audits. No nothing in more than four decades. Plus the company continues to grow by leaps and bounds. Odd. So I went digging further and found this.” Bill pulled a page from his jacket pocket, unfolded it and handed it to Joe.
“Looks like another page from Castor’s tax return.”
Bill whispered, “Lists all affiliations – ownership in other businesses.”
“Thirteen? Is that normal?” Joe responded in kind.
“Most times it’s legit with larger companies. Stock ownership options, passive dummy corporations set up to own the assets, others to run funds through for philanthropic causes, etc. Look at number seven.”
“Oleander Enterprises?”
“I’ve just started looking into them. Hard to find more than just the usual puff stuff through normal channels. Company shows up out of Belgium dealing in art and antiques. From what I can tell, it’s been around for more than a hundred years – Egyptian antiquities markets before the previous turn of the century. They made a killing after World War Two, probably dealing in works Hitler stole from the Jews and every other country he ravaged.”
“Why would Castor get involved with that kind of company? How would they even develop such relationships?”
Bill shrugged. “Search me. Funny thing is Oleander only appears on this tax return. No other years reflect it.”
“Might they have divested their interest?”
“Now you’re talking my language.”
Joe smiled. “I caught a few points in some classes, only things that might do me some good in my profession.”
The waiter slunk over and slid Bill’s platter on the table. It’d hardly stopped, before Bill ripped an enormous bite from the burger and stuffed a few fries into his mouth. The poor guy really needed his wife to lead him from the barn and teach him some table manners. Guess that’s what you get without a mother around to domesticate the male species. Bill eyed the waiter as he walked away then continued.
“On the surface it appears they did just that, but I have a distinct impression there’s still a connection between Oleander and Castor. Oleander suddenly shows up about the same time these anomalies hit Castor’s finances. All connections seem to vanish on paper but the financial anomalies continue. Then there’s this connection.”
Another paper appeared from Bill’s pockets, and he glanced around at the growing crowd before sliding the grease-encrusted slip across the table. He didn’t release it until he’d tucked it along the edge of Joe’s empty plate.
“What’s this?” Joe asked as he laid his napkin across the paper.
“That, my friend, is the real shit in your pants. Our IRS buddy called me up late this afternoon. Not only was Castor linked in the past to her grandparents, but Sam’s student loans were paid off a couple of months ago.”
The mention of her name still jarred his nerves, but Joe kept his calm by nursing his coffee. “Mr. Eddis probably took care of that after settling with the insurance company.”
Bill shook his head. “I already checked with the attorney on my way over to make sure. Mr. Eddis knew nothing about it. Payment was made through a maze of corporate and philanthropic interests. Tracking it completely will be a nightmare, but one entity showed up that immediately grabbed my attention.”
A glance at the paper was the only signal needed. Joe slid the paper into the napkin’s fold as he picked it up and dabbed
at his mouth. Refolding the napkin as he returned it to the table allowed him to see the name Bill had written on the note. It sent a shockwave down his spine.
Oleander Enterprises
Chapter 22 - Photo Op
Fall leaves blew along the South Lawn, but President Warner paid no mind. He stared angrily from the Blue Room window before turning back to Benjamin Forsdale.
“Where is the old bitch?” Warner muttered. “That bill is waiting for my signature. The first important thing to hit my desk in months, and I’m sure as hell not sticking around here any longer than necessary because she decided to be late for this infernal photo op.”
Photographers rustled around, making adjustments and trying to look busy while everyone waited – endlessly waited. The Blue Room was decorated like the end of December instead of the beginning of November. Christmas garland draped the fireplace mantle where a fire blazed while an enormous and gaudily decorated tree stood at attention like a whitewashed fence post. The missus had no design sense whatsoever, and she insisted on having too much say with the decorators. White House Christmas pictures would look even more tacky this year than last.
Warner grabbed Forsdale’s arm. “If she isn’t here in five minutes she can have her photo taken for the Christmas card.”
Forsdale leaned over and whispered, “There is a possible advantage to that option, Mr. President. One might deduce you were too busy with the nation’s business to attend a simple photo session.”
Warner thought about the possibility and smiled. “Ah, Forsdale. You have saved me from worse situations.”
Forsdale smiled in return. “I serve at my President’s pleasure.”
It was the first time Warner had laughed – really laughed – in a month. He slapped Forsdale on the back.
“Take care of the details and explain the way things work around here to the First Lady, my good man.”
“Consider it done, Mr. President.”
Warner plowed down the hall to the bewilderment and exclamations of the photography crew. He couldn’t be bothered with this Christmas business. Hell, he’d never liked the stuffy and pompous holiday anyway. Glaring lights, sappy music, and gifts nobody really wanted – who needed it?