The Constantine Conspiracy

by Gary Parker

“A DVD?”

  “Yeah, after you left, Luisa brought me a key.” Bridge quickly told him how she’d found the DVD. “I . . . well, I kept it. Didn’t say anything to the police.”

  “Is that legal?”

  “It seemed the right thing at the time.”

  “You see what’s on it?”

  “Nope, tried a little while ago but it’s password-protected. Any idea what your dad used for passwords? Most people pick one or two and repeat them over and over.”

  Rick studied the matter but nothing jumped out at him. “Need some time to think about that. Could be a lot of things.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “I should get off the phone,” he said. “Cops track these things pretty easily.”

  “Thought you wanted to talk.”

  “I’d prefer face-to-face.”

  “You want me to come to you?” she asked.

  “Thought that would be best. You willing to do that?”

  “I have some vacation coming to me. Where are you?”

  Rick hesitated, surprised by her quick acceptance of his invitation and distrustful of her because of it. “You agreed awfully fast to come to me.”

  “Your excellent figure and charming personality.”

  Rick didn’t respond and Shannon quickly got serious again. “You’re right,” she said. “You have no reason to trust me. But I’m on your side, believe me.”

  “Why should I?”

  “I can’t answer that, not yet.”

  “What if I said you had to?”

  “I’d say let me come see you. We can talk then, clear up a few matters. You won’t be disappointed, I promise you.”

  Rick paused one more second, but then, seeing no option, gave up. “Fly to Atlanta, call me when you land, I’ll give you directions,” he said.

  “I’ll bring the DVD, and a computer. Couple of other things too,” she said mysteriously.

  “What things?”

  “Wait until we meet; I should be able to catch a flight in the morning.”

  “See you then.”

  “Stay safe.”

  Rick hung up and lay back on the bed. His eyes closed a few minutes later and then, somehow calmed by his short talk with Shannon Bridge, he fell asleep to dreams filled with a woman wearing green and a bloody sword shaped like a cross.

  14

  Wednesday, 7:00 a.m.

  Somebody assisted him,” Augustine said, his angular frame lounging in his chair in his New York office.

  “True,” Charbeau said, his thick face filling the plasma screen on Augustine’s wall. “He had his ducks in a row at Rolling Hills; the van, the uniform, the rope from the roof. A smart dude, have to give him props on that.”

  “I’m paying you to bring him to me, not give me his résumé.”

  “I’m working on that, but these things take time.”

  Augustine stood and pulled a cigar from the monogrammed silver case in his breast pocket. “Time’s not our ally,” he said, lighting the cigar and replacing the case. “We have to finish this before we move to the final phase of our present advance. Do you have information on who provided these preparations that you admire so much?”

  Charbeau cleared his throat. “It seems that Luisa Gonzalez, Golden Boy’s personal cook, has a son who manages the staff at Rolling Hills. He seems a likely candidate, wouldn’t you think?”

  Augustine pulled a drag from his cigar. It pleased him that Charbeau had discovered what he already knew; proof again of his excellent judgment when it came to hiring assassins. “And what is your plan for handling Mr. Gonzalez?”

  The camera on Charbeau pulled back, revealing a larger view of the room where he stood. Another man appeared in the frame, this one strapped to a metal chair, his mouth covered with tape, his wrists tied to the chair, his ankles bound and covered by a bucket of water, a wire attached to each of his ear lobes. Blood poured from his lips and his head slouched to the right.

  “I snatched him up late last night,” Charbeau said. “Been working him over since then.”

  “No complications?”

  “Mr. Gonzalez is a single man; nobody else to handle.” Charbeau stepped to Gonzalez, lifted his head, and peered into his blank eyes. “Where is Rick Carson?” he bellowed.

  Gonzalez said nothing, so Charbeau slapped him across the face. “Tell me about your involvement with Rick Carson!” he demanded.

  Gonzalez moaned but didn’t speak.

  “He seems uncooperative,” Augustine said.

  “A mite,” Charbeau agreed, dropping Gonzalez’s head and stepping back. “I tried a bribe but he refused; surprising for a man in his tax bracket. Then I jacked him up for a while. But Mr. Gonzalez is stubborn as a swamp stump.”

  “He grew up with Mr. Carson; apparently considers himself a friend.”

  “Of course you’re his friend,” Charbeau barked at Gonzalez. “Bosom pals and all that jazz. But what’s he done for you lately? I’ll tell you what—nothing. He left you hanging when he skipped off to college and he’s never hauled you to any of his Oscar parties, never hooked you up with any of his leftover supermodels. You’re a sucker, taking on the pain I’ve laid on you. He’s not worth it!” He slapped Gonzalez once more and the captive’s head snapped back against the chair.

  “Enough!” Augustine called. “Killing him won’t accomplish anything!”

  Charbeau rose to his full height and gazed at Augustine. “You know of another way to make him talk?”

  Augustine brushed a hand through his hair. Although he didn’t particularly like to kill and had never actually taken a life himself, he had ordered assassinations more times than he could remember. Part of his role, he reminded himself, a necessary measure for one in his position. Quite honestly, life didn’t mean much to him, so he didn’t lose any sleep over it when somebody else lost theirs. Since he believed that death led to nothingness, he didn’t think it mattered much when it started. True, some people grieved when a loved one passed, but that just showed weakness on the part of the living. Life, death, what did either mean? Both were pointless, mere segments of time that carried no lasting content or consequence. He’d considered taking his own life a multitude of times, had considered a variety of methods to do the deed. A pistol, a lethal injection, a leap from his office ledge, a hair dryer in his bath tub, let him count the ways. He’d actually talked to a doctor once about the least painful method of dying; had gone so far as to place himself inside a giant refrigeration unit with a needle filled with a strong sedative in hand. He’d placed the needle to the vein in the inside crook of his elbow, pricked the skin with its point. But then he stopped; he couldn’t do it yet, not before he finished his leg of the centuries-old journey he’d chosen to walk. He had pulled the needle back, wiped the thin sliver of blood from his arm, and stepped out of the freezer.

  He stubbed out his cigar and focused on Charbeau once more. “Is Mr. Gonzalez your only source of information on Mr. Carson?”

  “For the moment, yeah. Carson has vanished.”

  Augustine eased back into his chair and stared at Charbeau. Although it irked him to admit it, even the best of men had limitations, including Charbeau.

  “Gonzalez’s mother,” Augustine sighed. “Where is she?”

  Charbeau shrugged. “In Atlanta, I reckon.”

  “I don’t pay you to reckon. Are you not sure?”

  “Reasonably so. Where else would she be?”

  Augustine ground his teeth but hid his frustration as he spoke. “You’re correct with your guess. Mrs. Gonzalez is at the estate at this moment but will return to her condominium later this afternoon.”

  “Are you suggesting—?

  “Yes!” Augustine bellowed, his patience gone. “If Mr. Gonzalez will not cooperate, then you need leverage on him. If Mr. Gonzalez cares nothing about his own pain, he will most certainly care about pain inflicted upon his mother.”

  “But you’re not keen on harming a woman, least that’s what you always t
old me.”

  Augustine ground his teeth as a sharp pain cut beneath his shoulder blades. Recent visits to the doctor had reminded him that he had precious little time, and men like Charbeau wearied him with their dim-wittedness. “We are drawing near to the conclusion of our efforts,” he said. “What I normally would not do I now find myself forced to consider. Use Mrs. Gonzalez if you must; you of all men know the value of a threat.”

  “And if Mr. Gonzalez proves immune to such a threat?”

  “Then you must act in accordance with what must occur. Nothing and no one is so valuable that they can stand between us and the conclusion of our objective. Am I clear on that?”

  Charbeau nodded and Augustine shut off the monitor and slouched into his chair. A wracking agony pierced his chest and he held his breath until it stopped. Then, picking a picture of his dearly departed Margaret off his desk, he closed his eyes and kissed the image in the frame. Oh how he missed her, the warmth of her smile, the lilt in her generous voice, the smell of her body, pure and without perfume. “Always like honeysuckle,” he often said to her, “even when you’ve just awakened, you always smell like honeysuckle in June.”

  He opened his eyes and stared at her picture as twin tears slid to his cheeks. “I wish I believed in heaven, my precious,” he whispered to the picture. “I truly wish I did.”

  15

  By the time Shannon landed at just past 2:00 p.m.,

  Rick had slept ten hours, showered and put on a sweat suit Tony had left him, and eaten most of a delivery pizza. When Shannon called just after noon, Rick gave her his address and quick directions, then hung up. He watched the news while he waited and learned two new things: one, an expedited autopsy and toxology screening—paid for by his family—had revealed a highly elevated level of an unnamed sedative in his father’s body, and two, a memorial service had been set for 1:00 p.m. on Friday. The reporter described the service as a private burial at the family graveyard followed by a public reception of friends at the Carson Estate in North Atlanta.

  Rick tried to reach his grandfather on the room phone this time, but once again, nobody answered. He wondered about that—wouldn’t the cops have the phone lines manned? Tapped? But maybe not. Given Pops’ colossal influence in local politics, he might have said no to that idea.

  Trying to fill time, Rick watched the news a while longer. The cops had located, shot, and killed a man named Buster Will, the guy who gunned down the abortion doctors. Another example, said the smug reporter, of people influenced too heavily by Christian dogma.

  Rick shook his head as he watched the reports, unsure of what they all meant. Raised without religious influence, he usually ignored such discussions. Poor people cared about those things, he’d always figured, people with problems they were too weak to handle for themselves, ignorant yokels of low intelligence. Who needed that nonsense? Disgusted, he flicked off the television and lay back down to wait for Bridge.

  She arrived an hour later, and Rick watched through the window as she parked her rental, took a quick look around, then shouldered a computer case and made her way to his room. She wore tan slacks and a turquoise blouse, and she moved like a woman accustomed to going places and not afraid to arrive. A minute later, Rick opened the door, stepped back, and beckoned her inside.

  “Hey,” he said, not sure how else to begin. “Thanks for coming.” He pointed her to the single chair in the room and she stepped to it.

  “Fashionable outfit.” She indicated his sweat suit. “Where’d you get it?”

  “Saks Fifth Avenue,” he said. She didn’t need to know about Tony. “Pizza?” he pointed to the last slice in the box on the nightstand. “Not cold yet.”

  She nodded and Rick paused, the whole situation feeling suddenly weird. “This is crazy,” he said. “You being here, me being here too for that matter. Not exactly my normal accommodations.” He waved an arm over the cheap room.

  Shannon dropped the computer case to the floor while Rick inspected her. She seemed strangely calm, and he again sensed something unusual in her—a power he couldn’t fathom. A scary unease swept through his body.

  “Who are you?” he asked. “Why are you sticking your neck out for me?”

  “We have the same middle name,” she said, as if that explained everything.

  “Taylor?”

  “Yeah, my mother’s maiden name.”

  “My dad’s middle name. Weird.”

  “Yeah. So we have to stick together, right? I’m your friend, you can trust me.”

  “But you don’t know me.” He took a seat on the bed.

  “Like I told you when we met, I do know you, better than you realize.”

  “Yeah, you read about me on the internet, watched Hollywood Insider, kept up through People magazine. I’m not sure I’m buying that anymore. You’re far more than a celebrity stalker.”

  Shannon reached for the pizza and bit into it. Rick watched her eat, her full lips, white teeth, long fingers at work. A pair of discrete earrings decorated her lobes, silver crosses. His suspicions rose.

  “Something’s wrong about you,” he said as she finished the pizza. “A park ranger in Montana doesn’t take the chances you’re taking to help a complete stranger.”

  Shannon licked her fingers, then hauled her bag off the floor, opened it, and tossed a manila folder at Rick. “Take a look at those,” she said.

  Although he noticed how she’d changed the subject, Rick’s curiosity about the folder got the better of him. He dropped his inquisition and opened the folder, eyed the pictures of the motorcycle track. “Where’d you get these?” he asked.

  “At the edge of your property.” She quickly filled him in on what she’d learned about the motorcycle. “I have a contact in Helena’s crime lab. He’s checking ownership records, should know something in a few days. Plus he hopes to pull some video from Helena’s monitors—roads, airport, et cetera.”

  “A contact?”

  “A potential beau, least he hopes so.”

  “It figures.”

  Shannon shrugged again, her slender neck arched. “Whoever rode that motorcycle might have killed your dad.”

  “I believe I’ve already met him,” Rick said.

  “What?”

  Rick brought her up-to-date on his narrow escape at Rolling Hills.

  “You went to see your mother?”

  “Needed to see if she knew anything about Dad’s death.”

  “That was risky.”

  “What else was I going to do?”

  “She say anything helpful?”

  Rick shook his head, unwilling to reveal anything else until he found out more about Bridge.

  “I don’t suppose the intruder gave you his name, who he worked for,” Bridge said.

  “We didn’t exchange personal histories. But maybe we can track him through the motorcycle. Get a license from a video monitor, find his identity that way. Then go after whoever hired him.”

  Shannon nodded, obviously considering what she had just learned. “Things are moving fast,” she said.

  “Then we should too. You said you brought a DVD, other items of interest.”

  “You bet.” Shannon slid out the computer, then a DVD. After booting up the computer, she slipped the DVD into the drive, clicked Start, and twisted the screen where Rick could watch.

  “Why do you think somebody murdered your dad?” Shannon asked while they waited for the computer to load.

  Rick thought of his mother’s focus on the word “conspiracy.” Should he reveal that to Bridge? But how did she fit into the picture? Although he held no proof, he suddenly knew she was part of the mystery he faced, would have bet his life on it. Was she a plant, maybe for the same people who murdered his dad? An attractive diversion, a backup plan to make sure he didn’t cause any trouble? Maybe even a danger to him, a “B plan” killer if his investigation got too close to the truth?

  “I’ll make a trade with you,” he said quietly. “You tell me why you’re here and I�
�ll tell you something my mother said to me.”

  Shannon faced him, her eyes steady, confident, almost boldly so. “You won’t believe me if I told you,” she said. “So let’s just leave things as they are right now. No reason to push from either direction—yours or mine.”

  “But I’m correct about one thing, right? You’re not just a park ranger.”

  Shannon laughed. “Like I said, you won’t believe me if I tell you.”

  “Right now I’ll believe just about anything.”

  “Then believe this,” she said as the DVD finished loading. “You can depend on me. I’m your ally in this, okay?”

  Although he knew he needed to stay cautious, Rick found her assurances comforting, and he hoped more than anything he’d hoped in a long time that Bridge was telling the truth.

  A blue screen popped up on the computer with a request for a password.

  “I’ve thought about this since we talked last,” Rick said. “Let’s try the simple things first.”

  He typed in his dad’s birthday—month, day, year—but it didn’t work. He tried his mom’s birthday next, then his, but both times without success. He tried his parents’ anniversary date but that failed too. He mixed them up in a variety of combinations, but none clicked.

  “Okay,” he said, leaning back after fifteen minutes or so. “Something more complicated.” He typed in his home address but that didn’t do it, then his college address, but again the computer rejected it. He tried phone numbers, addresses of other homes the family owned, shoe sizes in various combinations but without success. Another half hour passed and Rick sat back, momentarily at a loss.

  “You know his social security number?”

  “Dad wouldn’t use that—he never gave out private information.”

  “Try his hometown, his favorite movie, favorite sports team.”

  Rick typed them all in, along with a variety of combinations, but none worked.

  “I’m running out of ideas here,” he said finally, his back beginning to ache.

  “What did your dad love the most?” Shannon asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know, what did he like doing, how did he spend his leisure time?”