At the same time, a chopper arrives on the scene. It belongs to a local news channel that is filming the scene live. The chopper beams a bright white spotlight down on the compound while it flies one circle after another, scoring brilliant visuals of the black Suburbans racing not only up the drive, but also on the lawn, barreling through neatly trimmed shrubbery and flattening several exterior lamp posts.
Arriving at the house, the agents manning the lead Suburban spot a man climbing out a second floor window. It’s the governor. He jumps down onto a porch overhang that wraps around the old stone structure. Standing precariously on the edge of the overhang, he looks over his shoulder at the coming onslaught of federal agents, and he jumps.
Now down on his back, writhing in pain, Governor Valente screams. It’s not the pain that’s so offensive, but the way the shattered, jagged femur on his left leg sticks out of his pant leg.
The FBI agents quickly descend upon him, yank him up, and pulling his arms behind his back, handcuff him.
“I need a fucking hospital!” he screams.
“You’ll get all the medical attention you require as soon as we read you your rights, governor,” the lead agent insists. “But from this point on, it’s probably best that you keep your mouth shut.”
Shoved into the back seat of the first Suburban, the governor is then led back down the drive to the front gates, where an army of journalists have descended upon the Eagle Street entrance. Forced to stop or else run the media darlings down, the lead agent behind the wheel demands they disperse immediately. But the open window is looked upon as an opportunity for a select few journalists to stick their heads inside and boldly shout out questions for the fallen career politician.
One of these journalists is Tanya Rucker, who has only arrived on the scene from upstate ten minutes ago.
Shoving her hand held mic into the open window, she barks, “Governor, why’d you do it?” It’s a simple question that carries the same weight as if she had the time to pose, “Governor, why did you betray the sanctity of your office? Why did you betray the people you govern? Why did you so willingly abuse those kids? Why did you elect to enter into a drug ring that’s connected to identical drug rings inside prisons all over the country? Why be such an absolute fucking reprehensible asshole when you had the political world at your fingertips?”
For a long beat, the Suburban interior goes as quiet as a morgue at midnight. There is only the question posed and the mic shoved inside the open window begging for an answer.
“No comment,” Governor Leon Valente whispers after a time.
With that the agent pushes Rucker back with his forearm, and electronically rolls up the window. Triggering the sirens, he pulls out into the crowd, forcing the mob to step aside. Not a single word is spoken all the way to the Albany Medical Center emergency room.
That night, as the sun settled on the Adirondack Park, we sat around a corner dining room table at Fangs, the remains of several different Chinese dishes taking up space beside two bottles of red wine. One of them empty, the second nearly drained.
“Well, we finally get to have dinner with two fine-looking ladies,” Blood said.
“That your way of making a toast, Blood?” I said, shooting a wink at both Betty and Bridgette, both of whom looked ravishing in their loose skirts and loose summer-weight tops. Betty sat beside Blood, so close to him, her shoulder was rubbing up against his thick bicep which protruded from his tight black T-shirt like a mountain with a high, round peak.
My date was sitting close to me too, but not that close. She was, however, resting her hand on my thigh. Something I not only enjoyed, but that filled me with warmth and happiness. It was the way it used to be with Fran whenever she would touch me.
I raised up my glass.
“To the two best dates in Dannemora,” I said.
Bridgette shot Betty a look, then laughed.
“I think we’ll take that as a compliment,” she said.
We clinked glasses making sure everyone looked everyone in the eye or else break the spell of the toast.
“You see,” Blood said, drinking a swallow of wine, “Keeper means well. But he don’t know how to talk to women. Why he’s always lonely.”
I drank some wine. It was beginning to make me feel slightly tipsy. Something I usually avoided these days. But it was an evening for celebrating. We’d managed to free a whole bunch of kids and pay for some of their college tuitions while we were at it. Maybe we had a chance to score some real cash for ourselves, but Blood and I played by the rules. Rather, we liked to think that the rules we played by were above the law.
The door opened behind us and two people walked in. They were dressed in black suits and sunglasses, even though the summer sun had all but set on the horizon.
Agents Doyle and Muscolino.
They approached our table, not like they were pleasantly surprised to see us, but more like they knew we were here the entire time.
“Don’t look now,” Blood said. “But we got some spooks on our tail.”
“I love it when you say spook,” I said.
The two agents stood over our table.
“Evening, Mr. Marconi, Mr. Blood,” Muscolino said. Then, eyeing our dates, “Good evening, ladies.”
Everyone mumbled a polite good evening back at him.
“You’re still wearing sunglasses,” I said.
“Excuse me?” he said.
“I said you’re still wearing your sunglasses. It’s dark out now and you’re indoors. You know what they call people who wear sunglasses indoors?”
“No, what do they call them?”
“Jerks,” I said.
Maintaining his stone-face, Muscolino slowly removed his Ray-Bans. Agent Doyle, taking his cue, did the same.
“There,” he said, “now we’re not jerks.”
“So to what do we owe the pleasure?” Blood said.
“We apologize for the intrusion, but we need to talk. I’ve got a team of agents on their way and we’re going to require some extensive interviews with you and the major players in the basement operation at Dannemora. The, what do they call it, the Crypt?”
“Sounds serious,” Bridgette said.
“Federal investigation’s always a serious matter, ma’am,” Doyle said.
“I just love shows ’bout Federal Agents,” Betty said while brushing back her thick red hair with her open hand. “I just love X-Files reruns.” She laughed. “That’s what you two look like. Like Agent Scully and Agent Mulder.”
“We get that a lot, ma’am,” Muscolino said.
I looked at my watch. “Well, agents, it’s going on nine o’clock. We’re already a little drunk, and you’re not going to get very far with us tonight. So why not take a seat and have a drink.”
Muscolino turned to Doyle.
“Sounds like a plan to me,” she said. “My feet are killing me from walking around all day.”
“Okay, agreed,” Muscolino said as he pulled out a chair and sat himself down. “Maybe we’ll find something interesting to talk about. Governor Valente’s arrest for one, or haven’t you guys seen the TV?”
“Read about it on my smartphone,” I said. “Still can’t get over his trying to run away like that. Where the hell did he think he was going to go? Mexico?”
“Desperate times call for desperate measures, Keeper.” He nodded at Blood. “The State of New York owes you two quite a debt for what you did. You put your lives on the line and exposed a multi-billion-dollar crime syndicate that extends way beyond state borders.”
“You saying someone should offer me a raise, Agent Muscolino?”
“If I were your boss, I would most definitely reevaluate your stock value. But then, you’re your own boss.”
Blood raised up his hands to get the waitress’s attention. “Two more glasses,” he said, “and another bottle.”
She brought both right away, opening the bottle at the table. Blood poured the agents some wine and we all made another toast t
o closing the Crypt. Then, Agent Muscolino pulled out his notebook.
“Mind if I just ask a few simple questions while we we’re sitting here?”
“I don’t see why not,” I said. “We’re heroes after all.”
“Down inside the Crypt vault we found several stacks worth upwards of five million dollars US apiece. Quite an extraordinary sum for an operation of its size down in the prison basement. One of the stacks was missing some bundles from it. Not a whole lot, in relative terms, but enough for us to take notice. Do you have any idea where the money could have disappeared to?”
I looked at Blood. He looked at me, shrugged his shoulders.
“Beats me,” I said. “Beats him too.”
Muscolino looked down at his lap, then looked up again. He sighed.
“That’s all you have to say on the subject?” he said.
I might have done the right thing, told him that after we delivered the children to the emergency room at the Champlain Valley Physicians Hospital Medical Center, Blood and I stuffed the cash bags into five separate lockers at the old Grayhound bus station. But sometimes you had to do the wrong thing in order to preserve the greater good.
“Yup,” I said. “That’s all I have to say.”
“Will you come to my office tomorrow and swear under oath that you, in fact, do not know what happened to the money?”
“Yup.”
“Even if it means a federal offense should I find out you are lying?”
“Yup.”
“Even if one or more of those kids spills the beans when the hospital staff at Champlain Valley gives us the green light to interview them?”
“Yup.”
“You gonna keep saying yup to every question I ask?”
“Yup and maybe nope.”
Muscolino smiled. He had a nice smile it turned out. Life was serious sometimes. But not always. I preferred the latter.
“I repeat,” he said. “Anything you say can and will be held against you in a court of law, even if you say it in Fangs. Yups and nopes included.”
“Yup.”
He drank some wine, jotted something down in his notebook.
“Next question,” he said. “How’s the Moogoo Gai Pan here?”
“Exquisite,” Bridgette said.
“The best in Dannemora,” I said.
“I love it,” Betty said.
“Let’s get drunk,” Blood said.
We proceeded to do exactly that.
The End
Vincent Zandri is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of more than sixteen novels, including Everything Burns, The Innocent, The Remains, Orchard Grove, and The Shroud Key. His novel Moonlight Weeps won both the International Thriller Writers Award and the Shamus Award. He is also the author of the Shamus Award nominated Dick Moonlight PI series. A freelance photojournalist and solo traveler, he is the founder of the blog The Vincent Zandri Vox. His books Orchard Grove and The Scream Catcher are currently available from Polis Books. He lives in Albany, New York. Visit him online at www.VincentZandri.com or on Twitter at @VincentZandri.
The following is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in an entirely fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 by Vincent Zandri
Cover and jacket design by The Cover Collection
Interior designed and formatted by:
www.emtippettsbookdesigns.com
ISBN 978-1-943818-51-8
Library of Congress Control Number: tk
First hardcover edition January 2017 by Polis Books, LLC
1201 Hudson Street, #211S
Hoboken, NJ 07030
www.PolisBooks.com
The Corruptions Page 19