Love and Lies: A Jake Badger Mystery Thriller

by Glenn Rogers

  With my left hand I took it slowly from the holster and laid it on my desk.

  Mr. Smith nodded. “Come around the desk, please, so Mr. Jones can pat you down.”

  I did.

  He did.

  They were satisfied I had no other weapon.

  “We have a car waiting outside,” Mr. Smith said. “Mr. Esposito is waiting.”

  The car was a black Lincoln stretch limo with tinted windows.

  Mr. Jones opened the far back door for me, and I got in. Mr. Jones slid in next to me and the car suddenly felt a lot smaller. There were two other guys in the back of the limo. Mr. Smith went around and got in the front with the driver.

  Mr. Jones buckled his seatbelt and said, “Buckle your seatbelt, please.” He voice was soft, almost effeminate.

  I looked up at him.

  “Please,” he said.

  I buckled my seatbelt and the driver pulled away from the curb.

  Chapter 52

  They didn't put a hood over my head or blindfold me. They just drove me to an old warehouse in L.A. just off Interstate 5, between the 60 and the 10. The cavernous dinosaur of a building was covered in graffiti. Weeds had sprouted around the edges of the foundation. The Lincoln pulled up to a metal door on the side of a red brick building. We got out and went in. The sunlight outside had been bright. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the shadowy dimness inside the cool building. Offices lined one side of the interior where we had entered. Lights were on in the offices.

  Mr. Smith said, “This way, Mr. Badger.”

  I followed him to an office in the middle of the row. Smith, Jones, and I went in. The other two stayed in the warehouse to keep watch.

  The office had been completely renovated. The room we were in appeared to be over a thousand square feet. Everything was white and chrome. The carpet was white and plush, the furniture and decorations were chrome and white leather, modern and expensive. The only color in the room came from the massive oil paintings that decorated the white walls. White marble and chrome sculptures were strategically place throughout the formal yet functional space. On one side of the room was a large chrome desk with a glass top on it. A white Apple computer sat on the desk. A white chrome and leather chair sat behind the desk and a diminutive balding Hispanic man in his fifties wearing a white suit sat in the chair. Mr. Esposito, no doubt.

  “Mr. Badger,” he said, in accent-free English.

  “Mr. Esposito.”

  From behind a closed door at the other end of the office, Wilson barked. He'd heard my voice.

  Esposito's eyes flickered momentarily to the door and then came back to me. “Have a seat,” he said, “please.” He gestured to a chrome and white leather chair that sat in front of his desk.

  I sat down.

  “I am a fan of cage fighting, Mr. Badger. Under other circumstances, I could say that it is a pleasure to meet you.”

  I didn't say anything.

  “But these are not other circumstances. Your recent activities have put me in a very difficult spot.”

  I sat quietly.

  “You have nothing to say?” Esposito asked.

  “I'd like to see Mildred and Wilson.”

  Esposito looked at Mr. Jones and gestured with his head toward the door at the other end of his office.

  Mr. Jones, surprisingly light on his feet for a man of his size, went to the door and opened it. Wilson bounded out and came straight to me, jumping up and licking my face. Mildred followed him out and crossed the room to where I sat. Esposito gestured to the chair next to me and Mildred sat down.

  “As you can see, Mr. Badger, your friends have been well cared for and are in excellent health.”

  “For the moment,” I said.

  “Mr. Badger, I am not cruel man. Like you, I do not hurt people who do not need to be hurt.”

  “Don't flatter yourself by comparing yourself to me,” I said. Given the circumstances, probably a stupid thing to say. But apparently I am not as circumspect as I should be.

  Esposito was disappointed at the remark, but he plowed ahead.

  “Mrs. Henderson and Wilson will be returned to Mrs. Henderson’s home unharmed. They will not be inconvenienced again.”

  I was surprised that he knew her last name. He had done his homework.

  I said, “And I'm simply supposed to trust that that will be the case?”

  “Unfortunately,” Esposito said, “you have no choice.”

  He nodded to Mr. Smith who went out into the warehouse. In a few seconds, Mr. Smith returned with the limo driver.

  To the driver, Esposito said, “Take Mrs. Henderson and Wilson back to Mrs. Henderson's home. They are not to be harmed or harassed in any way.”

  “Yes, Sir,” the driver said.

  Esposito looked at Mildred and said, “Mrs. Henderson,” gesturing with his hand that she was free to go.

  Mildred looked at me but didn't move.

  I nodded. “Go,” I said. “I'll see you later.”

  Her eyes bore into mine for another moment before she stood and headed toward the door.

  “Go with Mildred,” I said to Wilson, leaning toward him to look into his eyes. He woofed softly, licked my cheek and trotted after her.

  As Mildred reached the door, Esposito said, “Mrs. Henderson, by the time you are able to call the police, we will be gone from here. Your efforts on Mr. Badger's behalf will have been futile.”

  I had turned around in the chair so I could see her. A humorous smirk chased away the shadows of anger that had been there a moment before. “I have no intention of calling the police,” she said. “Jake doesn't need help from the police to deal with people like you. There are only three of you in here and one of them is you.”

  She walked out. When I looked back to Esposito, he was not smiling.

  He brought his dark, angry eyes back to mine. He took a deep breath—an effort to calm himself. Mildred had really pissed him off. Inside, I was smiling.

  “We have a problem, Mr. Badger.”

  I waited.

  “You killed Jasper Pipestone.”

  “And the world is a better place because I did.”

  “Yes, well, be that as it may, Mr. Pipestone worked for me. And in the world that is my reality, what you do to one of my employees, you do to me.”

  “Funny world you live in,” I said.

  “Come now, Mr. Badger. Let's not pretend that you do not operate on similar principles.”

  I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of telling him that I did and that I understood what he was talking about, so I just sat without speaking.

  “I did not particularly care for Mr. Pipestone,” Esposito said. “He was low class and he was vicious. But he got the job done. His enterprise was profitable.”

  He paused to see if I had anything to say. I didn’t.

  “In eliminating his business,” Esposito said, “you eliminated one of my businesses, one of my profit centers. I cannot let that sort of thing happen without retaliation. To do so would make me appear weak. I'm sure you understand. If I appear to be weak, others will attempt to take over my business, thinking me an easy mark. I would have to spend time, money, and personnel defending myself against hostile takeovers. No. I must deal with you quickly and brutally ... to make a point. You must become an object lesson, Mr. Badger.”

  I nodded. “You man enough to take the shot yourself?” I asked. “Or will you have to ask one of your trained monkeys here to do it for you?”

  His eyes became angry again.

  Just then there was a faint rustling sound from the warehouse. Esposito frowned and nodded at Mr. Jones. I turned to look at him. Mr. Jones took a Glock twenty-three from under his coat and went to the door. When he opened it, Monica shot him in the head.

  Chapter 53

  Mr. Jones was dead when he hit the floor, his considerable bulk creating quite an obstacle to overcome. Monica stepped quickly to one side as she followed her shot in. Before Mr. Smith could get his gun ou
t she had him cold.

  “Freeze,” she yelled.

  I turned to Esposito. The scene became surreal. Everything slowed way down. He had a weapon in hand and was bringing it up. He was faster than I would have thought. Smith froze, but only for an instant. His gun was coming up again. Esposito and Smith were too far apart for Monica to get both of them. By the time Monica got Smith, Esposito would fire. Couldn’t let that happen. I lunged across the desk at him. As I did, Smith fired. Then another shot rang out. Then Esposito fired. I felt the impact of the slug from Esposito's gun in my chest as I heard the sound. Then, there was a fourth shot. Esposito's head snapped back and he slumped down into his chair.

  As I lay on his desk, I felt like someone had parked a truck on my chest. The next thing I knew, Monica was there, talking to me as she applied pressure to my wound. I think she was saying stay with me, stay with me. I would have liked to accommodate her, but didn't seem to have any control over whether I stayed with her or not. I tried to focus on her face, on her eyes. The urgency in her eyes made me think that it was important that I stay with her. I tried. I wanted to stay. But the blackness swept over me, enveloping me … and then she was gone. Or was it me that was gone? I didn't know.

  I was submerged beneath the blackness. I swam upward, struggling to break the surface, to get a breath of life-giving air. But it seemed just beyond my reach. And then my father was there. He was young. And I was young, too. I needed him. Dad. Dad. DAD! He was reading. He was writing. He was on the phone. He couldn't hear me. I was right there. Couldn't he see me? Dad, help me. Talk to me. I need you, Dad. Questions. Confusion. He was working. He was happy working. I could see that. He was so happy working that he couldn't see me. I needed him but he didn't need me. He had the law. That's all he seemed to need. The law. It was his life. He was encased in a bubble and I couldn't get in there with him.

  Then I saw my mother. She, too, tried to get Dad's attention. But she couldn't. She needed him. He didn't seem to know she needed him, didn't know that he was in a bubble and that his wife and son wanted to, but couldn't get in there with him.

  And then Dad was gone and it was just Mom and me. Mom. Mom was always there. She always smiled at me. But the smile was somehow a sad one. We held onto each other. We were all we had. Mom and me.

  Voices. Did I hear voices? I couldn’t be sure. If there were voices, they sounded far away.

  Then I was again submerged in the swirling vortex of darkness, still struggling to break the surface, but I was with Mom. I was young and Mom held me. She read to me. She taught me how to do things. School projects.

  Is there someone there? I thought I heard voices again. It seemed like someone is here with me. Is anyone there?

  And then I was older. Mom was still there. She talked to me. She encouraged me. Dad was floating in the distance in his bubble. He wasn't real. Mom was real. Then Mom wasn't there anymore. I was no longer young, but I still needed her. She was not there. A man in a black suit with a funny white color said God had taken her. That couldn't be right. God would not take my mom away from me. God was good. Mom had taught me that. Whoever or whatever took mom away was not good. It was evil. Evil took my mom. And Dad was still in his bubble.

  Then Dad opened his bubble and invited me in. But I didn't want to go. I said no. And the blackness swallowed me again.

  There’s someone there, isn’t there? Who’s there?

  Then the blackness that held me began to undulate, pushing me up and at the same time pulling me down. I had to get to the surface. I had to breath. But then I was in a class. A professor. A question. The nature of reality. What am I? Why am I? Wisdom. Yearning. A quest for knowledge. Did I understand? Could I understand? I think, therefore I am. I dream, therefore I was. Am I? Or was I? Dr. Roberts. Teacher. Advisor. Wisdom. Graduate school? It was a question. Professor Badger? No. No Professor Badger.

  Dr. Roberts. Dr. Roberts. No. You have wisdom. Insight. You matter. You help. Yet you chose to die? You can't choose to die. Don't die. I need you. I don't yet understand. Teach me.

  God didn't take him. He took himself. Not wise. Not good. I needed your help. You didn't help. You gave up. What a coward. Never mind. I'll do it myself. I'll figure it out. I will understand.

  And then the blackness bubbled up for me again. It pulled me down and down in its cold embrace. Enveloping me. Smothering me. Until I was gone again.

  Someone’s touching me. I know someone’s there. Who’s there?

  The swirling began again and I fought to get to the surface, to get out of the empty, black vortex. I was in uniform. Gunny was talking about honor and duty. Pulling the trigger was duty. Killing the enemy was honor. Shoot. Shoot. Shoot. Shoot. Shoot. Duty. Honor. So many dead. So much honor. Kill with your rifle. Kill with your pistol. Kill with your knife. Kill with your hands. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Desert. Mountains. Sand. Heat. Death. One hundred twenty-eight confirmed kills. Ribbons. Medals. Honor.

  Then there was more shooting. The dead were shooting back. Eddie was shot. I held him in my arms. He bled. He cried. I cried. He died. Henry got shot. I held him in my arms. He died. Charlie died. Adam died. Lyle died. Then I was running and I was shooting. I got shot. I kept running. Shooting. Grenade. Another grenade. Explosions. Screaming. An arm. Dead men. Eyes. Dead eyes. Accusing me. Haunting me. Generals. Ribbons. Honor. And sadness. I felt such deep sadness. Killing. I was good at it. Didn't like it. But it was necessary. Sometimes killing is necessary. Really? Yes. And then the blackness took me again.

  Chapter 54

  Once again, I was struggling hard to reach the surface. The blackness was thick. Smothering. And it was cold. Lonely. Uncertainty. And pride. Odd.

  A black suit. Speeches. Graduation. FBI. Special agent. Achievement. Success. Law, but different. No bubble. Uphold. Enforce. Protect. Justice. Good and bad. Right and wrong. To stop evil. War, but different. Investigate. Think. Plot. Capture. Success.

  And then Elaine. Beautiful. Smart. Tough. Tender. Complex. Loving. Friends. More than friends. So loving. And then shooting. Shooting at me. Elaine stepped in front. She bled. I held her. She survived. So loving. Sex. Good sex. I loved her. Marriage? Ask her. Yes. She loved me.

  No. She had lied. She didn't love. Or did she? She lied. She informed. She didn't love. She lied. No trust. Can't trust. She lied. So much pain. The loss. The disappointment. Betrayal. Love does not betray. She lied and she died. No more love. No more trust. Don't trust the deceivers. Trust and be deceived. Feel pain. And the blackness enveloped me once again.

  There it is again. Someone touched me. Who’s there? Who’s with me? Speak to me. Where am I?

  I became aware of floating above the deepest levels of the blackness. I surged toward the surface, but there was no surface. I floundered helplessly. And then there was a hand. Someone was reaching out to me. Who was it? Alex. It was my friend. Friendship was good. Alex was good. Trustworthy. A friend closer than a brother. And then another hand. A woman's hand. Monica. Friend. She came for me. Where had she come from? How had she known? But I was shot. So, am I or am I not? But I dream, so I must be. But who is Monica? She is friend. Trust. Is she more? Is Monica love? Love is pain. Love is lies. No. Elaine was lies. Is Monica lies? I don't know. Trust? Don't know. Love? No more love. Friend. No more love. Trust Alex. Friend. Trust Monica. Friend. Love? No more love. No more love.

  The blackness began to pull at me again. Powerful hands pulled at me from below. I struggled against their grip. There had been many such struggles, struggles I had lost. The powerful hands had overwhelmed me. But now, as I struggled, their grip on me lessened. I was making progress toward the surface.

  Voices. I heard voices. A man. A woman. Two women.

  My hair. Someone was stroking my hair.

  “Jake. Wake up, Jake.”

  My body felt different. I was no longer floating in the thick darkness. I felt ... different. Present.

  “Jake, honey. Wake up.”

  I knew that voice. A woman's voice. Gentle.
Loving. Mom? No. Not Mom.

  Stroking my hair. Holding my hand.

  I was so tired. I wanted to wake up. I wanted to obey. I wanted to stay with her ... to stay with her. Stay with me, she had said. Stay with me. Who said that? Monica. Monica had said that. I had tried to obey. I couldn't. Now she wanted me to wake up. I'm trying.

  It was Monica. Monica wanted me to wake up. Wake up.

  Her hand. She held my hand. I squeezed. She squeezed back.

  “I'm here, Jake. So is Alex and Mildred.”

  Mildred. Alex. Friends. Trust.

  “We're here, Jake. Try to wake up.”

  This was hard. But the darkness had receded. I was in a different place now. I opened my eyes. I blinked. My mouth was dry. What did I see? I saw my friends. My friends.

  I saw Monica standing next to me on my left. She was stroking my hair. I smiled. Tears spilled from her eyes.

  “You're back,” Monica said. “And you're going be okay. You're going be just fine.”

  Mildred stood to my right. She, too, was crying. She took hold of my right hand and squeezed it. I smiled and squeezed back.

  Alex stood at the foot of my bed.

  “Touch and go there for a while,” he said. “You gave us quite a scare.”

  I managed to croak out the word, “Dry.”

  Monica got a couple of ice chips on a spoon and got them in my mouth. I crunched them. They were good. I looked at her and nodded. She gave me some more.

  After I swallowed, I asked, “How long?”

  “You came out of surgery three days ago,” Monica said.

  “Your father's been here every morning at seven,” Alex said, “and stayed until after ten each night. Monica has not left this room.”

  I looked at her. More tears came.

  “As long as you were in there,” she said, “I wasn't going to leave you.”

  I squeezed her hand.

  “Time?” I asked.

  Alex looked at his watch. “Eleven twenty.”

  “Day?”

  “Night,” he said.