Assassination of a Dignitary

by Carolyn Arnold

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  Chapter 31

  NIAGARA FALLS, NEW YORK

  SUNDAY, JUNE 13TH, 1:30 PM

  LESS THAN 16 HOURS UNTIL THE DEADLINE

  THE SUN WAS BEING CROWDED out by gray clouds and the news report had changed to one calling for showers. It served as a poetic goodbye to a man who had replaced life with death, light with darkness.

  I stood under the overhang at the front of the bus station and waited for my ride to show up. I had retrieved my belongings from the locker and rearmed myself with the holster and the .44.

  With the incoming precipitation, a type of melancholy seized me. I wasn’t used to experiencing emotion with a kill. Maybe it had to do with carrying it out twice? For some reason, my mind wanted to rehash those last moments in the hotel room—the way her eyes had enlarged and her last words. There were things that still didn’t make any sense. How had the Governor survived a direct shot to the front of her head?

  I opened up the Internet app on my phone and Googled Governor Behler. I knew it was stupid and careless to do such a thing, but I also realized it would take a lot more than a browsing history to tie me to her murder. I clicked on the first link which read like a brief biography. I scrolled down, reading facts that I had been told first hand.

  She had served with the FBI back in her late twenties and early thirties. She retired from the service due to a desire to better serve the people.

  My finger stopped scrolling down. Maybe she hadn’t been completely honest with me.

  AGENT LEONE WALKED INTO THE hospital room resembling a dog with its tail tucked between its legs. Despite the straight back and protruding chest, his facial expression belied his veneer of confidence.

  Wingham shot a glance at her partner as if requesting a confessional.

  That wouldn’t happen in this lifetime, Clinton thought. Besides, there was a line between an implied assumption and a blatant lie. “There are some answers we don’t have.”

  The agent’s face read, whoopty-doo.

  Clinton had just accepted the Governor surviving the first attempt on her life as an anomaly he had been willing to overlook. At least, that was the case until now. Of course, he was also told clearance on that ranked over his head. “If we’re going to solve this, we need full disclosure too.”

  “By all means.” Snide sarcasm saturated every word as gasoline-drenched rags—a potential fire hazard. Leone paced around the room, the clack of his dress shoes marrying with the tiled floor. “She served as an FBI agent back when she was younger.”

  It was Clinton’s turn to convey the expression, whoopty-doo, but he kept his composure.

  “There was a case she worked. A shooting. Her skull was compromised,” Leone said.

  “This poor woman’s head was shot twice before the third bullet killed her. Unbelievable,” Wingham said.

  Agent Leone disregarded her interjection. “They had to install a steel plate—”

  “The assassin wasn’t aware of that.” That took away the theory of someone knowing her well. The evidence seemed contradictory now. The killer knew her enough to know how to reach her, took her phone, but wasn’t aware of the plate?

  “SHIT.” THE WORD VERBALIZED AS I read the real reason the Governor had left the FBI. My legs lost their power, and I felt my knees buckle as I fought to regain my stance. My incompetence, my hurry to get the job over with, cost my family what they were experiencing now.

  All I wanted was to get the job done, the first time around. But one week was such little time to gather all the intel required to effectively pull something like this off—especially of this scale. I should have known I was ill-prepared.

  The Town Car pulled to a stop in front of me. The driver got out, but before he made it around to open the door, I was in with my bags and had slammed the door behind me. I noticed his hands flail in the air from frustration.

  We drove in silence to the privately owned airfield. I popped in ear buds and watched the proof of life video on my phone again. With each scan of the camera and close-up shots of my family, it wrenched at my heart. Yvonne’s screams pierced and resonated in my chest.

  I had a bad feeling about all of this when I left Detroit and Christian’s hesitant response to releasing them made my stomach churn. There was nothing we needed to discuss. The business transaction had been concluded, had it not? I would never return to being his gun for hire—ever. I would kill him and the entire Russo Family before that would happen. My hand went to my holster as if needing reassurance the .44 was still latched there. I envisioned putting one of the bullets right into his chest and then between his eyes. He wouldn’t have a face left for identification.

  The dark thoughts stalled when I heard something in the background of the video that I hadn’t heard before. I rewound the video, turned it up, and replayed it. There was the sound of engines in the background, but it wasn’t a car or vehicle. I still wasn’t sure and rewound to listen to it again. It was a plane’s engines.

  My head lifted quickly to look out and study the fields around me. We were getting close to the tarmac and the plane that would return me to Detroit. Could it be that my family was at the private airport back home?

  I replayed the video several times and the only distinct characteristics I pulled were the concrete floor and the sound of plane engines.

  UNKNOWN LOCATION

  “PLEASE, PLEASE DON’T TOUCH ME.” Yvonne’s lips quivered. She did her best to control her emotions, but at times they burst through the fractures of a weakened spirit. The man mostly ran his hands across her skin; his fingers were rough.

  She hadn’t eaten since last night and the man only provided her a glass of water, but for that she had to let him touch her. Her skin still prickled from the recollection of selling her soul for water. Would her mother ever forgive her?

  “You’re beautiful.” The man who whistled like a bird leaned into her ear and softly nibbled on a lobe.

  The bile rose up into her throat again bringing with it a burning sensation as she swallowed it. “Please…don’t.”

  He swept her hair back, holding it in a ponytail with his hands.

  The door flung open with such force the back of it hit the wall with a tremendous thud. The man who had huddled in beside her, jumped from the bed as if she had leprosy.

  “Out now!”

  She would have considered the Italian man handsome under any other circumstances. He had an olive complexion and dark features. His jaw was cut at perfected lines sought after by modeling agencies, and he smelled of nice cologne. It lingered in the air behind him in wisps. It sure beat the smell of cow manure that threatened to saturate her sinuses.

  “Out!” He yelled again at the man who whistled and would forever be a part of her nightmares.

  As the two men left, Yvonne shivered into the corner feeling more violated than ever and only wishing for one scrap of covering. She still wore a bra and underwear, but she dreamt of simply pulling a sheet over her head and retreating to a place where these men couldn’t reach her.

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  Chapter 32

  UNKNOWN LOCATION

  SUNDAY, JUNE 13TH, 2:00 PM

  CHRISTIAN SNAPPED HIS FINGERS. It wasn’t a move that came naturally to him and he had worked to perfect the mannerism over time. Now he could do it with both hands. Yet his father never considered him to be a disciplined person. He based the conclusion on the fact he couldn’t choose one killing method. Christian accepted this as a form of dexterity. He wasn’t limited to guns or knives. He rather enjoyed experimentation. He would teach the old man something about focus and improvising.

  Berto hurried toward Ingo with a speed one wouldn’t expect from a man his size. The man was careful to provide an ample girth to Gabriel and Adolfo, Christian’s pit bulls. Gabriel’s name meant able-bodied one of God and Adolfo stood for noble wolf. They were his girls and the onl
y bitches who were ever loyal. Christian only hoped to instill as much fear as did his canine friends. He realized he was well on his way.

  As Christian watched Berto corner Ingo, it infused Christian with pride for choosing him and confirmed the fact one could never presume anything from an outward appearance. Ingo had pleased him well over the years, but this sin…this sin could not be forgiven.

  “No…please.” Ingo waved his hands in front of his chest and he kept backing up.

  Weakness.

  Berto pulled the smaller man to the wooden chair and pushed him down onto it.

  “No.” Ingo’s eyes steadied on the dogs who were snarling with their teeth bared, and their jowls salivating over their human treat. They were hungry. And who was Christian to deny them some pleasures in life. After all, he preferred them to most humans, save the pleasures of the flesh with a female companion. He didn’t remember crying at any other funeral except for the one held for Mitchell, the bitches’ predecessor.

  Christian let go of their short leather leashes and snapped his fingers. Both dogs sat.

  Christian walked around the room slowly, as Berto made fast work of tying his counterpart to a wooden chair. Christian couldn’t help but draw contrast knowing that in the neighboring room, Mrs. Hunter was in the same position. “Be happy I didn’t strip you naked.” Spittle sprayed across Ingo’s face. “You make me sick.”

  “Boss, I didn’t rape her.”

  Christian stopped walking, bent down in front of Ingo silently studying the eyes, watching his pupils widen. Christian swiped the back of his hand across Ingo’s face and felt the cartilage of his nose give way.

  Ingo let out a sharp cry. His hands opened and lifted from the arms of the chair the amount the restraints would allow. “You son of a bitch!”

  He was brave on the outside, Christian gave him that. He snapped his fingers. Berto came over and punched Ingo in the gut. The man hunched forward. Blood poured from his nose, and the cries of pain made Christian sick from the presence of weakness. Ingo’s face contorted with fear and panic.

  Unattractive.

  “You dare call me a son of a bitch.” Christian spit into Ingo’s face again. “You be thankful I don’t break both your knees—”

  “Boss, I didn’t rape her! Boss—”

  Christian snapped his fingers again, and Berto retrieved a nine iron from a golf bag and handed the club to his boss. “Is this what you want?” Christian swung back, letting it go with force, right into Ingo’s shins.

  The released scream could have reached into the city. Christian exercised patience. His dogs were well trained and sat there watching. He felt pity for them.

  Not long now, girls.

  Christian tapped the iron in his one hand as he circled around Ingo like a vulture hovers above their prey. Ingo’s outcries dissipated to sobs; blood mixed with tears. He had learned a lesson. But it would be too late to benefit him. Christian attempted to test it by making Ingo look at him. Ingo’s eyes quickly diverted to the floor. The man had been broken.

  “You must think I’m stupid.” Christian took small steps around the chair.

  Ingo shook his head, blood dripping onto the concrete from the motion.

  Christian leaned over and spoke in his ear. “You think I’m stupid.”

  “No…no, Boss.”

  Christian snapped his fingers again and the two pit bulls, his joy in life, came over. They sat in front of Ingo eyeing him like a delicacy. Christian smiled. They never let him down. They never gave cause for disappointment.

  “Because of you, everything is fucked up! Because of you!” Christian turned his back on the man who would never leave this room.

  “No! Help!”

  The dogs snarled. Christian’s girls were hungry. A smirk grazed Christian’s lips. He would have found more pleasure if it had been Ray in the chair, but give it time.

  Berto followed, but Christian gestured for the man to leave before him. Christian stopped in the doorway without looking back. “You messed up, and for that, I can’t forgive you.” Christian snapped his fingers again and closed the door behind him. The screams resonated through the walls and were heard for minutes before they were rendered mute.

  I’ll give you focus, Pops. Ingo was one of my best men.

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  Chapter 33

  NIAGARA FALLS, NEW YORK

  SUNDAY, JUNE 13TH, 2:00 PM

  CLINTON FOUND AMUSEMENT IN THE fact the egotistical FBI Special Agent Leone had to babysit an empty hospital room for pretense while Wingham and he were doing real work.

  Wingham pulled ahead of him through the doors into the lobby of The Grandeur. “You really should wipe that grin off your face.”

  “Come on, why can’t a man have a little happiness?”

  “Anyone ever tell you you’re a real jerk sometimes.”

  “You know you like me.” Clinton came to a stop in the hallway and put two hands on his chest. She kept walking at a good clip toward the elevators. He let out a large sigh.

  Wingham was determined to go back to the suite to see if there was anything to be found in the way of bugs or other recording devices. There was also a request to have the phone in room 836 tested for prints. It might get them closer to the identity of Behler’s bodyguard.

  Clinton would be speaking to the hotel clerk—a Lauren Chapman—the lady from the front desk on Friday, June eleventh when Tux had made his way into the Governor’s suite. He had lost the penny toss. Not that a literal penny was involved, but when his partner got her attitude set, she became the Alpha dog. He complied simply because it wasn’t worth the antacids he’d have to pop from an argument with her. Let her have the suite. Crime Scene had been all over it.

  The lady behind the counter wore a low-cut blouse and a pleasant smile. “Welcome to The Gra—”

  Clinton thought she looked familiar from the video feed. Her name tag confirmed it. He held up his badge. “You’re Lauren Chapman?”

  “Yep.”

  “I’m Detective Clinton with the Niagara Falls PD.”

  She picked at the tip of a French-manicured nail. His first wife had thrown hundreds away on spa trips.

  “You’re here about the shooting,” Lauren said.

  No one could say she wasn’t a smart one.

  “This man.” Clinton held up a picture of Tux. Wayne Devries from security had forwarded a printout to them. His face averted the camera, and he wore sunglasses, but the girl may be able to offer something.

  “I recognize him.” She went back to picking at the nail.

  “Tell me about him.”

  A shoulder lifted and fell. “You think he did it?”

  “You let me worry about that.” Clinton didn’t possess the patience to banter back and forth.

  “He was handsome. Pleasant face, but he was tense.”

  Clinton leaned on the higher portion of the counter. If he had been a stereotypical male, he would have put the vantage point to good use. His eyes wanted to drift to her cleavage. “Tense?” He would need something more than that.

  “Well, yeah and strange.” The nail went to her mouth.

  “Tell me about your entire interaction—” The lobby door opened and a handsome couple came through, more money than God. She toted a large designer purse and had on a pair of oversized sunglasses. She looped her arm through her male companion’s. A concierge was loaded down with luggage behind them.

  “Welcome to The Grandeur.” The pleasant smile extended Clinton seemed dull compared to the one offered now. The clerk loved money, but then again who didn’t?

  Clinton stepped to the side and watched as the woman handled the transaction at the counter. Things had changed a lot in his fifty-two years. Women were the new Donald Trumps of the world. It’s like they finally realized how by combining their brains and beauty, they could conquer corp
orate America.

  With them heading toward the elevators, Clinton perched back where he was before.

  The clerk let out an audible exhale. The phone rang on her desk. She passed a glance at Clinton before answering. “Good morning, The Grandeur. May I book a suite for you?”

  Clinton’s fingers tapped an uneven rhythm on the counter.

  The clerk settled into the phone call for a few seconds. “Thank you and have a wonderful day.” She slowly hung up the receiver.

  “I won’t take up much more of your time.”

  She went back to picking at the nail.

  “When Tux—,” Clinton paused and corrected himself. “—when the man in the tuxedo came in here, did he give you a name, have any outstanding features?”

  “You mean besides his ass?” The balls of her cheeks lifted when she smiled. “He was hot…I mean for an old guy.”

  “An old guy?”

  “Well, he must have been in his forties or near to it. To me, that’s old.”

  Y’ouch. Clinton shook it off. “So he came up to you and said what?”

  “He asked if his friend arrived yet.”

  “And that was the Governor?”

  “Yes. But he called her Marian Behler.”

  “Then what?”

  “He asked if I would call up to her room.” She stopped picking at the nail. “But this is the strange part. He never left a message.”

  Clinton’s eyes moved to the phone. This perspective provided a clear view. He tapped the counter, thanked her for her help, and dialed his partner on his cell. “Tux had the clerk call up to the suite—”

  “So he got her room number from watching her dial it.”

  “Why did you do that?”

  “What?”

  “You stole my thunder.” The line went quiet. Wingham was still mad. “You find anything?” Clinton asked.

  “Not really, but I never expected to.”

  That response surprised him.

  “The killer was definitely a professional. We know that now.”