Assassination of a Dignitary

by Carolyn Arnold

  A shot from over five hundred yards away had cinched that. Clinton kept his sarcastic thought to himself.

  “There would be no reason for him to go into that suite unless it was to plant a recording device. But there’s no sign of one.”

  “He took them with him.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Detective.” The voice came closer. “Detective.” A hand went on Clinton’s shoulder causing him to turn around. It was the concierge.

  “Wingham, gotta go.” He hung up on his partner, cutting her off in the middle of a word. If she wasn’t happy with me before…

  The man extended his hand. “Miles Prevost, Hotel Concierge.”

  “Detective Clinton of the—”

  “Please, I know who you are. Please, come this way.” The man walked with a head that turned left and right, taking in the room. The way his head was constantly in motion it made Clinton think of a Bobblehead. And, in further analysis of the man’s proportions his head was larger than the rest of his frame.

  They went into a compact office off the front lobby. Everything was a gleaming white, including the top of the desk which only held a computer monitor and a tray with a quarter inch of neatly stacked paper.

  Miles took a seat behind the desk and gestured for Clinton to take the one in front of it.

  “I know you’re investigating the shooting of Ms. Behler.”

  Clinton found it interesting he didn’t use her title but dismissed it as Miles being a personable individual. He also made the observation that his summation statement served as merely a delay tactic for what he really had to say.

  “This may not even help you, but I must tell you. We value our guests, Mr. Clinton, Detective,” he added. “Our guests’ privacy and confidentiality is of high importance.”

  “If you have something that can help us find her shooter.” The word killer almost slipped out. “Then you need to help us.”

  “Maybe this was a bad idea.”

  Clinton had managed to silence another possible source of information. “My apologies.” He choked on the words. But he wanted those headlines. “It’s just you obviously wanted to speak with me or you wouldn’t have come after me.”

  Miles swallowed hard as Clinton watched his Adam’s apple bob. “I know where she had her last meal.”

  -

  Chapter 34

  OUTSKIRTS OF NIAGARA FALLS, NEW YORK

  SUNDAY, JUNE 13TH, 2:00 PM

  15 HOURS UNTIL THE DEADLINE

  I REALIZED I HAD LEFT MY family two hundred and forty miles behind me. But to know that I could have been so close to them, that they could be at the hangar near Detroit—that would be another thing altogether. I remember making the observation of the doors and how I had concluded they were offices. They could be doorways that led to hallways and more rooms.

  If I had been driving this Town Car, I would have flattened my foot to the accelerator a while ago and kept it there until I got out to the hangar. I pressed the button on my phone to see the time.

  At least I had completed the job before the mandated twenty-four hours. Surely Christian would have confirmed the hit by now, but I still hadn’t heard from him and the uneasiness that came with that twisted my gut in a knot. And his words about needing to talk when I returned weren’t reassuring. There would be nothing to talk about other than where my wife and children were. I would never return to working for him.

  The car’s tires crunched gravel and its body rolled slightly, as it headed down the third-class road toward the private airport.

  With my other kills confirmation that the deal had been completed had proven easy. Most times Russo’s men came in to take care of the cleanup, or I was to stage the kill as an unfortunate accident that law enforcement would spin their wheels on. Some of the murders would make the news. With this situation, it should have been guaranteed—this involved the life of a high-profile dignitary.

  “Turn on the radio. Local news.” I made the request of the driver as I went on to the Internet to see if any reports about the Governor’s assassination had made it there yet.

  The driver complied but shot a look through the rear view that communicated, we’re almost there now.

  For the time of day, there should be a news update with the Governor as the top news story.

  “In local news…”

  “Turn it up.”

  There was a soft sigh from the driver, but again, he followed my directions.

  “…a twelve-year-old boy has been found after having been missing for twenty-four hours. The search concluded—”

  “You can turn it off.” I must have missed the report. The leading story must have already been given.

  Shit.

  It would have been nice to receive audible confirmation of the Governor’s death. Not hearing it left a bad feeling that proved hard to shake.

  “…and in other news—”

  “Stop.” I leaned over the seat. The driver’s hand was almost to the power. His eyes bounced up to the rear view mirror and back to the road in front of him. He pulled his hand back. He turned into the driveway for the hangar.

  “…and an update on the Governor of Michigan tells us she is doing just fine. They have moved her from critical care to serious.”

  “What the—” The words came out, and the driver looked at me over his shoulder. He put the car in park and sat there watching me.

  How was that even possible? I saw the bullet burrow into her head. There was no way she was still alive, let alone on the mend. Someone out there must have had one sick sense of humor. They’d better pray that I’d never find them.

  I got out of the car and walked toward the plane, dismissing any efforts of the hired driver to assist with my belongings. As I went up the stairs to the private jet, my legs were like iron re-enforcement bars, heavy and planted with each step. This flight would be the longest ninety minutes of my life. If Christian heard the same report, my family would be dead before the plane touched down.

  -

  Chapter 35

  NIAGARA FALLS, NEW YORK

  SUNDAY, JUNE 13TH, 3:00 PM

  CLINTON HELD UP A BADGE to the maître d’ of Casa Grande. “We’re here to ask a few questions. Would a manager be available?”

  Wingham stood beside Clinton, her attitude clearing up as the sky after a bout of rain clouds.

  The maître d’s features were small, his lips the thinnest Clinton had seen. Even his hands were bony despite being overweight. Most of his investment was carried out front. His eyes were sunken as if housed in two small caves. He stood there blinking as if Clinton’s words weren’t penetrating.

  “Is there a manager?” Clinton raised his voice, hoping the volume would increase the chance of breaking through.

  “I heard what you said.”

  Okay, then what’s the problem?

  “It’s about the Governor, yes?”

  “It is,” Clinton said.

  “She was here that night.” The maître d’s eyes met Clinton’s.

  “That night?”

  “Yes, the night she got shot—Saturday.”

  “Do you know if she was with anyone?” Clinton asked.

  He started shaking, and his eyelids seemed heavy. Wingham put a hand on his elbow and directed him to a chair at a nearby table. The late lunch crowd at Casa Grande was light. Based on the menu Clinton had scanned he understood why. People could justify spending thirty bucks on an entree for dinner, but most wouldn’t for lunch.

  Clinton noticed a man coming toward them. His shoulders were broad, his physique likely the result of a regular gym regimen. “Is there a problem here?” His voice was deep.

  Clinton and Wingham lifted their badges in sync.

  The man waved a hand to brush them aside. “No need to be flashing those in here.” He gave a quick glance o
ver to the few who could afford to eat lunch here. They were more absorbed in their early cocktails and pricey meals to pay the front door any attention. “I’m the manager here. Name’s Joe Needham.” He extended a hand to Clinton. “Come this way.”

  The maître d’ made a move to follow them. “No, Ian, you stay.” The manager gestured toward the front door.

  “Actually, I believe he knows something that can help us,” Wingham said, putting her charming etiquette to work with an appealing tone.

  The man lifted both arms. “One moment.” He held up a single finger.

  Not long later, Needham returned with an Asian woman in her early twenties. Her features and stature were small as most of that culture, and Clinton felt Wingham’s energy shift beside him. She would get on a tangent periodically about needing to shed a few extra pounds, but the resolve lasted until the first temptation. Clinton didn’t see what she was concerned about.

  The Asian introduced herself; her smile weak from nerves. “I’m Jenny.”

  Clinton’s guess was she normally worked in the back away from the customers’ view.

  “No time for chit chat, Jenny. I need you to cover the front while Ian comes back with me. Okay?”

  She nodded.

  The manager spoke to the rest of them, “All right, come this way now.” He led the three of them to a back office.

  This one was a far contrast from the concierge’s at The Grandeur. Papers were scattered across the surface of the desk as if a fan had blown them. Clinton looked around the room—no fan.

  “Sorry, there’s not enough seating for everyone.” Needham sat behind his desk.

  Clinton gestured for his partner and Ian to take a chair, while he remained standing. “We’re here about Governor Behler.”

  “Sure, if we can help.” Needham opened his hands to invite them to commence with their questioning.

  “She was in your restaurant for dinner last night.”

  He clasped his hands on the desk and leaned forward. “We have a lot of high profile people in our restaurant. We respect their privacy—”

  He stopped talking when Ian held up one pointed finger in the air as if asking to be called on in a school classroom.

  Needham rolled his eyes. “Yes, Ian.”

  “Have you not heard the news? She was shot,” he said.

  Needham looked at Wingham. “She’s dead?”

  Now, let’s see if she stretches the truth, Clinton thought. She wouldn’t want to be telling any lies. He rested an elbow on a four-drawer filing cabinet, leaning against it. His attention was on his partner; her eyes were on Needham.

  “She was shot…last night.” She passed a glance to Clinton.

  The manager noticed. “Why do you keep looking at him when you speak?”

  Wingham bit on a bottom lip. She was insulted by the man’s observation. “You notice a lot of things, Mr. Needham. Did you notice if Governor Behler had a friend with her last night?” She shifted her position crossing her arms, pushing up on her bosom as she tightened her arms.

  He leaned forward, broadcasting a smile that likely lit many a bedroom. “You’re a sly one.” He turned then to Clinton. “Honestly, I don’t know. I heard a rumor that she was here, but I never looked for myself. Along with the genuine articles, you get celebrity look-alikes. Saturdays are our busiest night and the washer broke down.”

  Wingham turned to Ian. “But you remember her?”

  He took a deep breath and requested consent from his boss who nodded. He still seemed hesitant to speak.

  Clinton stood straight. “Did anyone else join her?”

  Ian looked at him nervously but didn’t say a word. He must have sensed their thought process. The shooter had been here. His eyes misted and rapidly blinked.

  “A name?” Clinton went out on a hunch it was someone he could ID with a name. Ian glanced at his employer.

  “I’m not sure if I should tell them,” Ian said.

  Before Needham could answer, Clinton interjected, “If you know something that can help this investigation, you have the responsibility to say—”

  Needham rose to his feet. “Don’t pressure him into this—”

  “Mr. Needham, this isn’t a thug who got whacked, this is a state Governor, who had an attempt made on her life.” Clinton gestured for the man to retake his seat. He did so reluctantly.

  “This news can’t get out. If people find out, we disclose our customers’ identities—”

  “This isn’t a lawyer’s office or confessional booth. It’s a restaurant.”

  “The finest in the area.” Needham tugged out on his jacket.

  Clinton placed a hand on Ian’s shoulder. “Who was it?”

  “Governor Talbot.” He latched his hands in his lap and crossed at his ankles. He let out a sigh. “She joined him at his table.”

  Clinton and his partner shared a look.

  “You’re certain it was the Governor of New York?” Wingham asked as she stood up and took out her cell phone. She didn’t seem to listen for his answer; she read the screen and texted something.

  “Absolutely.” Ian’s eyes brandished up to Clinton, then quickly downward.

  Clinton took the seat Wingham had freed up, and the four of them continued to discuss last night. Ian related how, in fact, the Governor had two men at her table at the time of appetizers, but Talbot had left before the main entree. The other man, described as handsome, possibly in his forties, and wearing a flashy tuxedo, remained at her table until the bill came.

  “She picked it up. They shared some laughs. I think they might have left together.” After speaking for about fifteen minutes or so, Ian’s tongue had loosened up. “But I don’t think the Governor of New York was having a good time.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Well, the three of them were at the table, but his eyes drifted around the room. You know, like when you really don’t want to be somewhere. He had two double Scotches once she joined him but also had one before she arrived.”

  Interesting.

  An hour after entering the manager’s room, Clinton and Wingham walked out.

  “More questions than answers,” she said.

  “But, we did get some answers. Ian mentioned the man who ended up joining their table had been seated at a private table for one originally.”

  “And he wore a Tux.”

  -

  Chapter 36

  OUTSKIRTS OF DETROIT, MICHIGAN

  SUNDAY, JUNE 13TH, 3:30 PM

  LESS THAN 14 HOURS UNTIL THE DEADLINE

  THIS TIME I WAS AWAKE when the wheels hit the runway. The aching in my chest intensified from the fear of having no control over what Christian did to my family, or possibly would still do. If he heard the news, they’d be dead already, and I would be returning to a fight for my life. But if they were gone, I’d have nothing to live for.

  My hand went to the .44 in my holster, and I spoke a silent prayer for help to make it through with my family. I realized the irony in praying to a God of life and goodness when what I asked for was worldly restitution. But I needed something to hold on to other than merely a hope that things would work out according to plan. In the last few days, I should have learned at least that—life didn’t follow a set course.

  My body weighed heavily from fatigue, but as the door on the plane opened my physical issues muted to the background, superseded by the facts I held in my defense. I had shot the Governor. She was dead. I would accept no other statements. I would not go back for her head to serve it to Christian. He would have to accept the truth.

  Christian stood at the bottom of the stairs. “How nice of you to join us.”

  It almost took more self-control than I possessed not to shoot him where he stood. My hand steadied over my gun. “Where’s my family?”

  His dimples creased with a bro
ad smile. His eyes took in the positioning of my hand. “Oh, you feel threatened.” Christian laughed.

  “Did you kill them?” I closed the distance between us.

  “I think the real question is, did you take care of your end?” He snapped both fingers and turned his back on me.

  I followed him to the back of the hangar, my heart beating fast from adrenaline. I would give him no indication of fear. It would only fuel him and provide him with more power. I wished and hoped he was leading me to my living family, but my gut said differently. Something was wrong.

  I noticed the large form come from behind. A beefy hand was placed on my shoulder.

  This was not good. At all.

  I clenched my jaw and passed him a glance that told him to get his hand off me. The silent death threat must have worked as he slowly removed it.

  Christian went through a door off the hangar into a mechanics storage bay. Tools, extra parts, and lubricants for the airplanes were neatly arranged on steel shelving. Maybe I had been wrong about a series of hallways and my family being kept in offshoot rooms. But wherever they were, they were near planes and the floor was concrete.

  “You’ve come here wanting to fight.” Christian gestured toward my gun. “I doubt you shot her with that.”

  “I came prepared.”

  He assessed me. “Sit.” He pointed to a chair in the middle of the room.

  “I’ll stand.”

  “You’ll sit.” The large shadow had a voice and he spoke bent over to reach my ear. I estimated the big guy to be six-six, maybe taller.

  “The Governor, is she dead?” Christian paced slowly around the chair.

  “Job is done.” Where was my family?

  “Tsk. Tsk.”

  “Whatever you heard on the news is wrong.”

  “Where’s my verification? I give you back your family, you walk away?” He kept moving around me with slow, deliberate steps. “I will make a deal with you.”

  His Italian accent made my stomach churn. Big Guy watched me as if he was ready to act. I hated the fact I was sitting. It made me vulnerable. And with the holster and gun, it was a tight fit between the arms of the chair.