“Just like that?”
“Well, we’re not in yet.” He jabbed at some keys, and the document started filling in the screen.
“Keith, if you don’t—”
“What is this Ray?”
A spreadsheet with a lot of tabs filled the screen. They were named as dates followed by Talbot’s name.
“Is that Governor Talbot?” Keith looked at me. “What are you involved with?” There were a few seconds of eye contact. “This isn’t your file is it? That’s why you didn’t know the password.”
There was no point in lying. I remained silent.
“Am I an accessory now? Did you involve me in something illegal? I thought you stopped those ways a long time ago.”
To hear him talk to me in this manner felt like a lecture from my old man. My father had always expected nothing but perfection and purity. He also assumed that I would carry on in the family religion. It wasn’t for me. I held more interest in guns than God.
Keith made a note on a piece of paper, the tip of the pen moving wildly. He ripped the section off and handed it to me. “I don’t want to know what it is.”
“They have my family.” The words escaped.
“Who does?” The pen dropped on the desk; he raised his eyebrows, the odd long hair extending from them. “The Mafia?”
My eyes went to the piece of paper, Bluebird. I should have known to try that password.
Keith exhaled loudly and handed me the chip. “You just be careful Ray. You don’t know what you’re involved with.”
Was he making a blanket assessment or did he know something I didn’t? I left his townhouse feeling uneasy about trusting him. It had something to do with the way he looked at me with condemnation in his eyes. I never suspected the old man of copying my files before. But this time, I wasn’t so sure.
Please mind your own business one last time, old friend.
-
Chapter 47
NIAGARA FALLS, NEW YORK
SUNDAY, JUNE 13TH, 7:00 PM
CLINTON STOOD BACK AS HE oversaw the Crime Scene techs work over every square inch of Gamer’s apartment. They probably wished they had brought in the hazmat suits.
Leone had left the apartment building after their confrontation and wasn’t answering his cell phone. Not that Clinton cared, but the junior agent had been bitching about it for a while now.
Clinton said, “Maybe he took a last minute vacation.”
The agent, a man who remained unnamed simply based on Clinton’s estimation of his importance, rolled his head to the side.
“You don’t think so?” Clinton put a hand on the man’s shoulder. Maybe it would help if he had a name. Actually come to think of it, Leone mentioned it before—Bakker or Bernard—it didn’t really matter. He’d be free of him soon enough.
“This isn’t doing us any good hanging around here waiting for something to be found.” Wingham crossed her arms. “They’ve got your number. When they find something—”
Clinton’s ringing cell phone interrupted her. It resulted in her raising her arms and turning her back on him. He spoke on the phone. “Talk to me…yeah…hey, Murray…all right.” Murray Hamilton was another Major Crimes Detective. Wingham faced Clinton again, and they matched eyes. “We’ll be right there.”
“I’m going to get a coffee.” Junior brushed by Clinton, nudging him in the torso on the way out.
“Hey, watch yourself!”
“Whatever!” The agent waved a hand over his head and kept walking.
Clinton addressed his partner, “Murray’s found us a lead.”
DETROIT, MICHIGAN
7:30 PM
JUST OVER 9 HOURS UNTIL THE DEADLINE
THE FILES FROM BEHLER’S CELL phone were loaded with financial information. Bank statements showed withdrawals and deposits. Some of the information pertained to Talbot’s personal while other sheets were tagged State of New York.
I scrolled through the file, analyzing all the numbers and was thankful that I had become an accountant. I started noticing discrepancies in the books. Nothing reconciled.
Governor Talbot wasn’t squeaky clean. Not that I ever believed a politician could be.
NIAGARA FALLS, NEW YORK
CLINTON DROVE; WINGHAM RODE SHOTGUN. They pulled into the parking lot of The Oasis motel and noticed Murray standing outside of room 11.
“He’s in there?” Clinton nodded toward the door.
“Yep.”
Clinton didn’t wait for another word but pushed past his colleague. He had a lot to ask the son of a bitch. His feet became grounded once he made it through the doorway. He stopped so abruptly Wingham went into his back and Murray into hers.
“He’s dead,” Clinton said, snapping his head in Murray’s direction.
“I said I found Rick Carson. I never said he was alive. You were so quick to get off the phone.”
Clinton looked at the figure on the bed. The bodyguard who had been scrawny and unattractive in a grainy video was a model in contrast to his current condition.
Wingham put a hand over her mouth but moved closer to the body. She mumbled something.
“What did you say? Couldn’t make it out for the hand.” Clinton shot her a look.
Her eyes narrowed. She slowly dropped her arm. “He didn’t die here. There’s no blood pool. The wounds aren’t fresh.”
“I’ve already called in the coroner. They should be here soon,” Murray said. He kept back toward the door, his attention on the parking lot.
“The guy’s been tortured. His ears, his nose…” Wingham’s hand lifted but lowered when Clinton looked at her. “His fingers. Some of them are gone.” She surveyed the room. “And they’re not here either. None of his missing parts are.”
“There’s something larger going on than an assassination of a dignitary,” Clinton said. “This guy comes all the way from Michigan and gets off’d like this after Behler. It’s not adding up to a day of roses and pony rides.” The headlines were flashing through his mind as stock exchange ticker boards, and in every one he held the main caption. NIAGARA FALLS DETECTIVE CLINTON BRINGS DOWN THE GOVERNOR’S ASSASSIN AND UNCOVERS AN ORGANIZED CRIME RING BEHIND IT.
“The only people who do this sort of thing—”
“Is the Mafia.” Wingham finished his sentence.
It was one thing to think it and yet another to verbalize the speculation with conviction. All Clinton could do was nod in response.
Wingham continued, speaking her thoughts aloud, “His background didn’t show anything major.”
Clinton shook his head. “Just something’s not adding up with this.” His words stalled as he took in the man on the bed.
Rolex, or Rick Carson, was splayed on the double-sized mattress, legs spread eagle, arms extended. In a way, he resembled a sick sort of snow angel suspended in mid-flight. He wore a pair of blue jeans, tattered at the knees, and a white shirt stained with blood. There was a large slash to his neck and likely what killed him. And there was something about the way his shirt was pressed against his chest.
“I don’t think he was wearing this at the time he died,” Clinton said and looked over his shoulder to Murray whose back was to him. The man’s arms were crossed.
Clinton’s eyes went back to the body and the darkened mass under the shirt. He took a step toward the body and had a hand braced above it just about to pull open the shirt.
“Stop! Right there!” A woman’s voice called from the doorway. “Don’t you dare touch that body. I don’t care if you were the President of the United States himself, you hear me?”
She was beautiful. Clinton took a few steps back and admired her as she seemed to glide across the motel room. Her presence made him feel patriotic. An eight-inch salute formed in his trousers.
When she reached the bed, she stopped in front of Clinton—
inches away. If only they were closer and naked, he would really show his respect.
“I’m Paulina Thompson.” She didn’t make an effort to extend a hand. Her complexion was smooth, and for a lack of clear thinking, he’d describe her as melted chocolate. If he had a moment to step back and analyze, maybe he’d come up with an even better analogy.
Clinton couldn’t get a word to come out.
“We’re detectives Wingham and Clinton.” Wingham’s eyes narrowed and her head moved on an angle as she matched eyes with her partner.
“If you could please step away.” Thompson held out a hand gesturing for Clinton to move backward. She took photographs of the body careful to capture every angle.
Clinton watched as her body moved.
Wingham slapped his arm. She whispered, “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Working.”
“Uh huh.” Wingham left the room and stepped outside. Clinton lingered around a bit longer. When Thompson finished with the photographs, her gloved hands, her slender fingers, worked over the dead man. For a moment, Clinton was jealous of the deceased.
“He’s coming out of full rigor. TOD is estimated at over twelve hours ago.”
That time of death wasn’t long after the first assassination attempt. Was he killed because he had failed?
“Can you help me?” Thompson addressed him, speaking over her shoulder as she leaned over the body. “In the box there.” She nodded toward her case. “There’s evidence bags. We need to bag his hands…at least what’s left of them.”
“Sure.” Clinton was proud to have found his voice. Even if it was one word. He was coming back around, breaking free of her spell. He handed her the bags. They made contact. Fireworks—Fourth of July!
When she finished wrapping up his hands, Clinton mustered strength to speak more than one syllable. “Cause of death the neck slash?”
Thompson lifted up the front of the man’s shirt which peeled from blood-tacky flesh. Her finger traced above the flesh, right to left. “The words TSK TSK appeared to have been sliced into his torso by a knife.” Thompson’s brow lines pointed downward as she lifted the shirt higher. “Hmm, interesting.” She left the shirt up and went for her camera. She snapped a picture and pulled the man’s shirt back down. “I’ll take more pics back at the morgue, catalog everything of course, and finalize my ruling on the cause of death.”
“I really think we already have.” Clinton walked away from her relieved that he finally had his independent strength back. Murray and Wingham were outside the room laughing. “Is there a joke I’m missing? Forgive me if I’m mistaken, but a man’s mutilated body is feet away and you’re both laughing like it’s prom night.”
Wingham’s head snapped to her partner. “Interesting that’s where your mind is freshman.”
He disregarded her dig. “Who called it in?”
“Motel manager came by to make sure everything was okay,” Murray began. “Said that a guy checked in earlier today and had left. But he heard some noise and came down to check things out.”
“A guy?” Clinton asked.
“Yeah, he’s certain our DB isn’t the man who checked in.”
“Manager’s name?”
“Edwin Taylor. No priors, clean background. Originally from Canada,” Murray said.
“Yeah, that says it all.”
“Someone’s cranky.”
“Someone’s frustrated.” Wingham defended her partner, braced both hands on her hips, and challenged Murray with eye contact.
“I want to talk to the guy,” Clinton moved toward the motel office.
“The guy’s pretty shook up. Ronny’s in there with him now, keeping him company.” That was really code for making sure a suspect or witness didn’t get away.
Wingham performed a half skip to catch up to Clinton. “What are you thinking?”
“What am I thinking?” Clinton stopped walking. “We’re in the middle of a damn mess. We’ve got a dead Governor, a mutilated lead, and another suspect in the wind. The only thing connecting any dots is the Governor of New York. But until I have a few more facts, well, we’re stuck with the Canadian.” He moved again.
“Hey, they’re not that bad. They’re just like the rest of us, only they’re buried in snow, love hockey, apologize a lot, and say eh.”
-
Chapter 48
DETROIT, MICHIGAN
SUNDAY, JUNE 13TH, 8:00 PM
9 HOURS LEFT UNTIL THE DEADLINE
THE DOCUMENTS CONFIRMED MY SUSPICIONS—Governor Talbot was skimming from State funds. Trips abroad, vacation villas in Thailand, drinks and dinners in fancy restaurants. Deposits made into his personal bank accounts never matched exactly but were always within a few hundred of the funds withdrawn from the State’s money. And it was taken in small values, on a regular basis. If my math was correct, and it always was, the Governor had defrauded the State of New York two point five million since his term in office.
I opened up a search window to get a complete picture of his biography. His family was wealthy until his father lost all their money in an unwise business investment and took an overdose. This left behind Talbot’s mother to raise two young children.
Talbot who was already accustomed to the finer things in life, worked hard to climb the corporate ladder—eventually it paid off. Today, they all lived in Manhattan estates and owned secondary houses on Rhode Island.
I closed the browser and sat there thinking. If Behler had been meeting with the Governor and had this on her phone, their meeting wasn’t simply a conversation. It was coercion with the most expensive thing at stake—Talbot’s term in office and exploitation of the family’s name and money.
Pietro’s message, Is the bluebird going to nest with the Robin, replayed in my mind. Behler was there presenting the facts. As long as Talbot saw things the way of The Commission, aka, the Italian Mafia, and laid off his quest to squash them, he would remain in office and continue to have access to the government’s money like his own personal piggy bank. If he didn’t cooperate, well, he stood to lose everything and face fraud and embezzlement charges. For a man of Talbot’s history, that would be enough to warrant a barrel in the mouth.
-
Chapter 49
DETROIT, MICHIGAN
SUNDAY, JUNE 13TH, 8:00 PM
9 HOURS UNTIL THE DEADLINE
TIME WAS RUNNING OUT. Pietro expected that Christian would die of some accident before morning; I planned on getting this taken care of by Christian’s first imposed deadline.
I had considered Christian’s death from many possible angles. One method that kept reoccurring to me was to sabotage his plane somehow. Yet it would involve a knowledge of planes, which I had little of, and a need for Christian to get on one.
I thought about making it look like a revolt, that his own people turned against him. But that wasn’t really an accident either, and it would paint a large target on everyone. The spotlight would shine on Pietro Russo, which would clear him with The Commission including the Mafia Families in New York. But it definitely wouldn’t free him of a police investigation and the allegations of house cleaning. Of course, direct evidence would be impossible to obtain.
This stipulation and cause and effect made the option of staging a coup, implausible. All I knew for certain; I was going to get my family back. Tonight. From there, the future was unwritten. I realized I still had to take care of the job given me, or we’d never rest from the chase, but one thing at a time.
Honestly, I was surprised by how effective the stimulant was that Pietro had given me. My eyes, despite being scratchy from being open for so long, were relatively at ease. The burning sensation that had willed them shut before had muted to the background.
I needed to push aside everything related to my discoveries about the Governors. To my cause, it didn’t really matter. One way or a
nother, my family had been put in the crosshairs of some very dangerous men. And if The Commission came to Pietro and figured out the assassination had been played out on the whim of a child who felt he was a born leader…well, suffice it to conclude, my family needed to be far away when the gunfire broke out. And so did I.
NIAGARA FALLS, NEW YORK
AGENT LEONE HAD TO KEEP his distance from Clinton before he acted on his impulse to pound on him until his eyes closed for the last time. He had already envisioned it more times than was healthy—reliving the fantasy and dwelling on it. But he had more important things to take care of right now.
He entered the bookstore off a side street, avoiding the main entrance security cameras and crowds. He hated crowds, but sometimes it was necessary to blend in.
Inside, the smell of paperbacks and binding glue mingled with fresh baked goods and coffee. Even he wasn’t immune to the bear claws and donuts displayed behind glass. He turned to look and caught the eye of the lady behind the counter. She smiled at him. He returned the smile with a wink.
He always had a way with women. Getting them wasn’t the problem, keeping them around, and not becoming bored with their cramping in on him was. For some reason, he normally attracted the needy, high maintenance variety. And while entertaining for a short while, their self-absorbed nature that helped draw him in quickly constricted around his neck making it necessary to cut them loose.
Any other time, Leone would have gone after the barista and shown her a night in a luxury hotel suite. But this was no other time. He had work to do and needed to remain focused, or risk his entire world combusting to ash.
Running a hand through his hair, and pulling down on his suit jacket, he took a seat at a far table. He straightened his tie, a few hundred dollar silk number, against his shirt.
He watched his visitor approach. The man walked with more arrogance than Leone recalled from past meetings. He held his head high, making it easy to trip over an extended leg or an undone shoelace. If Leone had been closer and not known the man, maybe he would have taken the chance to test his theory.
Assassination of a Dignitary Page 20