Assassination of a Dignitary

by Carolyn Arnold

  “What? No beverage? I thought you Americans lived for pleasuring yourselves while making twenty decisions on how to take your caffeine.”

  Leone observed how the man attempted to elevate himself above the rest of the country. A major contrasting irony as the man was born in the United States and only a fraction Italian; his mother had been a street whore. He only made it into the Don’s world because he was his only son.

  “Didn’t need any stimulus this evening.” Leone gestured for his guest to sit across from him. “Please.” The words went dry on his lips as he caught a glimpse of the man’s backup—he could have played as a linebacker. He pretended to be interested in travel mugs and stainless steel water bottles but noticed Leone’s glance and latched eyes with him.

  His Italian friend, who had paid him well over the years, maybe extravagantly well, leaned back in his wooden chair. It moaned with the movement; it had nothing to do with the man’s size.

  “What do you have for me?”

  “The investigation’s fucked up.” Leone leaned forward, clasping his hands. He learned a long time ago the young Italian preferred to be talked to like a friend, yet respected as the President.

  “Tony, it’s up to you to un-fuck it.” His dark brown eyes were like pits or black holes in space.

  “I don’t think they have any clue what’s up or down.” Few dared to speak to the man this way, but Leone needed his attention. “Then the Bluebird gets his nose involved in something that doesn’t concern him, assigns the lead to some media hungry detective. This case should be FBI.”

  “Tsk. Tsk.” Nothing more was said. Nothing more needed to be. Leone had proven himself a disappointment.

  “I’m on them to keep me informed, but this Clinton guy is a real piece of work.”

  “You are one of my best informants, and you’re letting some detective bully you around. This isn’t grade school.”

  “I’m doing the best I can.”

  The Italian leaned forward. “You must do better than that. Find the evidence; make the evidence, whatever you need to do. You report to me. Speaking of which.” He paused while reaching inside his jacket. Leone prepared for the sight of a gun barrel. Instead, the man came out with a box. He set it on the table between them. “For you.” He nudged it a few inches forward.

  This was the one downfall of the Italian. He felt he could buy anyone with lavish gifts and obscene bonuses. And, for the most part, his tactic worked.

  “What you’re not even going to open it?” He asked.

  Leone noticed the homicidal rage flash through the Italian’s eyes when he feared being rejected.

  “I’m sure you shouldn’t have.” Leone scooped it off the table and put it in his jacket pocket as if disinterested. “This could cause me my career.”

  “Huh, I give you a fifteen thousand dollar Rolex, and you stuff it in a pocket like a used tissue.” He sat back, crossed his arms. His attention was fully on Leone.

  “If I pawn it in, it wouldn’t cover my lease for six months.” Leone knew he stepped out of line when the Italian balled a fist on the table.

  “You disrespect me; you won’t ever have to worry about that.” His voice remained calm despite the potency of the message.

  Leone conceded. “My apologies—”

  “You apologize? Not good enough. You take care of this…this mess.”

  “Yes, Boss.”

  “Don’t call me that. That’s my old man.” One corner of his mouth lifted. Both of his hands went to the table and he rose.

  The big man, who had given up on stainless steel water bottles, had buried his thick fingers in a magazine. He looked up as the Italian came toward him. Leone sat there observing and taking mental notes as they left the bookstore.

  Leone pulled out the Rolex and sat it on the table. Probably a little much for a tip. Leone shrugged his shoulders and left. Maybe it would have made a great gift for the barista? Too bad it wasn’t any other time, or he’d find out the depth of her appreciation.

  -

  Chapter 50

  DETROIT, MICHIGAN

  SUNDAY, JUNE 13TH, 8:00 PM

  9 HOURS UNTIL THE DEADLINE

  I GAVE A LOT OF thought to how to kill a man and make it look like an accident. For the most part, it wouldn’t be a huge deal—if that target weren’t the son of a mafia Don. Christian would have men surrounding him who would know his intentions of taking over The Family business. These men would be loyal to him at the risk of their own lives. Christian would settle for no less.

  In my days with the Russos, it hadn’t proved to be much of a challenge to stage a murder to look like something other than what it really was—a hit. I needed to figure out how I would spin the truth this time.

  The murder, or death of the Don’s son, would be high profile news. The rumors and gossip would spread like gangrene infecting the country with meaningless speculation. I could ill afford reflection being cast on the Don himself. He would have to stay far removed from any reproach or the casting of guilt.

  Myself, I needed to remain invisible while killing the man whose life I had saved so many years ago. The simple irony of it made me breathless. If only there were a way to travel back in time and right wrongs.

  But would things have worked out as they had if that moment in time had gone differently? Would I ever have met Brenda, got married, and had a family, if I never realized how valuable those things really were? And why did I need to experience the worst this life had to offer before appreciating the best it had to extend?

  Brenda had come into the club that night, and it wasn’t love at first sight, but I knew there was something between us. I had grown up in a family with a mother and father who truly loved each other—who had the perfect marriage. I originally turned my back on the predictability that came with latching your soul to another’s.

  I was guarding the door to the back room that sheltered Pietro from the rest of the world—a promotion, he had termed it. Long behind me were the days of carding underage patrons and turning away the wannabes. My job, on top of being a hitman for the Russos, was at times to be a protector of the Don himself. For a while, I took great pride in the advancement. At least until life seemed to have other plans for me.

  Brenda had stumbled down the hallway, more than a little intoxicated. Her steps were uncertain, her hands reached for the wall. A finger pointed to the room I stood in front of.

  “You guard the lady’s room?” She smiled at me. At that moment, something inside switched over. But the reaction was relatively subtle. Her eyes were a piercing green and seemed to refract the light as intoxication danced in them.

  “Are you going to move? I really have to…go.” She started bouncing. The laugh faded and transformed into a heart stalling smile.

  “Washrooms are around the corner. There.” I pointed and clasped my hands in front. The woman didn’t seem to pose any threat.

  She didn’t move. Instead, she heaved over, doubled in half, and vomited on my shoes. Now for most men that would seal the deal. Any feelings that may have started to stir would be finished with that action. For me, well, I was a different person. I was used to bodily fluids, mainly blood, being spilled in my presence. A little bile wasn’t too much of a deterrent. But the smell—that took my composure.

  “I’m so sorry.” She held a hand over her mouth as she spoke. Flirtation paraded in her eyes.

  I nodded toward another man who stepped in to guard the door. I placed a hand on her arm. She felt so fragile under my touch. For some strange reason, at that moment, I knew I wanted to get to know her.

  “You have a gun.” She pointed at the .22 in my holster.

  “Come on.” I kept moving, trying to convince her to start up again. Her feet remained grounded.

  “Why do you need a gun to guard a bathroom?” She smiled sheepishly, and I wondered if she knew more th
an she was letting on. For an instant, I feared for the safety of the Don. She could have been sent in as a diversion tactic.

  “I hate guns, but you’re cute—”

  “Brenda!”

  We almost made it to the women’s washroom when a lady with thick glasses and a bob cut came hurrying toward her. “You all right?” She eyed me suspiciously and took her friend out of my reach. I let go reluctantly.

  “She’ll be all right now.” I pointed behind us to the vomit on the floor.

  Brenda nodded. “He’s right.” She looked at me for the last time that night. Her smile slightly askew, but nonetheless, perfect.

  Something else inside triggered. Maybe I’d had this lifestyle for long enough. It was possible for this line of work to eat one alive and spit out nothing but a corpse. I would go out on my terms. I spent the next few months trying to hunt Brenda down and I never regretted it.

  Coming back to the present, my heart ached that she was with Christian and his men. They better not have laid one hand on her. Lifting my cell to an ear, I listened to her message again. Despite the hurt and anger that registered in her voice, in some way it drew her back to me.

  Christian would die. He would pay for his sins. And he wouldn’t see it coming.

  -

  Chapter 51

  NIAGARA FALLS, NEW YORK

  SUNDAY, JUNE 13TH, 8:00 PM

  CHIMES SOUNDED WHEN CLINTON OPENED the door to the motel office. Ronny, who pretty much just graduated the academy, sat beside Edwin Taylor, The Oasis’s manager. Taylor held on to a paper coffee cup and stared into the brew.

  “Detectives.” Ronny stood and approached Clinton and Wingham. He hoisted up on his pants as if they were a few sizes too large.

  Clinton self-consciously placed one hand on his stomach thinking he could lose a few pounds. It had been a while since he had to pull up on any clothing. Maybe it was an adolescent reaction to hormonal levels jacked through his body from his having been in heat over a woman who likely wouldn’t pass him a second glance. He had two ex-wives, and they were enough to prove love and he didn’t mix.

  Clinton pointed to the side at what served as a lobby. The business name might conjure up a luxurious hotel in Las Vegas, but this dive was far from it. A sofa, which likely dated back to the sixties, sat across from a pale laminate counter. A bell sat on it in the case the door chimes hadn’t been enough to notify the working clerk he had a guest. The plastic fern in a corner pot catered a solid layer of dust.

  Clinton asked Ronny, “What’s he telling you?”

  “He came by to check on the guy. Said he left in a taxi and then he heard a noise. Thought he’d check it out—”

  “It wasn’t the guy!” The raised voice came from Taylor. He sat down the cup; his beady eyes danced over the three of them.

  Wingham dropped her notepad to the height of her thigh but lifted it when Clinton motioned for her to continue taking notes. Clinton walked over to the manager.

  “What do you mean it wasn’t him?” Clinton remembered Murray had mentioned something about that. He placed his hands on his hips, latching a thumb on the waistband.

  “Just as I said. It wasn’t him.” His hand went back for the cup, but when he noticed it was empty, he placed it on the counter. “The man who checked in two days ago.” He paused, shook his head. “Heck, he was here from Friday to Saturday, checked out, and then came back this morning. I hardly had time to know he had checked out before he was back.”

  Clinton and Wingham shared a look. Clinton didn’t know what Wingham was thinking, but his mind went to Tux. He was at The Grandeur on Friday—coincidence?

  The door chimed when Ronny stepped outside to join Murray.

  “Let me get this straight. The man who was here this morning was here Friday and Saturday but had also checked out before showing up again this morning?”

  The man nodded. “He had a gun too. I saw it on his waist. Never saw one in person before today. Can’t say I liked it much.”

  This could be the guy they were looking for. Clinton motioned for Wingham to take out a picture of Tux, courtesy of The Grandeur security cameras. “He look familiar to you?” Clinton knew it would be a stretch with the man avoiding the camera head on. But even if the manager could relate to similarities in size and stature between his guest and the unidentified man it would give them something.

  Taylor barely acknowledged the photo. His eyes lifted and his face scrunched. “This guy ain’t got no face, eh.”

  “Do you have a name for us?” It seemed like an obvious question, but Clinton didn’t put too much weight on it. No assassin worth his weight would disclose his real name—yet most professional assassins never missed with the first bullet.

  “He paid cash up front. I’m sorry.” He stopped talking; his eyes widened. “Actually, I do have a name. Peter Williams, I think it was. Yes, that’s it.” Taylor rambled and spoke low as if he was having a conversation with himself.

  Wingham scribbled the name down in her lined pad and nodded to Clinton that she got it.

  “So this guy, Peter Williams—” Clinton rolled a hand, “—checked in, checked out, and then checked back in again. This time with a gun.”

  “Yeah, I found it strange. I didn’t get his name the first time like I said. He paid cash.” Taylor paused, seemingly hesitant whether to continue. “Someone else paid for his room today. Said it was important to have room 11. That was the room Peter was in on Friday and Saturday. The person who booked it today said it was for a friend.”

  “Can you describe this person for us?”

  Taylor shook his head. “Just an average guy. Nothing that stood out. Brown hair, brown eyes. He paid cash too.”

  “Anything else you can tell us? Did Peter Williams register a car with you at any point?”

  “I don’t care about getting that info from people, but I watch. He did have a car. It was a rental. It had green stickers on the back window and on the bumper.”

  “License plate? Name of the rental company?”

  “Didn’t get the plate, but it was Streamline Rentals. It was a modern silver sedan. I’m not up on all my vehicles.”

  Clinton turned to Wingham. “Streamline’s main location is at the airport. My guess is he swapped his ride for a new one. He probably did it when he got in on Friday.”

  “On it.” She took out her phone.

  “Anything else you can tell us?” Clinton asked Taylor.

  “Well, that was on Friday. Today, he showed up in this fancy Town Car. A Lincoln, I believe. I know what they look like. But he left in a taxi. Been seeing some strange things lately.”

  “Strange things?”

  “You mean besides that? Well, he wasn’t here long before he called the taxi. That idiot almost run me over. Was standing right there.” The manager moved forward and pointed out the window toward the doorway to room 11.

  “He took all his luggage with him. I mean who checks into the same motel, out, and back into the same room all within, what, thirty-six hours? And then, when he comes back, leaves within an hour. Doesn’t make sense.”

  Clinton shook his head. “It doesn’t at all.” At least that’s what he said aloud. Internally, it made relative sense. In Clinton’s mind Tux, or Peter Williams, was the hired assassin they were looking for. But it still didn’t explain why he’d return. Clinton compiled the possibilities, each of them stacking on top of each other and melding together. It only took a fraction of time before he realized something. The assassin had returned to finish the job, or he would be the one to pay for the failure.

  I’ll be damned.

  Wingham hung up her phone and addressed Clinton, “Can I talk to you for a minute out—?”

  The door chimed.

  “Keeping me out of the loop again I see,” Agent Leone said.

  “This discovery stays out of the media,
understand?”

  Leone rolled his eyes.

  Clinton noticed there was something different about the man. Just the way he carried himself and stood there with his back straighter than before. With his jaw locked and his head slightly cocked to the side, Clinton wondered if he went and paid a twenty dollar hooker to bolster his self-esteem and feed his narcissistic ego.

  Something about the man, Clinton just didn’t trust.

  -

  Chapter 52

  NIAGARA FALLS, NEW YORK

  SUNDAY, JUNE 13TH, 9:00 PM

  “I REACHED STREAMLINE RENTALS AND the name came back to Peter Williams. The address matches the one on file for Rick Carson,” Wingham said.

  Clinton let out a sigh. “The abandoned warehouse.”

  “Well, at least it tells us they are connected even if in a roundabout way.”

  They were standing outside of The Oasis motel office. Edwin Taylor, the ex-Canadian manager, had poured himself another cup of muddy brew from a carafe before they excused themselves. Leone came outside with them but stood there like an ape in Clinton’s opinion. His arms were crossed; his eyes were glazed over as if he wished to be someplace else.

  “Maybe you want to come back to the crime scene,” Clinton said.

  Leone’s eyes dragged across the parking lot and slowly aligned with Clinton’s eyes. “You want input from me now?”

  Clinton sighed and rolled his eyes. He knew the action was dramatic, but nonetheless it was the honest reaction to how he felt about the man—Special Agent Leone was a toddler in a suit.

  “Have you even stopped to ask yourself some questions?” Leone tapped a hand to his shirt pocket and then to his pants’ pockets. He mustn’t have found what he was looking for based on the deepened frown lines. “For example, why Behler was targeted in the first place. Why she was here meeting with Talbot. Why the first assassination attempt failed.”