Assassination of a Dignitary

by Carolyn Arnold

  “Of course—”

  “Why a body suddenly appears that is tied to your case.”

  Clinton noticed the disdain tagged to your case.

  “What you’re looking at detectives is something outside of your pay grade.” The patting down of pockets stopped, and Leone pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He popped one out of the sleeve. He perched it in his lips, letting it bob there as he continued, “We’re looking at organized crime.”

  “Organized crime?” Clinton intended it to sound as if he was shocked by the agent’s assessment. Instead his tone betrayed him.

  “You were leaning that way?” Leone paused, lighting the cigarette with such a deep drag that his cheeks concaved. “Impressive.”

  “They don’t normally touch dignitaries. It goes against everything they stand for.”

  Leone laughed while tapping the cigarette ash to the ground. “You think you have it all figured out.”

  “Well, the Mafia slant would explain a lot of things,” Wingham said. Both men turned to her, and she shrugged. Clinton noticed excitement flash in Leone’s eyes. “The killer knew she had something on her phone. She was here to meet with Talbot, unofficial business. So we assume otherwise, that the phone didn’t hold anything important, why would the killer take it?”

  Leone exhaled a cloud of white pollution in Clinton’s direction.

  Clinton waved it out of his face. “If you would kindly blow the other way.”

  Leone put special effort into the next exhale, directing it toward Clinton intentionally, letting it out in a slow, even flow.

  “Would you guys focus? Please.” Wingham had reached her patience threshold. “If you guys put as much effort into the case as pissing each other off we’d have found the assassin already.”

  Clinton locked eyes with Leone. “The body in that motel room had the words TSK TSK carved into the chest. The blood around it indicates the guy was alive when they created their artwork. I don’t think we’re dealing with the same killer who shot the Governor.”

  Leone continued taking slow drags on the cigarette, but without another reaction from Clinton, blew the smoke to the side.

  The attitude coming off Leone told Clinton he hated being at a dive like this motel and that he had high standards. Clinton looked down at Leone’s shoes and noticed there wasn’t one scruff mark on the black leather. They shined as if they were just polished. Clinton’s shoes were beige loafers, a purchase from two years ago.

  “I don’t think the guy—Tux you call him—killed the guy in that motel room. But I do believe he was involved somehow with the assassination of the Governor.” Leone took one deep inhale before tossing the cigarette to the concrete and extinguishing it with a twist of his shoe. “And normal criminals don’t hack off fingers and ears, let alone the nose. The brutality of the crime tells me this guy pissed someone off—”

  “No shit Sherlock.”

  The comeback surprised Clinton. He turned to Wingham, who spoke the words. Determination crackled in her eyes. She continued, “Maybe our DB was the first assassin—the attempt that failed? Then this other guy was called in to finish the job.”

  “I don’t know—” Clinton was going to add that he didn’t buy that assessment. He felt both men were involved, but that Tux was the one who pulled the trigger, both times.

  Leone said, “Figure out the why, you’ll get the killer.”

  “Normally we work the other way, Agent,” Clinton added a tone when he threw out the man’s title. “We go after the bad guy. If the motivation fills in along the way so be it, but it’s not the case.” Clinton left Leone and went back in with the manager. Wingham followed.

  Edwin Taylor was sitting on the sofa staring at the wall.

  “Mr. Taylor.” Clinton sat beside him.

  His head turned slowly in acknowledgment of his name.

  “We have more questions for you.”

  The older man sat up straighter. “Can I call my wife first? Let her know what’s going on.”

  Clinton shook his head. “There will be plenty of time for that later. Right now we need you to tell us if you know anything else. You mentioned a taxi almost hit you.”

  His head went up, then down.

  “Did you notice the number on the cab, a license plate, anything?”

  “The driver wasn’t Indian.”

  Clinton’s eyes blinked hard, a headache setting in on the back side of them.

  “You know how that’s the stereotype, eh?” He took a sip, his teeth forming a perfect mold on the paper cup.

  Clinton dragged a hand down his face, doing his best to conjure patience, but there was nothing to tap into. “Anything else?” He knew he sounded exasperated. He was. He didn’t care if the Canadian picked up on it.

  The man’s head stayed straight forward and for a moment, Clinton wondered if he was still breathing, but he noticed the rise and fall of the man’s shoulders.

  “I smacked his hood—of the taxi. I think the number was 623.”

  “Do you know what company?” Clinton asked.

  Taylor scrunched his face. “Falls Taxi, I believe.”

  Clinton looked at Wingham who already had a phone to her ear. He looked back at Taylor after passing a glance outside. Clinton moved to get a better view. Agent Leone had left again. Maybe he had gone back to the room. The first time the man came out after seeing the body, his expression was stoic. It could have been how he operated—keeping himself at an emotional distance to do the job.

  That’s how Clinton had started out originally, but he found it ate him from the inside out like cancer. Anyone in public service had to find a way to suppress their human emotions in a traumatic situation while balancing them with action, or it could come back to haunt you later.

  For Leone, Clinton believed it was something else. Exactly what that was escaped his understanding, yet the man showed more alarm over the dead Governor than a mutilated body. That wasn’t a normal human response.

  Wingham cupped her phone and spoke to Clinton, “We’ve got him. The taxi’s in the garage.”

  Clinton noticed the brief panic on Taylor’s face as if to say, I didn’t do any damage to it.

  She must have picked up on the look too. “For maintenance. But we have the driver’s name and address.”

  Clinton pressed his hands to his thighs as he rose from the sofa. He hated how small things such as bending or getting up from a seated position made his joints bark. Some days he felt his fifty-two years more than others.

  “Detectives,” Taylor called out to them in a weak voice.

  Both of them stopped at the door.

  “The Town Car. It was black, dark tint. I didn’t catch the driver or pay much attention anyhow. He wasn’t the one who nearly hit me. But I did notice the lettering on the back window. It was swirly and kind of hard to read.”

  Clinton’s foot started tapping.

  “It said Professional Car Service.”

  -

  Chapter 53

  DETROIT, MICHIGAN

  SUNDAY, JUNE 13TH, 10:00 PM

  7 HOURS UNTIL THE DEADLINE

  OVER THE LAST COUPLE OF HOURS, I studied the private hangar from the Google maps and my memory, drafting out an approach plan onto paper.

  In concept, killing Christian was simple. It was the other stipulations that complicated everything. I kept glancing over at the reports from the file that had been on Behler’s phone. I knew that if I utilized some of that knowledge, I should be well on my way to handling the situation. If I could pin the assassination directly on Christian, make it clear he was acting separately from his father, I’d have the golden solution. My mind, maybe blame it on the lack of sleep, wasn’t firing at full capacity.

  In my fantasy version of the situation, I would go in with guns blazing and rescue my family. No one but us would survive the
hail of bullets.

  Right now, I was hoping that in Niagara Falls, New York, a body was being discovered at The Oasis motel. Pietro had been more than willing to respond to my request and stipulations. His face lit into a sinister smile when I told him where I wanted the body. He said he’d arrange for it immediately. With the inscription on the torso, past cases would eventually lead detectives straight to Christian.

  I held no fear of being tracked down from prints or DNA as I cleaned down the place each time before leaving. At least, my logic told me that I had no need to worry. The other part kept drowning in the what ifs. What if I had left my prints behind either at the motel or at the apartment?

  When time came to a pause, it had a way of making one rehash everything. They would find no trace of me and only find what they were intended to—proof to use against Christian.

  NIAGARA FALLS, NEW YORK

  THE TAXI DRIVER WAS A MAN NAMED MARIO DOWNE. The three of them, Clinton, Wingham, and Leone tracked him down at his house where his curious wife hovered over them. Clinton could tell she controlled her husband, wanting to know his every word and movement. Just another reason Clinton would never remarry. Once a woman knew she was chosen, she latched on with a death grip. He swore he still had lesions on his back from the last one.

  Mario told them that his fare directed him to the bus station. “He had a lot of luggage. But he wouldn’t let me help him. Oh.” His eyes enlarged. “And he had a huge gun on his waist. I asked him if he was a hunter.”

  Clinton and Wingham shared a glance. The man was potentially a hunter but not the kind Mario had in mind.

  The couple sat on the couch with Clinton and Wingham sitting on a facing one, while Leone paced the modest living room, touching framed photos. The wife kept an eye on him.

  “Did he tell you where he was going?” Clinton asked.

  “No, he wasn’t the chatty kind. Sometimes it’s hard to get a fare to shut up. This guy didn’t want to say a word. He didn’t seem to like the attention so I didn’t push.”

  Clinton wouldn’t want attention if he were the assassin. It was a matter of being as discreet as possible, slinking through crowds undetected.

  -

  Chapter 54

  OUTSKIRTS OF DETROIT, MICHIGAN

  SUNDAY, JUNE 13TH, 10:30 PM

  LESS THAN 7 HOURS UNTIL THE DEADLINE

  I PARKED THE CAR THREE-QUARTERS of a mile away from the hangar. The dash read ten thirty and for a June evening, the sun had fully set about nine. Six and a half hours remained on Christian’s original deadline.

  The drink Pietro Russo had given me continued to provide energy. Any light-headedness, or tingling in my arms and legs, had long subsided. My eyes were finally accepting they wouldn’t be closing for a while. It meant my life. It meant my family’s lives. While the passing thought of sleeping for an hour had occurred to me, there was too much to organize and prepare for.

  I had placed my .44 in a chest holster and covered it with a lightweight jacket. The bulge was noticeable, making it appear that I had gained an extra ten pounds. Yet the night air was damp and chilly. A light fog hung over the fields and the ominous call of a screech owl carried overhead. It reassured my decision to bring the jacket and the larger gun.

  On my waist, I wore a double holster, a .22 secured on each side. Over the years, I had worked on perfecting my aim with both hands. In fact, I could accurately shoot on target, firing a .22 in each hand, and have them meet at the board. I also had an ankle holster strapped to my leg with a .22 there as well.

  I took one last look at the car before I walked down into the ditch and started through a cornfield. The stalks were only a foot high—nowhere near enough to provide cover. But that’s why I also dressed entirely in black and waited until nightfall.

  While I had never served in the military, I knew how to approach undercover without being spotted. After all that was part of the job for the Russos—to be invisible. To survive until now that had been a requirement. A quarter of the men I had been hired to take out were armed men themselves.

  The field was uneven and the dirt was loose. My ankle gave way for an instant and threw off my stride. I had a GPS on me and a small flashlight that I used to guide me in the right direction.

  The car had been placed in a concealed area that wouldn’t draw any attention from law enforcement if one happened to drive by. Everything was taken care of so why did I feel hesitant and find my feet planting in the dirt? I braced over like a man winded and in need of catching his breath. Both my hands gripped my thighs, and I stayed there willing myself to garner strength. My family was in that building, and I was their only hope.

  Thinking of them only weighed me down further instead of propelling me into action. What if they were already gone? I had failed as far as Christian was concerned. News reports continued to say the Governor was on the mend.

  Taking a deep breath, I made myself move. Nothing would change by my standing here. Pietro Russo had made it clear Christian must die, and I must be the one to do it. I still didn’t hold any trust in the fact he would restore my family to me when it was all over, even though the man had said he would. Normally the word of the Italians was as good as fulfilled. Lately, I believed nothing. I had to take care of everything myself.

  Until I could prove Behler was dead, Christian would hold my family for leverage. I had to trust in the fact that despite the man being unpredictable, he loved to have the power. He would allow my family to live if only to manipulate me.

  As I went through the field, I watched my breath exhale as wisps of white. The night was quiet in the country and dark, unlike the city where the street lights overpowered the moon. Out here only the strobe of my small flashlight weaved among the corn, and a partial moon lit the field. There weren’t even any stars on display tonight. The sky was overcast, and the air felt damp and spoke of impending rain.

  There was a faint ringing and I dug into a pocket for my cell. The lit LCD screen was almost blinding in contrast to the darkened field. The caller identity read CR. Maybe I didn’t need to go through with any of this. Maybe the news had finally come out with the truth—Behler was dead. Christian could want to arrange the return of my family. I pressed the accept button yet said nothing.

  “Now you want to play games?” His Italian accent carried heavily. An amusement-type quality lingered in his voice. He enjoyed being the one with the power. Little did he know his reign would be short-lived.

  I didn’t know what he referred to by his reference to my playing games. Had he found out about the body at The Oasis somehow?

  “Where is my family?”

  Christian laughed. “We’re back to that again, are we? You amuse me, Hunter. But you always have.”

  “Why are you calling?” I could picture him held up in the private hangar, a knife waving erratically in his hand as if he was bored. He sought me for entertainment. I was tired of being the jester.

  “Maybe I know something now,” he said.

  I stopped walking.

  “Let them go.” My left hand went to the bulge of the .44. I knew it was overkill, but I would bask in blowing a hole in the man’s head.

  “There’s one more thing you must do for me.”

  My teeth clenched; my grip on the cell phone tightened. “I’m not doing this anymore.”

  Christian let out a laugh as if it was a joke I told that he found funny. “You do what I tell you to do. You report to me; I have your family.”

  I held my cell away from my ear and looked at the time counter. If Christian had any intentions of tracing this call, I had twenty-five seconds left.

  “What do you want from me?”

  “We meet. Now.”

  A cool breeze moved through the field. The small cornstalks swayed and the sliver of the moon went behind a cloud.

  I said, “In an hour.”

  Christ
ian remained silent on the other end.

  “One hour,” I repeated the stipulation. If my plan went according to schedule, I’d have my family back and be meeting with Christian to put a bullet in his head.

  Dogs snarled and screams riddled the air. The voice was a woman’s—Brenda’s. My stomach curdled.

  They are here!

  “What did I just hear, Hunter?”

  Shit! He heard the sound come back to him through my phone.

  “You don’t boss me, Hunter. Half hour at the hangar.”

  “Christian!” The connection lost, my word fell to an empty line.

  Any fear of not succeeding, of being played a fool, of losing my family to a madman was eradicated. The screams of my wife served to embitter me, to fuel the indignation that rose like fissures in the earth’s crust. Christian had picked the wrong man to pull out of retirement.

  -

  Chapter 55

  NIAGARA FALLS, NEW YORK

  SUNDAY, JUNE 13TH, 11:00 PM

  THE THREE OF THEM STOOD in the bus station without any new leads. None of the staff members at the ticket counters recognized the figure in the grainy photo or acknowledged seeing a man loaded down with baggage and a large gun holstered on his waist.

  Wingham hit a vending machine and popped opened a bag of Doritos and offered the men some.

  “You’re serious? At a time like this?” Clinton was always amazed by the contrast between his partner’s appetite and her waist size. Most women would hate her for the ability to eat whatever she wished while remaining a size ten.

  “I’m hungry…at a time like this.” She stuffed a few in her mouth and forged a smile with bulging cheeks.

  “So what do we know?” Clinton asked.

  “You’re one of those.”

  Clinton looked to Leone. “Is there something else you’d rather be doing?”

  “Listen, we know who’s involved. The Italians. Chasing down this guy who wore a tux—oh, huge crime, punishable by law, by the way—is a waste of our man hours.”

  “Is there something you should be telling us?”