Clinton placed a hand over his holster, the thought of killing the Mr. Special Agent flitting through his mind. He jacked a thumb back toward the counter. “You better have one damned good reason—”
“He would have come back for his belongings.”
“And what makes you such an expert on everything?”
“Think about it. Why haul stuff around if it wasn’t important?”
The simple logic stole Clinton’s words. Maybe he was more exhausted than he realized.
“I’ve told you what our next best lead is.”
“I’m not giving up on this case because of some hunch you have.”
“It’s not a hunch. It’s based on fact and calculation. This is organized crime. Whether you wish to accept this fact or not, doesn’t change the truth—”
Clinton’s cell phone rang. The two men held eye contact as Clinton answered. He kept his face expressionless as the news being relayed to him came from the forensics lab. He glanced at Wingham, who had remained with the manager. They were talking about something that was more pleasing to the man as he had a smile and was laughing. Clinton even detected a slight reddish hue on the man’s cheeks.
About forty seconds later, he hung up.
“What was all that about?” Leone asked.
“Wingham,” Clinton called for his partner who excused herself and came over. “I just got a call from the lab. The room at The Oasis has been processed. Zero prints.”
“Not sure why you expected any. The guy’s a professional,” Leone said.
“All of this is definitely connected. We need to find out more about this Rolex guy, Rick Carson, dig into his life.” Clinton passed a glance to Leone. He knew he could call Detroit PD, but wanted to limit the reach of the case as much as possible. “Maybe you and Junior could take a flight to Michigan and get those details worked out.”
Leone’s jaw tightened. “Could. But I’d be traveling alone.”
Clinton didn’t care; anything to get the man out of his sight. Clinton looked at Wingham. “As for you and me, we need to track down this car service, the one that serviced Tux. We need to know who paid the bill.”
“I can already tell you what you’ll find,” Leone intervened.
“If you know everything, make the arrest.” Clinton and Leone matched eyes, everything brewing near the surface, their intense hatred for each other evident.
-
Chapter 59
OUTSKIRTS OF DETROIT, MICHIGAN
SUNDAY, JUNE 13TH, 11:45 PM
JUST OVER 5 HOURS UNTIL THE DEADLINE
MOST PEOPLE WOULD HAVE BEEN driven to the point of insanity. Considering the circumstances, I felt I remained relatively calm and focused. But there were times when irrational reasoning attempted to take precedence over common sense. I envisioned going in hot like they do in movies. I would dodge the hail of bullets fired at me, crouching, rolling, and moving at just the right time. I would hide behind some sort of cover and take them out one at a time—but I knew this wasn’t fiction. Things in real life never worked out like that. An attempt to relive a scene of Hollywood would end up with me resembling Swiss cheese.
The men inside the hangar continued to talk. Based on their footfalls and their breathing, in my estimation, they were moving boxes or something. Their voices would come close and then drone in the distance.
I looked overhead to the corner of the building—no camera here, just a light that shone over the field. I tucked my flashlight into a pocket and strained to listen to the men.
“…why do we….it seems…need more money for this…”
The other voice: “…this is hard work…shit!”
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” A third voice overpowered the end of the hangar. The Italian accent combined with the enclosed arrogance—this third person was Christian.
Any movement stopped except for one set of footfalls. The soles made soft pats on the concrete floor. Christian loved his Burluti leather shoes.
“I told you how I wanted them stored. Fix it now!”
“Yes, Boss, yes.”
“Get it done.” He snapped his fingers and dogs snarled. I heard chains chink against the concrete as they moved against their restraints. “Quiet!” Two more snaps of the fingers and the dogs went silent.
They would be Christian’s replacement killers. Mitchell would have long since been retired—dogs don’t live forever, especially on a diet high in human flesh. The thought sent nausea through me. As the reality of the situation weighed in on me, I felt my courage slip.
I stared out at the cornfield, my back still pressed flat against the exterior of the hangar. My senses remained poised on full alert, yet I knew my eyes had glazed over. My heart seemed to take pause as I struggled to realign my thoughts on what needed to be done. I didn’t have time to give in to emotions. Emotions compromised success.
The screams of my family replayed, their vulnerability, their fear for their lives, their not knowing why they were even here or involved. All I wanted was time to hold them even once more, tell them how much I loved them, and explain to them how none of this was their fault—yet the blame rested all on me. I felt my eyes moisten with tears. What if I didn’t have what it took to pull this off, and instead of saving my family, they died because of me?
-
Chapter 60
NIAGARA FALLS, NEW YORK
SUNDAY, JUNE 13TH, 11:45 PM
PROFESSIONAL CAR SERVICE HAD AN office on 88th Street. Wingham had called and got a hold of an after-hours answering service who assured her the message would get through before morning.
The woman had said, “That’s all I can promise. I can’t make people check their messages or return calls.”
Wingham didn’t care for the snarky tone of the lady’s response. “This is highly important.”
“Yes, I have marked it as such. Anything else?” The not so hidden implication coming across, you’re driving me; gotta go.
Wingham hung up without another word. If her partner could function in life with minimal etiquette and concern over other people’s feelings, so could she. Sometimes, it seemed she was left to do all the work, the sniffing and digging through the scraps of clues they’d get. Yet she didn’t report to Clinton. She rested her arm on the car door and bent it so she could rest her forehead in her hand. Her eyes were on the passing blurs of color even though Clinton drove like an old man taking a leisurely Sunday drive; her eyes were too tired to focus.
She was in such a miserable mood, a corner of her mouth lifted at the agitation of it. The bag of chips was long gone. She needed real food. Her stomach growled, and she was tired, worn out. She knew Clinton lived for the chase, the long hours, the overtime, the lack of sleep, and the functioning on adrenaline. She was dreaming of a hot shower and of sipping on a glass of red while reading a good novel, and slipping off to sleep. But that wasn’t an option so her fantasy bubble popped with a loud noise like a balloon poked with a needle.
Clinton had it in his head that they would pay Governor Talbot a visit at the hotel he was staying at. Normally the man lived in New York City but he had decided to hang around while the investigation was in progress. Wingham knew about the imposed deadline, and the pressure it put on Clinton, but he operated best that way. She didn’t understand why he didn’t know that. Instead, he’d bitch about it and somehow make it her problem.
“I don’t really think he’ll be happy to see us this time of night,” she said. She referred to Governor Talbot.
“I’ve called ahead. He knows we’re coming.”
Wow, he actually made a call without directing me to. She didn’t verbalize her thought.
Wingham glanced over at her partner. He watched the road. He slowed down at the yellow light but didn’t stop; the signal ticked off as he made a right-hand turn.
She studied his pr
ofile briefly, not that she was really assessing his looks. She had always considered him handsome in a friend sort of way. She didn’t feel any attraction otherwise. Then, of course, at this point, it would be like kissing a brother—incest.
“What?” He glanced at her. His left hand still on the wheel tapped to his own beat. “You’re staring.”
“Nothing.” The word was relatively simple—eight letters. Yet they were loaded with more innuendo for those who cared to pick up on them. Rarely did the word nothing ever mean that.
His attention had gone back to the road, hers out the window. Her thoughts traced to Agent Leone. Clinton didn’t trust the man nor care for him; this much was evident and even stated more than once.
She had run a background on Leone only to find an impeccable service record. He graduated from a military college at the age of seventeen. He was intelligent and the government pursued him. He had no family connections. His parents had died in a house fire and he had no siblings—an only child.
He had spent time overseas and was awarded the Medal of Honor for his service. The man was highly decorated to simply serve as an FBI field agent. That was what Wingham mistrusted. And that was what motivated her to keep digging.
Research was something she excelled in. She pulled up his financials, normally something that required a warrant. Yet she knew her way through the system, around the system, and above the system.
Twenty years ago, Leone had lost everything. He had returned a military hero, but the bank had reclaimed his house and his accounts were frozen. He had sacrificed all for his country. He was forced to claim bankruptcy. But five years after that, luck turned around for him.
The file now had his primary address near Madison Avenue in New York City. It would be worth millions. And there were also two other properties, one in Paris, and another in Florence.
How does an FBI agent turn his life around from begging for shelter to basking in the high life? Until she had the answer to that, Wingham would continue to unearth truths that Leone wanted to remain buried. For those reasons, she sided with her partner. She didn’t trust Leone either.
-
Chapter 61
OUTSKIRTS OF DETROIT, MICHIGAN
MONDAY, JUNE 14TH, MIDNIGHT
5 HOURS UNTIL THE DEADLINE
I BRACED MYSELF FOR THE worst scenario possible. I pictured them bleeding, decapitated, carved up, eaten by dogs. Somehow, I convinced myself that by conjuring up those images, real life would pale the nightmare, make things more bearable. A portion of me feared that I may not be in touch with my family as much as I thought I was. They were dead and I didn’t feel it even potentially a few yards away.
Max had looked so fearful when they brought him to me. When I called out and told him I loved him, he never said a word in response. The silence stung like rubbing alcohol to an open wound, but I had to analyze his reaction. It wasn’t out of spite or malice. The boy was ten years old. What did he know about such things? But I sensed from his eyes and his energy, he was pained and afraid. He had given thought as to why they were taken here, held against their will, and treated as prisoners.
As my eyes burned with the tears that filled them, I reflected on how exhausted I truly was, and that the only reason I was vertical was due to chemical alteration. My family didn’t have anything to help carry them through. How I hoped to God they were given food and water.
“Get this shit outta here!” Christian bellowed another request inside of the hangar. I heard the snapping of fingers after his outburst, and the dogs barked.
The noise made my body tense up, the feeling that someone could come around the corner at any time without my foreknowledge weighed heavily on my list of concerns. I stared toward the end of the building, a hand to my waist ready to pull a .22 from the holster.
After several minutes had passed, no one came around the corner. The dogs had stopped barking, and all I heard were the hustled movements of shoes and boots shuffling along the floor.
I pressed my eyes shut tight to abate the moisture and salve the burning. With them closed, my other senses peaked; my hearing more attuned, I discerned the one man walked with a dragging heel. And, if at all possible, I felt the energy of my family stronger now. They were here. Now came the tough part. I had to wait it out until all noise had stopped, and I felt it was safe to round the bend. If that took hours, then I had all night.
-
Chapter 62
NIAGARA FALLS, NEW YORK
MONDAY, JUNE 14TH, MIDNIGHT
TALBOT’S BODYGUARD STOOD OUTSIDE THE SUITE, eyeing their badges as if they picked them up from a costume shop. He compared their faces to a printout he had on each of them and eventually nodded his consent and unlocked the door.
“Good evening, Detectives,” he said.
Good evening, my ass. Clinton clipped his badge back on his waist. He hated being looked upon as a suspect and treated like a regular citizen. He had put years into having a position of trust and responsibility. He shouldn’t be scrutinized further. And if they were that much of a threat, take their guns. After all, police can be dirty too. They could be there to off Talbot. Clinton rolled his eyes at the absurdity, despite that a fraction of him gave merit to the concept. He imagined the headlines: LAW ENFORCEMENT OFFICERS ASSASSINATE GOVERNOR IN HIS SUITE.
“Detective Wingham, just as beautiful as the last time I saw you.” Governor Talbot extended a hand to her. “Detective Clinton.” His shake with Clinton didn’t linger as long as it had with Wingham. “If you two would please join me in the sitting area.”
Talbot was ironically staying at The Grandeur. His room was laid out differently than Behler’s. He had a full sofa and two chairs. He had a kitchenette off to the one side.
Another bodyguard stood near the counter, both hands clasped in front of him.
Clinton noticed his chest enlarge and his shoulders go taut. He put on a good show for his employer. With all this talk about the Mafia and knowing their connections, Clinton eyed every one as a potential suspect.
“This is Henry. He’s been with me for about five years now.” Talbot must have read the expression in Clinton’s eyes. “Please sit.” Talbot gestured to the sofa chairs as he dropped onto the couch.
Henry remained unaffected by his employer’s introduction. Clinton pried his eyes from the bodyguard.
A rocks glass with an amber liquid sat on a nearby coffee table. Talbot reached for it. “It’s late. You could almost say early.” He passed a wandering glance to Wingham, who had taken a seat and crossed one of her legs toward him.
“We have a new direction in the case,” Wingham started.
“What she’s trying to say is we know you were with Behler the night when the first attempt on her life took place.”
Talbot wasn’t amused. His jaw tightened. The energy in the room shifted to one full of defense as if two mountain lions were about to face off for survival. “Are you saying I killed her?”
“Absolutely not, sir,” Wingham interjected. “Detective Clinton may come across the wrong way at times—”
“Yes, accusatory.”
Clinton felt the chastisement in the Governor’s eyes. Talbot’s faith in his original choice to assign the case to him was wavering.
After seconds of silent discipline, Talbot dragged his attention from Clinton to Wingham.
Wingham said, “We’re just hoping you can help us.”
“I sure hope so.”
Clinton heard the man’s words, but something in the eyes glazed over; his grip on the rocks glass tightened, his knuckles went white.
“Are you thirsty, Detective? You’re watching my drink like a baby does its mother’s breast.”
Clinton heard Wingham swallow loudly, an automatic response from the candor of the Governor’s comment. Her legs uncrossed.
“No, I’m fine,” Clinton said.
> “Good, then, back to business. Detective, you were saying.” Talbot faced Wingham.
Maybe it was advantageous he paid such attention to his female partner. It allowed Clinton time to make observations. There were always small tell-tale signs in people who spoke mistruth. Even if one believed the lie they spoke as gospel, there was always something there, even if it was as subtle as a drippy nose, an itchy ear, a developing twitch. At this junction, Talbot displayed none of them, but they were just getting started.
Wingham leaned forward, a small notepad in her hands. Clinton had noticed when they first arrived at The Grandeur about twenty-four hours ago her nails were painted with a bright red polish. At this point, chips of it were missing.
“Were you and Governor Behler friends?” Wingham’s tone was soft, the hint of a smile on her lips.
Was she flirting with the Governor? Clinton leaned back and watched the show. He patted his hands on the arms of the chair softly enough not to cause a distraction.
“You’re really asking if we were more than friends.” Talbot raised his glass, swirled the remaining liquid, and drank it back. As his lips released the glass, they curled upward into a smirk one could imagine a wolf flashing its prey before lunging for the jugular. But Talbot’s hunger wasn’t for a badge or for power; it was for Wingham’s neckline.
Clinton watched as the Governor’s eyes passed over her. Talbot never even tried to conceal his attentions. The directness of his approach made Clinton watch his partner too, not with hungry eyes, but from an objective, distant point of view.
The woman was attractive, slim figure—the kind that you could wrap one arm around. She had a long neck that would beg many men to kiss and nuzzle into it and lose a few nights’ sleep over. She wore black dress pants with these boots she insisted were her favorite. They had scuffed heels from overuse but added a couple inches to her height. The shirt she wore under her blazer had the top few buttons undone, and as she sat there leaned forward, the mounds of her breasts peeked over the edge of the fabric.
Assassination of a Dignitary Page 24