Assassination of a Dignitary

by Carolyn Arnold

  Wingham’s cheeks flushed. Her eyes darted to her partner and narrowed.

  Crap, she had noticed him.

  As if pulling from Clinton’s thoughts, Talbot cleared his throat and took a pause from his lecherous glances. He massaged his right temple with his thumb and index finger for a few seconds. “We were friends in the sense of our jobs, Behler and I. I am a married man, have been for twenty-five years now.”

  He passed a somewhat guilty glance to Clinton but didn’t really allow any conviction to set into his features.

  Always the politician—speak on behalf of everything, commit to nothing.

  Wingham leaned her body into the side of the chair. She took her time re-crossing her leg toward the dignitary. Clinton saw the look in her eyes, the one that spoke of determination despite the costs.

  “I didn’t mean to imply anything improper,” she said.

  “No, darling, I’m sure you didn’t.” He reached for the glass he had set on the table. When he was reminded it was empty, he turned to Henry. “Refill.”

  The bodyguard weaved through the room without causing much disturbance.

  Talbot shifted his weight and moved to the end of the couch to be closer to Wingham. She buckled minutely. He seemed to pick up on it and pulled back. His hand went to the collar of his shirt, loosened his necktie, and undid the top three buttons. “It’s been a long couple of days.”

  With his words, concern showed in his eyes, the source of which Clinton had a hard time pinning down. Clinton even swore he picked up on some fear. It was the same look he had witnessed in the room at the hospital after Behler had been assassinated.

  Henry placed the refreshed drink on a coaster; Talbot dismissed him with a wave of the hand. “She wanted to discuss some things. Politics.”

  The way he said politics implied they wouldn’t understand if he elaborated. It was too complicated for their simple minds to comprehend.

  “When did you meet?” Clinton asked. He was the intrusive waiter; Wingham was the gourmet meal.

  Talbot ran his tongue along his top teeth as he slowly turned his head. “We met years ago, back in Governor College.” Seconds of awkward silence. “That was supposed to be a joke.” Talbot didn’t even seem amused. “No, we’ve known each other for years. We first met at a budget meeting. She saw things differently than I did. She always did.” He reached for his drink.

  Clinton didn’t break the silence, and neither did Wingham. He felt that more was forthcoming, and in instances like that he could find the strength to be patient.

  Talbot’s gaze shifted around the room. The effects of the alcohol were imprinted on his eyes giving them a glossy, dazed look. They also read of gratification while hinting at discontent. When he seemed to realize neither of them was going to speak, he pulled his lips from the glass. He didn’t place it on the table but kept it in his hands. “I’m not really sure what you two are looking for from me.”

  “There was a third man at the table that night.” Clinton leaned forward bracing his elbows on his knees. He clasped his hands. “The restaurant staff said that you left not long after he showed up. Who was he?”

  “I don’t remember his name.”

  Enough time had been spent dancing around the perimeter, but Clinton hardly viewed this visit a waste of time. Talbot revealed more than he realized he had. Again, it was in the small things, the sideways glances, the uncharacteristic tilt of the mouth when he spoke. It was insightful. The subject of Governor Behler made him uncomfortable, an otherwise confident politician reduced to an alcoholic reaching for his fix.

  Clinton picked up on the subtle shake of Talbot’s hand as he pressed the glass back to his lips.

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  Chapter 63

  OUTSKIRTS OF DETROIT, MICHIGAN

  MONDAY, JUNE 14TH, MIDNIGHT

  5 HOURS UNTIL THE DEADLINE

  I CROUCHED DOWN WITH MY back pressed against the metal of the hangar. The fog had settled in; it seemed more encompassing than when I left the car over an hour ago. There was a substance to it, a dense quality that gave it the sensation that eyes were watching. This feeling made my stomach tighten and I straightened out. I held a hand over the .22 on my right hip, my preferred shooting arm if I had a choice.

  The illumination cast from the building over the field revealed nothing but a hazed beam of light in the darkness. The footsteps continued in the hangar for a while but then petered out into silence. The voices faded into a low mumble. The back of the hangar remained open. If they chose to pull the plane in, my position would be compromised.

  I slowly made my way to the edge of the building, straining to listen while trying to envision where the voices were coming from and what they were saying.

  Taking a deep breath and placing a hand on my .22, I rounded the corner. Collateral damage was an acceptable option should it become necessary.

  I heard the tingle of chains and surmised it was the dogs lying down on the concrete. They could be my downfall.

  Dogs had highly attuned senses. They could sense impending storms; they could feel a stranger in the vicinity, typically they could smell fear. I had to take the fact they laid down, at least by the sound of it, that my estimation of them exceeded the laws of their natural confines.

  I kept moving, one painfully slow step forward at a time. I huddled close to the building and pulled out the .22. I held it braced in my hand, readied to fire. More tinkling of chains and it stalled my breath for an instant. But the sound was of another lying down. They must have been relatively close to the inside of the hangar.

  How the hell was I going to get past them?

  The answer was pure and simple—I wouldn’t. The second my shadow graced the doorway they would be snarling and disclose my position. They may even pick up on my scent before that. Men would seep from the shadows, bullets would hurl through the air.

  I went into my jacket pocket and pulled out the silencer. Screwing it over the barrel of the .22, I knew what I would likely have to do. I kept moving until I reached the edge of the door. Taking a deep breath, I centered myself, readied to fire, and quickly turned my head inside.

  I took less than five seconds to make an assessment. There were, in fact, two dogs—pit bulls. They were chained to a rod on the wall. Both of them were lying down and looked sated.

  Another five-second glance, and I took in more of the hangar. Two men were coming off another plane that was inside. Christian stood at the end of it with a woman—Landen. She let out a deep-throated laugh, and as her head rolled back, Christian went to it. I remembered her words from the first time I met her, this here is my hangar, my planes.

  I pulled back around, my eyes on nothing but field. But as I stood there calculating my next step, I noticed a darkened shadow in the field to the left. It looked like a utility shed of some sort.

  More laughter filtered from the hangar into the night. The dense air seemed to draw it like a sponge absorbs fluid.

  A ten-second glance. The gun in my hand grew ready to fire, eager to pull back on the trigger. Firing guns burned in me like an insatiable hunger. When I didn’t have them in my hand, I dreamt of the firing range, of the euphoria and rush that came with the release of the bullet as it left the barrel. Having one in my hand, without the ability to ease back on the trigger and feel the recoil brought with it a melancholy slump.

  Christian and Landen pulled out of an embrace. They were pointing fingers and directing two men to do something. I couldn’t discern their words. Christian and the woman came toward me.

  I pulled back around. My heart thundered in my chest like a wild piston. I held the gun as tight to my chest as the .44 would allow. I felt the gun press into my chest, and I shifted from the discomfort.

  Fingers snapped. I heard the chains as the dogs stood up. They let out snarls.

  “Basta!” Stop.

  “Silenzio!”
Quiet.

  The dogs complied. More footsteps and they were so close to me now that I feared they could hear my breathing. I knew the fear was unjustified. They were still a good sixteen yards away.

  The chains were undone and I heard Christian’s shoes tapping on the concrete, the accompanying heels of the woman’s boots beside him. They were walking away and taking the dogs with them.

  I moved to the doorway, tucked my head around the bend. They were heading to the front of the hangar. I couldn’t see the other two men who were there a moment ago. They must have left for something else that Christian had directed them to do.

  My intended ten-second glance extended as I took the time to study the hangar and the doorways. A quick look behind me and no one was on the tarmac, no chance of someone coming up on me. As the front door to the hangar opened and Christian and Landen left, I took my first few steps inside. I was going to do this. I would get my family back. And I would kill Christian, not for Pietro, but for getting back into my life.

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  Chapter 64

  NIAGARA FALLS, NEW YORK

  MONDAY, JUNE 14TH, 12:15 AM

  “SO YOU SHARED DRINKS WITH him and don’t remember his name?” Clinton laced his fingers tighter.

  Governor Talbot’s eyes burned with fire. “Why so accusatory? Do you think I killed her?” He lifted his arm up, the one with the drink; it sloshed a little over the side of the glass. He pulled it back down and licked his hand. “Why would I? Can you answer that?”

  Clinton’s thoughts needed to be cataloged before he would allow himself to verbalize them. He thought of Rolex, Carson, and the Mafia connection with his mutilation and murder. He had been Behler’s stand-in bodyguard. An intelligent woman of her position would have conducted some sort of background check to know who she put in place to protect her.

  “What was the purpose of your dinner?”

  “She had some concerns.”

  “Specifically?”

  “How to handle organized crime.” Talbot’s eyes shifted when he spoke the words organized crime. “If you know anything about me at all, Detective, I am a strong advocate against them.”

  Clinton chose ignorance. “Them?”

  Talbot rolled a hand. “Street gangs, the Chinese, the Italian, the Russians—you pick a flavor. Anyone who thinks they own the streets of my state.” Passion and conviction saturated his expression. A pointed finger jabbed down into the arm of the couch. “I will not tolerate their sort of justice.”

  “And Behler?”

  Silence for a few seconds.

  “I think you should leave. Surely you have some work to do. Find the person who did this,” Talbot said.

  “Do you think it’s organized crime, Governor?” Clinton stood with his attention on Talbot. The man shifted uncomfortably as a guilty suspect does in the interrogation room.

  Henry stepped toward Clinton and put a hand on Clinton’s arm, pulling on him in the direction of the door.

  Clinton walked a few steps. He stopped and turned back. “Do you think it’s the Italian Mafia?”

  “Why don’t you tell me?” Talbot swigged back on his drink and set the glass heavily on the side table.

  Henry tugged harder on Clinton’s arm. “Come on, it’s time to go.”

  Clinton looked at the man’s grip and up to the bodyguard’s eyes. He shrugged free. “What are you hiding, Governor?”

  Talbot’s aura went cold, yet a flash of fear pranced across his features. “Get out!”

  NIAGARA FALLS, NEW YORK

  “I’M HEADED OUT ON THE RED-EYE. And the best part? It was the detective’s idea.” Leone spoke into his untraceable phone. The line was as secure as the President’s in the White House. Leone should know as he had been privy to private meetings with the President on occasion.

  “Bravo.” The Italian-accented voice belonged to Roman Agostino, the Consigliere, or advisor, to the Boss of the New York Caparelli Family. Leone had never met the man in person, but sometimes you had to cross sides and go with the higher offer. He received a call from him after the first assassination attempt. They were taking the attack as a personal affront. And for cash Leone was always willing to not only turn the other way, but to get involved.

  “You know what you must do,” Agostino said.

  “But of course. When it’s complete, I will provide proof.”

  “No need. I will know. Grazie!”

  Leone envisioned a wide smile on the face of the Italian. He would have good news to report to the Don. The job would be carried out and unlike the Behler assassin he would get it right the first time around. There wasn’t room for failure in Leone’s world. Failure meant the difference between life and death, poverty and wealth.

  Leone stuffed his cell into a pocket and did his best to get comfortable in the hard chairs of the airport waiting room. He had an hour to kill.

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  Chapter 65

  OUTSKIRTS OF DETROIT, MICHIGAN

  MONDAY, JUNE 14TH, 12:15 AM

  LESS THAN 5 HOURS UNTIL THE DEADLINE

  THERE WASN’T A SOUND COMING from inside the hangar. I would almost swear they shut down for the night except for the opened back side and the million dollar plane just sitting on the tarmac, not that one could just walk off with it. I knew men would still be posted at the front, their guns readied to fire at any unfamiliar figure. One misstep and they would be alerted to my presence. They were likely told to do a perimeter sweep at certain intervals, even though I had yet to see them deviate far from their front post.

  There were a bunch of wooden crates against the wall. I moved closer to them and in the direction of where the dogs had been lying. I ran a hand over one of the crates, but my eyes were on the door to the right.

  When I was here after Niagara Falls, Christian had me taken to the room a few doors down from this one. My heart clung to the entry as if it would provide meaning and return order to my life. My family was behind that door. There would be a hallway with rooms, and they would be there. I felt the emotion rise in my chest, the burning sensation in the back of my eyes from fresh tears that formed. I swallowed hard. I would not release them. I had to stay vigilant and aware.

  I extended a hand to the doorknob and twisted. It moved. It was unlocked. I kept turning it but stopped when my cell rang.

  Shit!

  I ducked behind the crate while frantically reaching for my phone. If anyone heard it…

  CR name came up on the display. I pressed ignore to the call and changed it to silent. As I went to move it back to my pocket, the screen lit up. It was Christian again. Again, I hit ignore. This time I stuffed it into my pocket before I had a chance to know if he tried a third time. It didn’t matter. I had my own agenda now. I didn’t report to him. I didn’t report to Pietro. I reported to myself.

  I stayed crouched down behind the crate, listening but still heard nothing. I moved toward the door again. As it released, I pushed on it expecting to find a hallway with doorways. But things rarely go how you expect.

  NIAGARA FALLS, NEW YORK

  CLINTON AND WINGHAM LOADED ONTO THE ELEVATOR. She had been unusually quiet since they left Talbot’s room. Even though the room was only feet behind them, Wingham normally always had something to say.

  “What did you make of that?” Clinton asked as he pressed the button for the main floor.

  “What?” Her eyebrows lifted in irritation. “The fact that you blatantly accused the Governor of New York of murder, or the fact the Mafia may be involved?”

  “The latter.” He knew not to push her too much when her mood was like this. He could go for hours without sleep, without stopping. She was more fragile.

  As for him blatantly accusing the Governor, Clinton withheld his true feelings. She didn’t appreciate the restraint he had used. He realized the difference between suspicion and speculation. Despite bein
g defined similarly, they were worlds apart.

  Suspicion was based on something substantive, something remotely evidence, whereas speculation equated a gut feeling with nothing conclusive. If Leone was right about the Italian Mafia and this Christian guy being involved, there had to be a deeper connection with Rolex and the Governor besides him serving as a bodyguard. She knew what he represented and she was okay with it. Her loyalty to the post was compromised. He hated speaking ill of the dead, but most times it was only with death that the mistruths, the misconceptions, came to light.

  By extension, making the speculation that Behler was involved with the Mafia, maybe she was here with Talbot to make him see her way. But what would motivate her to approach a clean politician to see her worldly ways? Clinton knew the answer; Wingham wouldn’t like it.

  “What if Behler had something on Talbot?”

  She rubbed a hand on her forehead, letting it run the full length of her face. “What if there’s a leprechaun at the end of the rainbow?”

  Her rhetorical snapback silenced him.

  She continued, “We don’t have proof of anything, David. We know he met with her, he’s obviously hiding something—”

  “So you noticed—” Her glaring eyes stopped his words.

  “Yeah, it didn’t escape me.” She crossed her arms. She was now tired, insulted, and angry.

  “Maybe we should break for a few hours, get some sleep, come back fresh.”

  “That’s the most intelligent thing I’ve heard you say in hours.”

  Clinton turned and realized Wingham was smiling.

  “You know I get cranky when I don’t sleep.”

  Clinton smiled. “Five hours.”

  “Six, then I’m all yours.” She shut her eyes and leaned against the side of the elevator until it chimed their arrival.

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