Assassination of a Dignitary

by Carolyn Arnold

  Well, that was easy.

  “Agent Leone wasn’t so much an asset to the Detroit PD as he was a detriment.”

  Clinton wanted to dig into Unger’s comment but kept it simple. “Why?”

  “He moved in to make the arrest. But he didn’t do it by the book. He went in on his own, no backup.”

  “Not too smart especially when dealing with those types of people.”

  “I have to believe in the good in people, but with that man…” Unger’s words fell off. “He went in and confronted the Don directly.”

  Obviously Leone had always been a cocky, self-assured, son of a bitch.

  “Not long later, it seemed the case fell apart.”

  “You’re saying they bought him off?” Clinton asked.

  “I’m not saying anything.” There was anger in the Chief’s voice now. “I must be going. Good luck with your investigation.”

  “Thank—” The rest of Clinton’s statement of gratitude fell to a dead line.

  -

  Chapter 78

  OUTSKIRTS OF DETROIT, MICHIGAN

  MONDAY, JUNE 14TH, 5:30 AM

  WHEN A MAN IS ALONE, this is when he’s the strongest. Dreams become not only concepts but realities. Inventions are born and improvised. For me the silence of this room holds nothing but hope unrealized, yet soon to be fulfilled. I would find my family if I had to crawl along the ground beside them.

  I knew hours must have passed by, and that I had drifted in and out of broken sleep. My family’s faces formed a collage in my mind. My leg felt cold and numb. The bleeding stopped, but the memory of the impact and the pain remained.

  Howling dogs broke my line of thought.

  Were they coming closer?

  A deep breath released as I heard them move farther away. But there were footsteps in the hallway; someone was out there. I tightened my grip on the flashlight proud of myself for thinking ahead. The flashlight was really another type of zip gun ordered from a specialty online catalog.

  One bullet, that’s all it should take.

  With that thought, my failure in the initial assassination attempt chastised me. It taunted me with a harsh, unrelenting light that threatened to showcase my weakness. I blamed the lack of preparation time as being the reason behind it. This time I would not fail. Christian didn’t have a plate in his head, but I wouldn’t be shooting at his forehead.

  I thought of my family and all they would have been through in the last twenty-four hours. I gripped at the cot I sat on, dwelling on Max as if the bedding would somehow bring me closer to him. Just knowing that I am where he laid bound hours earlier fueled me with determined purpose. Christian would not get away with this.

  And Pietro’s directive to kill his son in exchange for the freedom of my family, I didn’t want anything to do with it.

  My mind went to the man who had sat at the bar when I went to meet with Pietro. The way his eyes watched everything yet gave the impression of not seeing. Christian had reacted with intense rage when I brought up the need of proving himself. It had been a stab in the dark that must have revealed the light of truth. Christian wasn’t the only man with his eye on the Don’s power. And now with the assassination of Governor Behler, New York Mafia Families would be after Pietro as well—yet not for his power. They would view it as a mockery that she was sent there in the first place. To give the impression that Pietro was cooperating, and yet had the woman killed on their soil, would be unforgivable, only redeemed by Biblical standards—a soul for a soul.

  Pietro Russo might not even be alive by the time I made it out of here. I stretched out my neck and tried to calculate everything starting with why Christian had wanted the Governor dead. He seemed very pleased when I picked Niagara Falls and now I knew why. The act would reflect on his father, making him a target. He would have failed The Commission. It would have communicated a lack of adherence to their brotherhood. It would have told them that Pietro Russo wanted to run things his own way.

  For some reason, I was getting the feeling I was in the middle of something much more serious than a father and son pitted against each other. My family and I were right in the midst of a mafia power struggle.

  -

  Chapter 79

  NIAGARA FALLS, NEW YORK

  MONDAY, JUNE 14TH, 6:00 AM

  “WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING HERE?” Wingham answered the door barefoot and wearing a fuzzy robe. Her feet were dry and scuffed along the floorboards of her apartment as she retreated inside. “You said six hours. I have another hour.”

  She left the door open behind her so Clinton took that as a good sign and followed her. Her hair was tousled and grouped back into a clip. Wild, random curls sprung from her head. Clinton knew better than to say she looked like shit—the words would be a lie and his tone would disclose that.

  “We have a case to solve.”

  “D’uh.” She looked at him blankly and rubbed her fingers in a circular motion on her left temple. “I have a headache. I’m exhausted. I’m cranky.”

  “Leone isn’t who we think he is.”

  “Oh God, this is how the day’s going to start out? Another dick measuring contest?” She dropped onto the sofa and cat hair fluffed up in its wake. She batted it down but didn’t seem embarrassed by the unkemptness of her apartment.

  “It’s not that.” He paused expecting to be interrupted, but instead she stayed quiet, her facial expression reading, then what would it be. Clinton continued, “He had a case way back. Remember the one—”

  “Yes, the murdered family.”

  “The case was sealed tight, but everything fell apart. Leone was involved.”

  “So you’re saying he threw the investigation.”

  “What I’m saying is the Mafia bought him off,” Clinton said.

  Her reaction wasn’t what Clinton had expected. He assumed she’d look studious, as she analyzed what he had said; instead she let out a laugh.

  “The Mafia bought him off?” She picked at the edge of her robe where it wrapped around her legs. She suddenly seemed aware of her attire and became self-conscious.

  “Well, let’s just say I spoke with someone from the Detroit PD.”

  “Did you even sleep?” Wingham let out a yawn.

  Clinton batted a hand toward her. “Doesn’t matter. This guy confirmed everything went in the tank after they sent Leone in. I believe Leone when he mentioned the cuts being the same as the ones found on Carson.”

  “So you believe that but have no faith in the man.” Wingham didn’t speak it as a question.

  “Well, we know that Behler met with the New York Governor to discuss something off the books. It wasn’t a scheduled meeting for their jobs or some conference. We know there was something important on her cell phone, or why would it be missing—”

  “Could be a coincidence.”

  Clinton shrugged. “Carson was her part-time bodyguard—”

  “That’s right. She chose to work with him.”

  “Whatever. You’re not listening to me. There’s something larger going on here.”

  “Larger than a Governor’s assassination?”

  Hearing it come from her lips, it sounded absurd, but… “Yes.”

  CLINTON HAD BEEN MARRIED BEFORE. He knew when a woman left the room and said, just give me five minutes, she’d return in closer to thirty. Wingham didn’t disappoint. She came back twenty minutes later. Her wild curls had been tamed and sleeked straight through the flat bars of an iron. She wore makeup and her nails were redone. Her blue jeans hugged her curves in all the right places, and she wore a white, collared shirt.

  “Don’t look at me like that.” She walked around the apartment, gathering some things. “If you say I look good, I’ll drop you to the floor faster than you could say another word.”

  Clinton held up both hands in mock surrender. His eyes m
ust have betrayed him, because at the moment she came around the bend of the hallway, the sight of her made his breath catch—just a little. “I wouldn’t even think of saying that.”

  “Jerk.” She smiled at him as she fastened her holster and slid a chain that held her badge over her head.

  “So we’ve got a busy day ahead of us,” Clinton said trying to cover over any awkwardness.

  “And don’t forget the imposed deadline before the truth about the Governor hits the news.”

  As if Clinton needed reminding of that ultimatum—solve the case before the six o’clock news or risk being a desk jockey for the rest of his life.

  She picked up keys from her kitchen table and they jingled as she lifted them. “But before we get started—coffee.”

  OUTSKIRTS OF DETROIT, MICHIGAN

  6:33 AM

  LEONE WAS CERTAIN HE COULD get used to this type of lifestyle—the money, the connections, the power. He only had to take care of one more thing to truly be taken seriously. With Christian out of the picture along with his father, he would be in. Agostino would make sure his loyalties were repaid and assign him the finer things in life. As great as the daydream felt, reality kept coming back in disappointing waves. Could he ever really belong to them, or would he be knocked off once his usefulness had been utilized?

  If Leone had his wish, he would be able to continue on with the Mafia and leave his job with the FBI. But he knew one thing for certain. The Italians would never let him leave his day job. With him in the position of Special Agent, he would prove useful repeatedly—better than a good luck charm.

  He drove out to the hangar he remembered from years ago. The distance out of the city seemed further away, but it could have simply been his eagerness to kill again. Shooting Pietro brought back the hunger.

  In his work as an FBI agent most firing of a gun was done on the range for recertification. And if you did fire your weapon in the line of duty, you were looking at piles of paperwork. In this line of work, there was so much freedom. He could shoot and kill without consequence. In fact, instead of being questioned and judged, he had the ability to play God Himself.

  He tapped the cigarette butt in the ashtray of the car, extinguishing it with a small push and twist. He looked over the fields and smelled the manure. Both were sensory reminders of how close he was. As he rounded a bend in the road, his headlights caught and refracted off metal. Probably just a kid’s bicycle; they were stolen and ditched in the country all the time. But as he slowed down, he realized it wasn’t a bike.

  NIAGARA FALLS, NEW YORK

  6:45 AM

  CLINTON NOTICED HOW TIGHT WINGHAM’S grip was on her Starbucks cup. Her knuckles were white, and when she lifted it up to take a draw, he could imagine the sides of the cup sucking in. He smiled because they were truly opposites, but for whatever reason, their partnership worked. He got himself a coffee as well but had finished it in a few large mouthfuls and dumped the cup in the garbage.

  They were standing outside of interview room one, watching Dean Holmstead through the one-way glass.

  “Do you think Gamer’s really involved?” Wingham asked the question before pressing her lips to the cup again.

  Clinton answered her with his eyes on the kid who looked like he hadn’t slept in hours. Lockup wasn’t a friend to most people. It wasn’t just the uncertainty of their future, but a bench in a roomful of rowdy drunks wasn’t conducive to a good night’s sleep.

  “Nope,” Clinton said.

  “Then why are we doing this?”

  “To make sure of it.” Clinton brushed by her and went into the room. “Dean Holmstead.” He opened a file folder on the table. He had filled it with sheets, most of it meaningless gibberish, but the forms and typestyle looked official. He didn’t have a record and seemed to stick to himself. His largest crime was the way he kept his apartment. “Listen, we need to know something.”

  “I don’t know who was in my apartment, okay? We went through this yesterday. Before you made me stay here—” His arms crossed and his brows pressed downward. “I don’t know why you guys are so interested in me. Someone broke into my apartment. Shouldn’t you be out looking for them?”

  Clinton watched confusion cloud Holmstead’s eyes. If he only realized that a professional assassin had graced the inside of his apartment and had taken down the Governor of Michigan from his window sill.

  “So you came home and your door was locked?” Clinton detected the feebleness of his attempts to corner the guy. He didn’t seem to have a clue but he had been closer to the killer than anyone.

  Holmstead nodded.

  “Yet nothing was stolen.”

  “I told you—”

  “If it was a robbery, don’t you think they would have taken things?”

  An ear went to a raised shoulder. He rubbed it there as if wishing his current situation away.

  “You don’t have a smart answer for that?” Clinton asked.

  “I just want my laptop back. I want to go home. Sleep in my bed.”

  The desperation in his eyes made Clinton realize Holmstead was close to tears. Normally, this type of reaction wouldn’t elicit any feelings in Clinton, but this time he found himself actually feeling sorry for the kid. Circumstance had placed him in a situation where he was a suspect in a Federal investigation whether he wanted to be or not.

  Clinton’s cell rang, and he lifted it to see the caller identity. He felt Holmstead’s eyes watching him the entire time.

  “Can I go?”

  Clinton nodded and waved in officers from the observation room to get Holmstead out of there as he answered his phone.

  OUTSKIRTS OF DETROIT, MICHIGAN

  THE SUN WAS UP, and Leone would have killed someone else if it would have stalled its rising. He didn’t have a plan of attack, and the closer he got to the hangar, the more he realized the stupidity in his course of action.

  He knew there would be others coming after Christian. The fact that the Russo Family was a traitor of The Commission branded the target on their heads. Leone knew that Behler was in Niagara Falls to help Governor Talbot see her side of things. Leone surmised this would involve coercion and manipulation. What politician had an entirely clean record? None that he knew. There were most certainly none found in DC. And he knew enough of them personally to be a good judge of this.

  He parked his car beside the other one he found in the ditch. Was it even possible that the driver of this car had nothing to do with Christian Russo and the claim on his life? Leone highly doubted it.

  NIAGARA FALLS, NEW YORK

  7:00 AM

  CLINTON WALKED OUT OF THE interrogation room and approached Wingham. “I just got a call from Paulina.”

  “The coroner.” She smiled.

  He disregarded the underlying implication of her expression. “She found a hair in the wound track and was able to extract DNA. There was a match. We have a name.”

  -

  Chapter 80

  OUTSKIRTS OF DETROIT, MICHIGAN

  MONDAY, JUNE 14TH, 7:00 AM

  THE FOUR WALLS OF MY PRISON did their best to hinder my resolve. It’s not that I would ever give up on getting my family out of here alive, but I wondered now more than ever how I was going to turn my plan into a reality.

  There hadn’t been any noise in the hangar for hours now. The feeling that someone was in the hallway had left me a while ago. I attributed that to a form of paranoia. At this point, I believed I had imagined the presence of someone else, the noise, and any sensations being conjured from an overactive imagination that sought meaning in my present circumstances.

  I sat on the cot, leaning my head against the wall wishing for the opportunity to hold my family just one more time before Christian killed me. I felt remorse for being such a weak character that I even got involved with the Mafia in the first place. And yet, with that realization, I kne
w I had never sought them out, but had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  Time and unforeseen circumstances befall us all.

  I remembered my parents quoting that from scripture when I was young. I remembered the talks from the platform of their church telling us that vengeance too is the Lord’s and He shall repay.

  Maybe if I had a little more spirituality, I wouldn’t be in this situation in the first place. Maybe my family and I would be safe and getting ready to go about our regular Monday routines.

  LEONE COULD SEE THE HANGAR. Two men guarded the front of the building and were armed with AK-47s. Did Christian know he was coming? Or was he already aware that his father had been murdered?

  Fear did its best to override his logic, but he had to get things under control. He was trained to deal with intense circumstances, negotiate with terrorists. How was the Italian Mafia any different? They may not have been a threat to the average citizen yet they had the power to execute their own justice. They had their own standards as to right and wrong.

  NIAGARA FALLS, NEW YORK

  IF CLINTON NEVER SAW THE Grandeur hotel again, he’d be all right with it.

  “You make an appointment with the Governor?” Talbot’s bodyguard stood in front of the suite door with his hands laced together. He didn’t view them as a threat this morning.

  “Tell him we’re here. Detectives Wingham and Clinton.”

  Clinton watched as he visibly swallowed, the bob heaving his Adam’s apple, before he turned on them and slipped into the suite. Clinton forced his way in behind him. Wingham followed her partner.

  “What are you doing? Stop there—”

  The bodyguard’s words stopped when Governor Talbot came out of the bedroom, adjusting his necktie. Politicians and those in power always rose early. They had a lot of fires to put out, and the day started at 5:00 AM, if not earlier. If the Governor were just waking up now, he would have slept in.

  “Sorry, sir. I told them to wait in the hall—”

  Talbot silenced his man with a wave of the hand. “Back in the hall.”