The Dirty Secret

by Brent Wolfingbarger

  “Whatcha have to say to Grandpa now, you Roosky motherfucker?!” Vaughn screamed. He had a crazed smile and an even crazier look in his one good eye. “Huh? Does the cat have your tongue, you Communist cocksucker?! Tell my wife she’d have to wait until tomorrow to bake her cookies, my eye!

  “Oh, yeah!” he ranted, spit flying from his mouth. “Speaking of eyes! Did you get a good look at my fucking eye, you son-of-a-bitch? You know what it’s like driving when you can’t check out your blind spot because the whole left side of your head is a fucking blind spot? I probably have your fucking daddy to thank for that ‘going away present’ I brought back from Nam.” Grimacing, he kicked Petrenko in the throat. “Don’t I, you sorry fucker?”

  “You really shouldn’t strike your prisoner,” Rikki whispered from the side of her mouth. Petrenko hacked and coughed so hard it sounded like his trachea had collapsed.

  “He was resisting arrest,” Vaughn shot back. “Wasn’t he, Dave?”

  “Hell yeah, he was! Kick him again!”

  Standing above the prisoner, his gray felt slippers in the man’s face, Vaughn’s chest heaved up and down and he stared down at Petrenko hatefully. “You’re lucky this lady is kinder than I am. Personally, I’m inclined to drive your ass down to the river, throw you in it and be done with it. You’re under arrest for burglary, assault, brandishing a deadly weapon and resisting arrest. For now.”

  Petrenko glowered but said nothing. Then the sound of Donna Summers’ hit, She Works Hard for the Money, blared from the cell phone clipped to his belt.

  Rikki bent down, stared at the phone and smiled. “Well, what do you know? Why’s Tabatha McCallen calling you at this hour?”

  “Probably clamoring for her 30 pieces of silver,” Dave said.

  CHAPTER 104

  ESQUIRE HOTEL

  CHARLESTON, WEST VIRGINIA

  SUNDAY, DECEMBER 14, 9:45 P.M.

  After feeling trapped in a nightmare where the silence was only broken by her own screaming, Tabatha finally emerged from that haze and looked at the clock. It was 9:45. With quaking hands, she made a call on her cell phone.

  Four rings. Five rings. Come on, dammit! Answer!!!!

  The call rolled into voicemail and Tabatha yelled, “Alex! Where are you?! This is my third call! Someone broke into my hotel room and tried to kill me and I can’t find you! What am I supposed to do if that monster comes back? Tell me!!”

  With watering eyes, she cupped a hand over her quivering lips. “The first half of the money was wired on Friday. I know the second half isn’t due until tomorrow afternoon, but I almost died tonight, damn it! I’m changing the plan.”

  She took a deep breath and continued. “If the rest of the money is not wired to my account before noon tomorrow, you can shove that precious Addendum up your ass.

  “It’s not up for discussion, it’s not negotiable. Call me.”

  Tabatha hung up and collapsed on the bed. Then, remembering she was covered in dried urine in the same room where some maniac had almost killed her, she leapt up and dead-bolted the door. Stripping off her soiled lingerie, she threw them away and jumped in the shower.

  As cool water ran down her face, she soaped up her body and scrubbed like she was possessed. If I ever see the son-of-a-bitch who choked me again, I’ll blow his head off. And if those bastards at Petromica don’t want to wire me the rest of the money before I cast that ballot, tough shit. What will they do? Sue me to get the first half of their bribe back?

  CHAPTER 105

  PLEASANTS COUNTY COURTHOUSE

  ST. MARYS, PLEASANTS COUNTY, WEST VIRGINIA

  MONDAY, DECEMBER 15, 8:45 A.M.

  Standing outside the courthouse in the same clothes he had worn the previous day, Dave twisted his torso, grimacing. “My back is killing me from sleeping on the sheriff’s couch last night.”

  “You think I liked sleeping in his daughter’s old bedroom?” Rikki asked. “I lay there all night wondering whether I was more freaked out by Petrenko trying to kill us or all the old Strawberry Shortcake stuff around me.”

  Dave chuckled wearily. “Makes me glad I was on the couch. But I think Petrenko feels worse than both of us. I bet he’s still coughing up teeth after the beating Silent Doug gave him!”

  Rikki shook her head in awe. “You told me he was a badass. You weren’t kidding.”

  On cue, Vaughn strolled around the corner with a dejected-but-defiant-looking Petrenko waddling two steps ahead in ankle cuffs. Guiding the Russian by his wrists, which were cuffed behind his back, Vaughn yanked the handcuffs roughly, causing Petrenko to wince. “Do you think the magistrate will give us any grief for waiting eleven hours to drag in this piece of trash?”

  “Did you follow my suggestions?” Rikki asked.

  “Word-for-word. We read him his Miranda rights and immediately tried to question him at the station. He lawyered up, so we put him in a cell under video surveillance. Then Doc Lacy came in and patched up his face while we searched his car and phone and typed up paperwork.”

  “Then we’re fine,” she said. “The purpose of the delay wasn’t to extract a statement from him and the video shows he was given medical treatment before arraignment. He was left alone, without interrogation or harassment, while law enforcement executed the search warrant.”

  “Did you find anything interesting during the search?” Dave asked.

  Vaughn grinned dangerously, sending chills down Rikki’s spine. “Aside from that pistol, there were tracking slips for ten heavy packages shipped to the Mingo County Sheriff right before the recount. Six missed phone calls and a text message from Tabatha demanding that he ‘wire the rest of the money’ to her account by noon or ‘the deal is off’.”

  “Nice,” Dave observed.

  Rikki pursed her lips. “Did you put that info in our request for a search warrant for Tabatha’s home and records?”

  Vaughn proudly tapped a neatly-folded document tucked in his chest pocket. “Yep.”

  Dave’s cell phone beeped. Looking at the screen, he looked confused. “What the hell? This text supposedly was sent last night at 8:30. Why did I just receive it?”

  Vaughn chuckled. “Cell phone service is pretty sketchy down in our subdivision. Looks like you found that out the hard way.”

  “Marcus is dead,” the text message from Monica Boley read. “Shot in head 2 look like suicide. U are accused of using him 2 fix election. Whoever killed him wants 2 frame u.”

  The color faded from Dave’s face and he leaned against the courthouse wall.

  “Dave! What’s wrong?” Rikki asked.

  “Someone has murdered Marcus Boley. Shot in the head to look like a suicide. She says someone has accused me of conspiring with Marcus to fix the election.”

  Petrenko’s jaw muscles tightened but he said nothing.

  “Who accused you of that? And who is she?” Rikki asked.

  Dave’s cheeks pinkened. “His sister, Monica. She didn’t say who accused me, but she thinks whoever killed him made the accusations.”

  Rikki studied his face. “Is it true?” she asked softly.

  Dave’s face flashed with anger, resentment, pain, disbelief. “I can’t believe you’d even ask me that, Rik! I’d do almost anything to help Jonathan win this election, but I damn sure wouldn’t break the law!”

  Then why does Marcus Boley’s sister have your cell phone number?

  He seemingly read her mind. “Monica’s very bright, ambitious and a Republican in her own right. The state party asked me to interview her for a job with Jonathan’s administration. If we win, that is. And that thought makes Mr. Petrenko and his boss damn unhappy.”

  Vaughn twisted the prisoner’s wrists enough to make him wince. “I wondered why he had a file on Boley in his car! I bet Berkeley County’s boys will want to look at his pistol, too.”

  Petrenko’s face remained impassive, but his restrained hands were balled into fists.

  A tall silver-haired woman climbed out of a maroon Ford Focus and ap
proached them.

  “Glad you all are so punctual,” Magistrate Irwin announced with a smile. “I like starting my shift with a bang! So what do we have?”

  “For starters,” the sheriff said. “This dumbass burglarized Rikki’s home, threatened her life and attacked me.”

  The magistrate scowled, wagging a finger at Petrenko. “Shame on you! What else?”

  “We’re filing charges against Tabatha McCallen,” Rikki said, “and we have a search warrant for you to sign in that case, too.”

  Irwin’s eyes narrowed. “Charging her with what?”

  Rikki handed her the complaint. Irwin adjusted her glasses and read it. Reaching the section that described the nature of the alleged crime, her blue eyes sparkled and she suppressed a giggle. “Wonderful! Come right in, and we’ll finish the paperwork so you can transport this man to the regional jail and move forward with your case against Mrs. McCallen.”

  “Jail?” Petrenko asked in a high-pitched voice. “Aren’t you going to set bail and give me a chance to post it?”

  Irwin heartily guffawed. “You broke into the prosecutor’s house and attacked the sheriff, and you want me to grant you bail? You must think I’m even stupider than you are.”

  GOVERNOR’S MANSION

  CHARLESTON, WEST VIRGINIA

  MONDAY, DECEMBER 15, 9:05 A.M.

  Luke Vincent adjusted his silk tie as CNN played in the background. Contemplating what might unfold put a knot in his stomach tighter than the one around his neck.

  If I make it through the day without Tabatha publicly kicking me in the nuts, and without seeing Donna break down in tears before physically kicking me in the nuts for being a cheating bastard, I will get down on my hands and knees and thank God every day for the rest of my life.

  “Adding to today’s drama are the confusing and conflicting reports surrounding the death of Marcus Boley,” the TV reporter explained. “In a video that CNN and other media outlets received early this morning from an anonymous source, Mr. Boley apparently confessed to rigging his county’s vote totals to swing West Virginia’s five electoral votes in favor of Governor Royal, and initial reports indicated Boley may have committed suicide.”

  What?! Vincent turned from the mirror and sat down on the bed, facing the TV.

  “However, our sources say no other evidence indicates Boley improperly influenced the election. Moreover, we’re now hearing that his death may have been a homicide.”

  Vincent felt his body go numb. Oh, my God.

  “In the meantime, the world will watch the Electors cast their ballots with bated breath, wondering if Governor Royal will hold onto his projected two-vote victory. From Charleston, West Virginia, this is Sylvia Chan reporting.”

  Vincent felt the warm touch of his wife’s hand on his shoulder. “That’s just awful,” Donna said. “That poor man.”

  I just hope Bowen had nothing to do with it. If so, I might as well have shot Boley myself.

  CHAPTER 106

  PLEASANTS COUNTY COURTHOUSE

  ST. MARYS, PLEASANTS COUNTY, WEST VIRGINIA

  MONDAY DECEMBER 15, 9:40 A.M.

  Petrenko waited for Magistrate Irwin to finish the paperwork sending him to jail until a preliminary hearing on his felonies could be held within the next 10 days. “Could I have my cell phone to make a call?” he asked.

  The deputy shook his head gravely. “Sorry. It’s been confiscated as evidence.”

  “But the number I need to call is saved on it!” Petrenko said, exasperated.

  The deputy shrugged. “Sorry. Rules are rules.”

  No bail, no phone. What a crock of shit! It’s like I’m in Soviet Russia again!

  Nervously tapping his foot, Petrenko tried to remember Mazniashvili’s cell number. Come on! Think!

  In a flash, the number came to him. “Can I at least use the magistrate’s phone to make my call?

  The deputy handed him the phone. “Sure.”

  Petrenko cradled the handset between his right ear and shoulder, staring at the keypad as he dialed the number. 1-917-STALIN1.

  After three rings, Mazniashvili answered. “Who is this?” he gruffly asked.

  “This is Yuri. I’ve been arrested, and I need the best lawyers money can buy.”

  Mazniashvili spat out an unspeakably vile string of Georgian profanity. “How could you have been so careless?!”

  I thought that paunchy old man was a pushover. I got overconfident, and now I might have to spend the rest of my life in jail.

  “I’d bet this line is monitored,” Petrenko replied. “But I’ll tell the lawyers about it when they visit me in the North Central Regional Jail. That’s the North Central Regional Jail. And once those lawyers are lined up, please check on our friend, Aristocrates, because I may be tied up for a while, and she’s a little frazzled. I believe she’s in Charleston, as is the other friend I told you about. Their contact information is in my email at work.”

  The billionaire mumbled. “I got it. Remain calm. Help is on the way.”

  “That’s what I’m counting on, vozhd.”

  WEST VIRGINIA STATE CAPITOL

  CHARLESTON, WEST VIRGINIA

  MONDAY, DECEMBER 15, 10:15 A.M.

  Bowen rushed into Vincent’s office, panting heavily. His face was scarlet and sweaty.

  “Jesus, Dick! You look like you’re about ready to keel over! What’s going on?”

  Bowen slumped forward, resting on the back of a Queen Anne chair. “I just got the word that an arrest warrant has been issued for Tabatha in Pleasants County. But I forgot to charge my cell phone last night. and it died on me, so I had to race down here to tell you in person.”

  “What’s she wanted for?”

  Bowen stood up, gulping for air. “We got problems. I’d suggest you have all State Police units stationed on I-77 between here and Parkersburg be looking for Pleasants County Sheriff’s cruisers.” He handed Vincent a piece of paper. “Or that SUV registered to Sarika Gudivada. Or that Cadillac with Virginia plates registered to David Anderson.”

  “And what should I tell the troopers to do if they see one of these vehicles?”

  “Delay ‘em. If she’s not arrested before noon, I think she’ll vote our way today.”

  Vincent looked like his brains had been microwaved. “What are you talking about? I thought you told her last night I couldn’t have anything else to do with her!”

  “I did! But I think she has bigger incentives to vote for Melanie Wilson today than your dick. Let’s leave it at that. The less you know, the better.”

  CHAPTER 107

  CHARLESTON CITY HALL

  OFFICE OF THE MAYOR

  CHARLESTON, WEST VIRGINIA

  MONDAY, DECEMBER 15, 10:25 A.M.

  Mayor Booz Hancock stalked around the fax machine like a caged panther. Nearing sixty, his hair remained black thanks to coloring products he would swear on a Bible he never used. His dress shirt looked like he had found it that morning wadded up on his closet floor.

  The contrast between the mayor and his police chief was pronounced. Wearing an ironed blue uniform, the chief’s black wingtips were polished to a shine. He sat on the sofa with his hat in his lap, patiently awaiting orders.

  “Gil said it should be here any minute,” Hancock groused. “If this is so important, why the hell aren’t they moving quicker?”

  “We’re ready to act as soon as it arrives,” the chief said calmly.

  It was as if he had said Abracadabra. The fax machine rang then emitted a high-pitched screech. The mayor squared himself in front of it, rubbing his fingers expectantly.

  The moment the first sheet printed out, Hancock snatched it up and read it. “It’s about time,” he said. The three-page fax came from the Pleasants County Magistrate Court. The “Warrant For Arrest” was addressed to “Any Law Enforcement Officer,” and stated:

  “Therefore, you are commanded in the name of the State of West Virginia to apprehend the above-named defendant and bring that person before any magi
strate in this County, to be dealt with in relation to these charge(s) according to law. This arrest warrant is to be executed FORTHWITH.”

  The third page was a black and white glamour photo of Tabatha McCallen. A note at the bottom indicated a digital copy had been sent to the Mayor via email.

  Hancock smiled and handed the fax over. “All right, Chief. You know what to do.”

  “Right. We’ll get copies distributed to our units posted near the Capitol entrances.”

  Hancock nodded once. “And what will the officers say if any Capitol rent-a-cops or, God forbid, actual State Troopers question them? You know … wondering why they’re lurking around the Capitol, for God’s sake.”

  “They’ll say we received an anonymous tip someone may try to sneak a bomb into the Capitol to disrupt the Electors’ meeting,” the chief replied. “Our city’s police officers are providing an additional ring of security to ensure that doesn’t happen.”

  “Good. And one last thing, Chief: Are you sure these officers can be trusted?”

  “When you called me last night, I went through our roster and hand-picked these men. If I can’t trust them, I can’t trust anybody.”

  Mayor Hancock smiled and smacked his hands together. “Well, get moving then!” Like lightning, he raced around his desk, hammered on his keyboard and printed out a photo of the nefarious Tabatha Pettigrew McCallen. He handed it to the chief, who wheeled out the door. Hancock then whipped out his cell phone.

  “Hello, Gil? This is Booz. Yeah, I got that fax. It’s under control. Now, then … once we’ve managed this crisis for Governor Royal, you need to let that son-of-a-bitch know I fully expect Charleston’s federal grant applications to go to the top of his administration’s to-do list. And he’d better put smiley faces on ‘em, too. Capice?”

  ESQUIRE HOTEL

  CHARLESTON, WEST VIRGINIA

  MONDAY, DECEMBER 14, 10:35 A.M.

  Tyson Vasquez entered the hotel lobby, quickly scanned it, then stowed his sunglasses and made a beeline for the front desk. “I’m here to see Tabatha McCallen,” he announced.