Let the meeting go ahead. It may be a nonevent anyway. Harper’s constituents need jobs and this Harper guy needs his job. His wife’s nursing job pays more than what he makes.
If he does declare he’s leaning the wrong way on the decision, we’ll have Turner withdraw the proposal. Then we’ll fix his vote. Bribe him or leverage him with threats to his daughter.”
“He may prove hard to bribe, Mr. Armesto. He seems to be quite the honest man.”
“That can change quickly though, Kenny. There are many ways to leverage. Johann can manufacture a city budget crisis by hiding some funds and then coming up with an expensive and super urgent surprise infrastructure project. Public services will need to be slashed and his constituents will turn again him. A desperate man is always more inclined to deal.”
“That will take some time, and could delay the project for six months. I’d hate for us to be the ones becoming desperate.”
Mr. Armesto looked out the window again and rubbed his nose under the pads of his sunglasses.
“Well, that would be inconvenient to Mr. Grunfeld’s timetable. However, being choked with more money than we can launder isn’t the worst problem to have. We’ll manage by giving priority to our customers. We can stash our own cash in cardboard boxes at self-storage facilities. Once the project is approved, we can pay our labor in dirty cash like we do in the district. The illegals won’t take their cash anywhere near a bank, anyway.”
There wasn’t anything else to do, thought Kenny. By using muscle, they’d kept contractors from bidding on certain jobs so they were won by outfits they could control. Then they’d use cost overruns, fictitious change orders, and claims of unforeseen site conditions to have ways to layer in money from clients needing to launder funds. On paper they’d rent heavy equipment on a daily rate, while in reality paying a more economic monthly rate to have play within the books to hide excess dollars. Allowances in the contract for things like “general conditions”, “labor burden” and “small tools” varied considerably and gave them plenty of wiggle room to work with. But to stay in business, they had to attend to their customers first, and find a way to launder their own dirty money later.
“Take a right at the light up here by this gas station, Esteban,” instructed Kenny. He turned back to face Mr. Armesto. “What do you want me to do about Bruno?”
“Nothing yet if he’s unconscious. But get a couple more muscle guys in here. If there are developments, we may need reinforcements for Diego’s crew. Whether that be Bruno developments, or anyone else. And call that builder guy. Have him get a big excavator machine on the jobsite. Tell him it’s for a… photo op.”
Kenny nodded and turned toward the front again to use both hands while he texted. Their car passed the school and then Stirrup Cup Road on the right.
“Sir, that’s Bruno’s car,” said Esteban pointing. No one was behind then and he slowed so that Kenny Martin could get a good look.
“Pull in,” grunted Mr. Armesto.
Esteban pulled up behind Bruno’s car, stopping within a foot of the Oldsmobile’s rear bumper so that the stretch town car was clear of Full Cry Road. They sat there, engine running, looking silently at it.
It was awkward. Marcelo didn’t get out and do things. He was the boss. Esteban drove the car and was a bodyguard. He was legitimate with no criminal record and could legally carry a personal firearm. Marcelo wanted to keep him clean. That wasn’t something easily replaced, and could be easily lost if his finger prints were spread around crime scenes. This left Kenny Martin.
Mobbed up lawyers are also typically far from the nefarious action. But protected somewhat by attorney client privilege, they were a bit more easily replaced. It was strictly a matter of money. The pause was awkward, while Kenny figured it out, and then the attorney exited without being asked.
He walked slowly about the car, leaning forward to stare in each window but trying to be sure not to touch anything. A cheap black suit hung on the backseat laundry hooks. Keys were in the ignition. Some trash and a dumbbell was on the floor of the front passenger side.
From up ahead he heard the gentle clicking of rubber and gravel, and before he could turn back toward the car and warn them, a Ford truck rolled into view. Kenny wasn’t the most street savvy guy, but he was smart. The beater Oldsmobile on the side of the road didn’t look particularly suspicious. Old cars break down all the time. But a shiny black stretched luxury vehicle, with three men in suits, parked to examine the broken down beater just looked weird. Kenny tried to look nonchalant as the truck passed, the African-American driver slowing and giving him a long hard stare going by. When the Ford took a right at the stop sign and disappeared northbound on Full Cry Road, Kenny ran back around the Olds and jumped in next to Esteban.
Kelton and Azrael lay in the parent’s loft on the west side of the indoor riding ring, Kelton scanning the field below through the back window with his small binoculars. Helmet told him that hardly anyone ever went up there, especially so early in the morning, making it a nice place to hide out and observe the goings on. He’d snuck in from the woods last night after the crime scene had been resolved with the thug. The sun was behind him at this time of day, illuminating all he was looking at.
He kept looking over toward the central north house, trying to catch a glimpse of Abriella arriving in her big white Crown Victoria. But as he felt the warm rush of his body responding he felt guilty and turned back toward the business at hand. Campus was still quiet, so he drifted back toward the house yet again and wished she was older. Or him younger. No, definitely her older. He liked who he was and didn’t want to give that up. Kelton liked who she was, too. She was beautiful, smart and kind. Pure and uncorrupted, without tattoos or crassness. And off limits. He fantasized briefly, and then chided himself for flirting with that slippery slope in his mind.
Kelton had worked around the barn long enough to be fairly certain the little blond girl he was looking for was not a rider. It was possible, he supposed, that he’d missed her. There’d been a lot of young ladies coming and going from the barn as he assisted with the chores. Although he’d found superfluous reasons to closely approach those with a strong resemblance, like picking up an imaginary piece of trash, he was sure none were the girl in question. So with the base logic of geometry proofs fresh in his head, he figured if she wasn’t a rider she must be a field hockey player.
He couldn’t keep the search going hanging around doing barn chores much longer. Azrael had to spend the time locked up in Helmut’s apartment, and then be exercised after Kelton had been working outside all day. And while Jose informed him the school always had day laborers coming in and out delivering hay and straw or bags of feed, repairing equipment, or looking after the landscaping, his continued regular presence invited questions about who he was and his name.
But for now the hunt persisted, and he stared down at the empty field below feeling just a bit like a hypocrite. Was he pursuing the situation because he was potentially protecting a young woman from a predator? Or was the motivation, underneath, a bit less noble? He’d caught himself several times last night in the study session, whether it be the pass of a magic marker or another brownie, purposely brushing Abriella’s fingers with his when the only reason to do so was a deep primal thrill within. Thus, Kelton faced the possibility that it wasn’t the protection of young ladies which drove him, but rather jealously of one who was willing to release restrained desire within. He shook his head to sweep all that away.
Shaking his head, he caught movement in the corner of his eye. A girl was moving on the perimeter road. Then another, followed by a small group. The longhaired wore headbands. Some opted for warmup pants instead of shorts. Some wore light jackets, while a brazen few were content with a sports bra. All were in running shoes, and all traveling about the perimeter road in a counterclockwise direction.
His glimpses were brief and fleeting. While his perch’s clandestine overlook of the field was unobstructed, the view of the perimete
r road was marginal. Straight ahead, the huge main school building blocked it completely. To the left and right there were only the spaces between the houses where a swaying tree branch sometimes interfered after a gust of morning breeze. This meant he had just a few seconds to scan each girl, in profile, through low powered binoculars. With some of the girls running in small informal groups, he had even less time per face. It was frustrating and it wasn’t working.
For the next several hours there would be classes, so best to go find something else to do he thought to himself. After classes he could maybe return to the loft and watch practice on the field. Then it was going to the town council meeting with Helmut. If he still didn’t find her, then a spot in the woods in the morning where he could see the perimeter road would be the next best bet. Close to the main school building would be good too, but it had a lot of exits to cover. Also, there were many adult eyes there, teachers and staff, that would be inclined to act if they saw someone loitering and the landscaping was devoid of underbrush in which to hide. Near the barn, he blended better with the hired help and the woods were more ungroomed.
Azrael needed his exercise, so they slipped down the stairs and made for the bridle path to the fixture. Jose gave him a quick wave while repairing some fence boards where Ollie had scratched his tail. The clubhouse and kennel buildings were in sight just a few minutes later. Everything seemed quiet in the realm of the Westburg Hunt. Even the hounds were quiet.
Azrael omitted a soft growl and Kelton, by old reflexes in the warzone, dropped to one knee.
“What is it, Azrael?” he said very softly to himself, because he knew his dog had already told him what it was. It was on him to do the translation.
Through the trees to the west he could see something large and white, but all the branches in the way made it impossible to discern what it was. Kelton rose and walked slowly down the last few feet of the bridle trail before it opened into the gravel parking lot, keeping his eyes focused on the object of Azrael’s concern. It was a truck, parked deeply in the woods. In the bed were metal animal boxes, and the tailgate was stenciled with “Westburg Animal Control” in blue letters.
It was kind of curious. Parking in the shade made sense. Under the direct sun, the afternoons could get downright brutal. Not Iraq brutal, but still very uncomfortable given the humidity. But to off road it said someone was wanting to be in the shade all day, else why run it off the road? And why stay out here all day? What was being searched for?
“Sitz,” he whispered, drew his pistol, and approached the truck.
Azrael fell to his haunches, but kept an intense focus on the truck, a gleaming fang showing on the side of his black mask.
Kelton felt curiosity instead of animosity as he approached. The gun was only if the officer made an attempt to take him or his dog into custody. He wasn’t looking to get the drop on anybody or punish them. But as he approached, one slow stealthy step after another, it became apparent no one was in the vehicle.
A tree next to the driver’s side, a young oak with a trunk about eight inches across, sported some white paint. It would only allow the driver’s side door to open a few inches. The door wasn’t just missing paint, scraped down to the steel, but also sporting a large dent like the door had been opened energetically without any other regards. Kelton fell back and tracked around to the passenger side.
The passenger door was slightly ajar, and the nearby ground was churned. The leafy floor of the forest had been rustled and many small saplings were bent at sharp angles. Leading out to the parking lot were a couple of long parallel gouges of earth from something being dragged. He’d wanted to find something for his dog to do to pass the day, and this provided such an opportunity. Kelton holstered his gun and raised his arm.
“Hier,” he ordered.
Azrael came bolting over at a run, and Kelton fed him a marosnack for his quick effort. Kelton indicated the ground by the passenger side door and let Azrael investigate with his nose.
“Such,” Kelton instructed.
Azrael worked the scent pad, nose to the ground and his hind end flopping about in a semicircle before the dog decided the direction to go was indeed with the drag marks on the ground. But after only thirty feet, Azrael’s nose came up and he lay down on the gravel of the parking lot.
“Well, that was short lived and anti-climactic,” said Kelton to himself as he tossed a reward of another marosnack to his dog.
Azrael finished and looked up at him with warm dark eyes.
“It seems our local dogcatcher, who tried to put a noose around your neck, has been abducted into another car,” explained Kelton to Azrael. “Not only is the bumbling idiot a parasite on the people he is supposed to serve, we can’t get more than a quarter of a minute out of him as a training exercise.”
Azrael panted some with his tongue to one side, watching Kelton with bright and alert eyes that demanded to know what was up next.
“I’m afraid an apprehension exercise will have to wait, since someone else has beat us to it,” shrugged Kelton.
An apprehension exercise was like other tracking and finding problems, but with the expectation of getting a good bite in the end. Clearly, Azrael was unsatisfied.
“It’s just not going to be our morning,” reflected Kelton thinking about the fleeting glimpses of girls running the perimeter road. “Well, let’s go and see what else might be fun in these pastures while I wait for the town meeting tonight.”
Kelton reached into his hip pocket and hurled the Kong toy. Azrael bolted after it, small bits of gravel being flung from his paws. The hard packed ground lent the rubber toy a good bounce, and his dog applied his energy into quickly grabbing it for a lethal shake.
CHAPTER—16
Sergeant Jim Barker opted to drop in to see Mrs. Grant for himself. He’d a good nose for trouble, and there was definitely a storm brewing after this weekend. An officer had been hospitalized in a dog attack and lost his sidearm down a storm drain. A Fox Ridge School employee had been assaulted on school grounds just after his officers had given up the chase and failed to apprehend the assailant there. He did not regret decisions he’d made. His operations job was about the proper employment of police resources and his men had been where the action was. That was good. They had just done a poor job of closing the deal.
This meant the chief was going to receive a choice phone call or maybe two, and he, the sergeant, would be called on the carpet to explain. Even the city supervisor was likely to be involved. The one thing Barker knew after being a cop for over twenty years was to avoid in these upcoming conversations the words “I think” or “probably”. That meant going to see things and talking to people first hand before those tête-à-têtes started. It would equip him to truthfully and clearly answer the upcoming questions which would be nothing short of a drilling interrogation. It would make him seem sharp and competent, even if his men had fallen short. And some of his men had a deserved marginal reputation which would take any blame away from him, as it was the union that had kept him from firing them.
Barker proceeded into the main school building through the great oak doors carved with pineapples, the longtime symbol of southern hospitality spanning back to colonial days. His shoes echoed on the hard floor. The original hardwood floor was gone, replaced with ceramic tile molded to look like wood to wear better and make cleaning up from the high traffic volume easier. The receiving hall sported twin fireplaces on each side, both with a seating area and white built-in bookshelves of dusty volumes unread for decades. A heavy set woman with horn-rimmed glasses sat at a central desk just as the entryway joined the main hall. Jim guessed classes were underway, as he saw no girls rushing from room to room as he quickly glanced to his left and right.
“Good morning, Officer. How may we help you today?” It was a sassy smile with just a touch of a sneer to suck the sweetness out of her words.
He pulled his business card from the metal case in his shirt pocket and handed it to her.
“Go
od morning. I’m Sergeant Barker of the Westburg Police Department,” as if you just accidently misaddressed me because you couldn’t see three large yellow chevrons on my sleeve he thought. “I’d like to have a word with Mrs. Grant please.”
“Please have a seat,” she said gesturing at a worn but still elegant couch in one of the seating areas, “while I call her secretary for when she can deal with an intrusion.”
He nodded at her, continuing to stand before her desk while his hands rested on his utility belt. Sergeant Barker gave her his cold empty stare, while she picked up the phone and spoke with a harsh whisper. Her eyes darted back and forth between him and the phone’s keypad with each mumbled exchange. He took a step forward so that the front of his thighs were touching her desk and continued to impassively look down upon her. At last she hung up.
“Please go up the stairs behind me,” she instructed. “Her office is on the second floor.”
He paused, a long pause of a full three to five seconds. Before she could ask something stupid like “Did you hear me?” he nodded.
“Thank you,” was his reply as he slowly went around her desk, made a square turn and marched to the base of the stairs. In less than a couple of minutes he was sitting in front of Mrs. Grant’s desk with a china cup and saucer of coffee.
Abriella Harper wrote firmly with the pencil, the downward pressure gouging the paper as she handedly dispatched another quiz proof problem. As she turned the page, she caught Vicky looking at her with a single eye subtly spying from under a blond tress. They smiled at each other, not needing the validation anymore of the teacher’s grade. They knew they knew it, and they liked the feeling that came with complete and deep understanding. She attacked the backside of the quiz sheet with an attitude that bordered on disdain.
In just a few more minutes she was done. Good parental advice said she should now go back and double check her work. But there was no point. It was remotely possible she supposed that their teacher could make an excuse for a deduction over some triviality, but so what. She put down her pencil and stared out the window, arms crossed over her chest. Vicky and Elizabeth soon did the same, and Kate followed a couple minutes later.
By Dog Alone: A Kelton Jager Adventure Book 2 Page 14