Brooks-Lotello Collection

by Ronald S. Barak

  “We? Do with what, Detective? You’re the investigator. Not me. But if you’re asking: Right now, ‘we’ have a lot of politicians worried about who may be next. If I were you, I’d be asking myself if I really wanted to let them know they don’t have anything to worry about any longer. That the real killer is dead. All anyone knows right now is that the authorities couldn’t convince the jury to convict Norman.”

  Lotello thought about that. He knew Brooks wasn’t looking for his answer. Nor had he given Lotello time to formulate one.

  “I’m glad to know you’re mending, Detective. I hope this won’t be the last time you and I run into one another. By the way, you ought to take notice of that Leah Klein. She’s a keeper. And I think she might just have an eye for you. Thanks for stopping by.”

  That was it. Lotello was thinking of an appropriate comeback when Brooks started shuffling some papers on his desk. Their meeting was over. Lotello shut the door on the way out.

  Lotello pulled up in front of Klein’s place. He had just one more base to cover first. It’s me, Beth. Things have pretty much settled down. The kids seem to be doing well. My shoulder’s healing. Really. Another week and my paid leave will be over. I’ll be back to the grind. Thankfully. But you know that. Oh, by the way, uh, about Leah. Uh, I hope you’re okay with this. You were first, Beth. You always will be.

  * * *

  BETH WAS FINE WITH IT.

  CHAPTER 143

  Monday, September 28, 7:00 p.m.

  THE LATEST MEETING OF NoPoli, The National Organization for Political Integrity, was called to order. The first order of business was to acknowledge the graciousness of an anonymous benefactor who had contributed sufficient funds to underwrite NoPoli through the next round of national elections. The second order of business was the election of new officers. On motion made, seconded, and unanimously carried, Cliff Norman was elected honorary chairman of the board and Steve Kessler was elected chief executive officer.

  In addition to Norman and Kessler, also elected to the board of directors were Cyrus Brooks, advisory chairman emeritus, Leah Klein, director of legal affairs, and Paige Norman, director at large.

  When he was first approached about accepting this position, Brooks was concerned about how it might be perceived. A sitting judge to be on the NoPoli board of directors. He passionately wanted to do it. For Bernie Abrams. Ultimately, it was Eloise Brooks, in her simple, grounded, compelling wisdom, who persuaded her husband there would not be anything ethically inappropriate about this. So long as Brooks recused himself from any cases in which NoPoli might have an interest or might otherwise be involved. It also didn’t hurt matters any when the board decided that Bernie Abrams would posthumously be the first recipient of the annual NoPoli Medal of Honor. To be awarded each year to the person recognized as currently making the greatest contribution to the cause of exemplifying honorable public service. And eradicating political corruption and greed in the United States.

  * * *

  CLIFF NORMAN WAS GRADUALLY finding his way back to normal productivity. He had strategically determined not to reveal to anyone during the trial when he began recovering his mind. And had become fully aware of his original actions. Continuing to draw attention to political corruption in the U.S. in that fashion was then the only way he knew how. He now realizes there are much better, healthier ways to pursue this vital cause. He and Paige are back together, approaching their new lease on life. Working to build NoPoli with the same enthusiasm and skill they had brought to the table when they started their first family business together.

  What goes around comes around. Cliff recently summed it up best: “You got us. Now we’re going to get you.”

  Payback is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Except as otherwise noted in the Author’s Note, any resemblance to actual events or people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2020 by Ronald S. Barak

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be produced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning, or by any other information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and in certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Printed and published in the United States of America by:

  Los Angeles, California

  www.ganderhouse.com

  Hardcover ISBN: 978-1-7327204-6-6

  Trade Paperback ISBN: 978-1-7327204-7-3

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-7327204-8-0

  Audiobook ISBN: 978-1-7327204-9-7

  FIRST EDITION

  Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Barak, Ronald S., author.

  Title: Payback : a Brooks / Lotello thriller / Ronald S. Barak.

  Description: Los Angeles, CA: Gander House Publishers, 2020.

  Identifiers: ISBN 978-1-7327204-6-6 (Hardcover) | 978-1-7327204-7-3 (pbk.) | 978-1-7327204-8-0 (eBook) | 978-1-7327204-9-7 (audiobook)

  Subjects: LCSH Authors–Fiction. | Murder–Fiction. | Fraud–Fiction. | Corporations—Corrupt practices–Fiction. | Serial murders – United States – Fiction. | Judges–Fiction. | Thrillers (Fiction) | Political fiction. | Legal stories. | BISAC FICTION / Thrillers / Political | FICTION / Thrillers / Legal

  Classification: LCC PS3602.A745 P39 2020 | DDC 813.6–dc23

  To our son, Mark J. Barak

  I love when I [have been able to] teach our son a good lesson, but I love it even more when he teaches me [one, or two]

  —BRAD MELTZER, NY Times bestselling author

  Those are my principles, but

  if you don’t like them … well, I have others

  —GROUCHO MARX

  Even if you’re on the right track,

  you’ll still get run over if you just sit there

  —WILL ROGERS

  Nobody cares if you can’t dance well,

  just get up and … dance

  —DAVE BARRY

  PROLOGUE

  Ten Weeks Before

  I REMEMBER WHEN I first had the urge to kill someone. Not just anyone, mind you. After all, I’m not capricious. Or uncouth. I’m just … me.

  To be sure, my deadly urges were not the first of my social … anomalies, you might say, but they were, no doubt, a natural and foreseeable evolution of my earlier … irregularities.

  But I’m getting ahead of myself, something I often do. Digressing, you might say. Allow me to rewind and start at the beginning, at least as I know it. Hmm, rewind. I like that word because, at the end of the day, that’s what we’re talking about, how I’m … wound. Hah! I am dark and stormy even if the night wasn’t.

  I was probably always the way I am. I just didn’t know it. I’d always thought it was them. Until it finally dawned on me. I was the one who was … different, don’t you see? Who are … them, you ask? That’s easy. Them is everyone. Everyone other than me.

  To make things better, to fix things, I had to change … me. Not them. I had to change the way I was wired. The way I was wound. Don’t you see?

  But how, you ask? It’s okay that you ask, because I asked too.

  And so I did some research. I read some books. Actually, I read a lot of books. What I learned, according to all the shrinks, was that a good way to change, to fix myself, would be by writing things down. About me. Reflecting about myself. Sort of keeping a diary. This made sense to me too.

  But if writing would help, why stop at writing about myself? After all, I’m not all that interesting. Writing about me was boring. Instead of dwelling on me, I decided I would dwell on others. I would write about … them. That way, I could become … like them.

  But I didn’t know many others. Actually, I really didn’t know any others. At least not well. So I decided I would simply make them up. In my mind. I would write ficti
on. I would … become a novelist.

  And so I began writing about others. Others I wanted to be like. Others I wanted to … like me.

  I thought it was going to make a difference. In me. For me. Don’t you see? A huge difference. But it didn’t. Not at all. Why? I don’t know. You have to ask them. But you had better not dally.

  PART ONE

  CHAPTER ONE

  Eight Weeks Before

  ELOISE BROOKS HAD PLANNED the evening very strategically. Dinner at their favorite restaurant with her husband, Cyrus, and their two closest friends, Frank Lotello and Leah Klein Lotello, ostensibly to celebrate the Brookses’ fifty-fifth anniversary, but actually to spring a surprise on Cyrus in a setting where it would be difficult for him to object. He was the only one at the table who had no idea what was coming.

  Knowing Cyrus as she did, Eloise sensed the timing was right. After a distinguished 35-year career as a U.S. District Court Judge, Cyrus had voluntarily stepped down from the bench and retired about ten years ago. But retired was a weak euphemism for what still drove Cyrus. He remained passionately committed to the law, in one form or another.

  And therein lay the problem, Eloise’s not Cyrus’s. Both on the bench and off, Cyrus was constantly finding himself in life-threatening situations, especially after he and homicide investigator Frank Lotello became so close. Cyrus seemed to relish all the danger, but Eloise did not.

  Fortunately, as only Eloise really knew, Cyrus did have other interests: music, dance, and writing—to name just a few. But he couldn’t sing or dance, and his few attempts at writing a novel ended unsuccessfully. Infinitely patient and disciplined when it came to matters of the law, and the heart, he lacked both when it came to his attempts to become a novelist.

  But Eloise was not about to give up, especially as she observed Cyrus recently exhibiting some degree of restlessness. When Cyrus was a highly renowned jurist, people listened to him, looked up to him, admired him. His confidence and self-esteem were at a high. Once he stepped down from the bench, the attention visited on him diminished considerably. Sure, he was still respected, but it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t as noticeable. His self-esteem understandably waned. It was only natural.

  She knew what the problem was. Cyrus was overcompensating, seeking to hold onto his recognition and standing. He couldn’t say or admit that, and she couldn’t raise it to him. He was proud. It would hurt him terribly to confront any of this.

  But there were other ways. It was time to strike. “Happy Anniversary, dear,” Eloise said, handing the previously concealed envelope to Cyrus.

  Cyrus’s face scrunched up as he stared at the envelope in mock discomfort. “I’m afraid you caught me unawares,” he said.

  “Oh, just open the envelope,” Frank said to Leah’s laughter.

  “Hmm,” Cyrus responded, “now I’m as curious as I am suspicious. Why do I feel like I’m the only one at the table who doesn’t know what’s coming?”

  He opened the envelope and removed a brochure announcing a one-week writers’ retreat named Thriller Jubilee to be hosted by TITO, The International Thrillers Organization, at Hotel Marisol on the “sun-bathed” island of Punta Maya off the coast of Spain. “What, pray tell, is this?” Cyrus asked.

  “We’re all going, the four of us, eight weeks from today,” Eloise answered. “It’s time for you to learn how to write one of those novels you’re always been starting but never finishing.”

  “In eight weeks? That’s impossible. My desk is piled high with pending chores. Besides, I’m not a writer. And my fair skin will never hold up for a week in all that sunshine.”

  “Nothing on your desk that won’t keep, and who says you’re not a writer?” Eloise countered. “And you’ll use sunscreen like everyone else. Only now you’ll be able to stalk imaginary murder and mayhem instead of the real-world murder and mayhem that always seems to stalk you, and how to write about judges and lawyers instead of being one. With all the stories in your head, you’ll soon be writing with the best of them. You just need a little encouragement.”

  “Well, even if we assume I agree to this boondoggle, who or what the hell is TITO, and how do our dear friends Frank and Leah fit into all this?”

  Leah had the answers to Cyrus’s last two questions. “When Eloise showed me the brochures, I figured if you were in, Cyrus, so were Frank and I. We haven’t had a vacation in I don’t know how long. Besides, we have to be there to witness and support your nascent writing adventure. And Eloise will need someone to keep her company when you’re off in all your classes. Knowing you as I do, I did a little research. TITO is headquartered in New York and is the largest and most prominent thriller organization in the world. It has a membership in excess of 10,000 thriller writers, readers, promoters, and fans. It’s the real deal.”

  Frank looked at Cyrus and smiled. “No point fighting it, Judge. Sometimes you just have to let go and live to fight another day.”

  “Well, maybe just to accommodate the three of you. If they offer singing and dancing classes as well, I can cover my entire bucket list in one fell swoop.”

  Eloise ignored his attempted diversions. “It’s settled then,” she said to Cyrus victoriously. I’m so looking forward to you not getting into trouble for a change. After all, what could possibly go wrong at a writers’ conference?”

  “WRITING IS JUST A thin version of doing,” Brooks said to himself, as they shared a scoop of raspberry sorbet delivered to their table with four spoons. How much harm could two small bites do to my waistline? Truth be told, genuinely learning how to write a credible novel would probably be great fun, especially if anyone might actually want to read it. Besides, he knew, how could he possibly say no to Eloise after she went to all of this trouble and got her hopes up about taking me in this safer direction? “Safer?” Pshaw! Just so long as everyone knows I’m only doing this for Eloise and not for myself.

  CHAPTER TWO

  One Week Before

  “I’M BACK,” I SAID aloud, to no one in particular. That made perfectly good sense of course—to no one in particular—because there was no one else there. Besides me. There never is anyone else there. Besides me.

  “Well, let’s see now what we have here, as if I don’t know,” still speaking aloud to no one in particular, while carefully removing the contents of the grocery bag and neatly lining up each item on the table: one small orange, one large watermelon, one vial of saline solution—“just saline solution for now,” again out loud, to what end it was unclear—and, finally, one sealed package of six disposable syringes. “Amazing.” The vial and syringes did not require a doctor’s prescription. Only my fake driver’s license. The pharmacist didn’t seem the least bit interested.

  “Practice, practice, practice.” What a busy little beaver I am. Because we all know that practice makes perfect, doesn’t it? Don’t you see?

  CHAPTER THREE

  Five Days Before

  JAMES LLEWELLYN, THE HEAD of Gander House Publishers, one of the “big five” publishing houses, was sitting at his regular breakfast spot across the street from his midtown Manhattan headquarter offices, all five floors of them. He was on his second cup of coffee when her lips brushed his cheek.

  Those lips belonged to Arianna Simpson, owner of book publicist extraordinaire Simpson Public Relations (SPR). She wore dark red lipstick, matching the color of her well-fitted Chanel outfit. Llewellyn couldn’t decide which he liked more, her eye-catching, short, jet-black modern haircut or her provocative, musky perfume. She slipped into the seat opposite him, asking the waiter for a cup of hot water and lemon.

  “And you, Mr. Llewellyn, your usual: a half grapefruit, two eggs over easy, bacon well done, and an order of wheat toast?” the waiter asked.

  He nodded affirmatively, turned to Simpson and said, “That’s it, lemon-flavored water? Didn’t your mother impress upon you that breakfast is the most important meal of the day?”

  “She also taught me that a girl has to watch her figure. I’m not l
ucky like you, tall and thin with your curly salt and pepper locks. Dressed to the nines in your navy three-piece pinstripe suit, you look almost good enough to eat.”

  “Ooh, I like your thinking.”

  “I said ‘almost.’”

  “Tease.”

  Married, but not to each other, Llewellyn and Simpson knew each other well. Publicly, they shared a number of author clients, published by Gander House and publicized by SPR. Privately, on occasion, when the opportunity presented itself, they also shared the same bed.

  In high demand, they often also spoke at the same posh writing conferences, including Thriller Jubilee (TJ), hosted on Punta Maya every year by TITO. They were each members of TITO’s board of directors.

  “When’s your flight to Punta Maya?” Llewellyn asked Simpson.

  “Monday. My panel presentation’s not until Tuesday. I have a lot on my table here. I can barely afford the time I’m giving it, but that’s where I land new clients. When are you leaving?”

  “Tomorrow. I have to spend a couple of days in our London offices first. I get into Punta Maya Sunday evening.”

  “‘Have to’? Poor baby. I’ve tried to put together a London office for SPR. Unfortunately, the economics just don’t pencil.”

  “Too bad. Wouldn’t that be nice for us.”

  Simpson didn’t take the bait. “This is your meeting, Jim. What’s on your mind? Besides, that is, what’s always on your mind.”

  “Wanted to give you a heads-up. Jonathan’s not happy. Thinks he’s not getting what he should for the five thousand a month he’s paying you.”

  “Jonathan” was Jonathan Connor. Author of three New York Times bestsellers over the past three years. But none of them number one. Connor thought each should have made number one.