A Blooming Fortune

by Stephen John

  “Precisely.”

  “Friends who look like they just finished filming a scene from Men in Black.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I don’t get it,” I said.

  “There’s no time to explain. In fact, the less you know right now, the better. For now, you just need to know your part,” Bessie replied. “Do you remember what you are to do?”

  “Of course,” I said. I had spent much of the last two days, buying surveillance and recording equipment for Victor, and then setting it up.

  “Gus is here,” Victor said, seeing his truck through the window pulling into the drive. “It’s show time.”

  “Are we all ready?” Bessie asked.

  “Ready as I’ll ever be,” I said.

  “Are we perfectly clear as to what can and cannot be said?” Victor asked. He was dressed in an all-black suit as well—sort of a British Men in Black look, only in Victor’s case, much shorter and rounder. Still, in the suit with dark shades, Victor looked professional, and surprisingly menacing.

  Bessie and both men nodded, affirming that they knew what to do.

  “Excellent,” Bessie chimed in, “Fortune, it’s time for you to take your position.”

  “Roger that,” I said. I headed to the master bedroom.

  “Chad, Jerry, it’s off to the kitchen with you,” Bessie said. “Don’t forget your role.”

  “We got it boss, don’t worry,” Chad replied. He looked at Jerry and then back at Bessie.”

  Bessie smiled. The two men headed to the kitchen and out of sight.

  Once I got into the bedroom, I turned on the monitor and slipped the oversized headphones over my ears. When the monitor warmed up, the picture of Emma’s living room and all its occupants came through.

  “Can you see us?” Bessie asked, placing her tiny earpiece into her ear.

  “Crystal clear,” I replied into the microphone. “Can you hear me? If you can, give me the thumbs up sign.”

  Bessie gave me a thumbs-up sign. Victor made a minor adjustment to his tiny earpiece, then flipped me ‘the V,’ which is a backward peace sign, the British way of flipping me the finger, but in a playful way. It made me grin. He smiled into the tiny camera, which was hidden within the vase of flowers on Emma’s end table.

  “You’ve done this before, right, Victor?” I asked.

  “Yes, once,” Victor replied, adjusting the tiny earpiece once again.

  “What was the outcome?”

  “Tragic, I’m afraid. The only good news from that particular experience is that I managed to live through it,” he said. “Remember, do not start the actual recording until I give you the signal.”

  “Right,” I replied. “What’s the signal?”

  “We’ve already discussed the signal,” Victor spouted.

  “No,” I replied. “We talked about having a signal, but we never actually discussed what the signal was.”

  “I’m certain you’re wrong,” Victor said. “I distinctly remember . . .”

  “Who gives a damn, Victor,” Bessie barked. “Gus Proctor is nearly at the door. Tell her the bloody signal already.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” he snipped, rolling his eyes, “The signal is when I say, ‘Now that we have all that out of the way.’ When you hear me say that, begin recording audio and video, but not before.”

  “That seems ambiguous,” I replied. “Can’t you just tug on your left ear, or scratch your nose or something like that?”

  “No, I am a private investigator, not a little league third base coach,” he scoffed, clearly irritated, “I will say, ‘Now that we have all that out of the way,’ and then you start recording.

  “Okay,” I replied. “Have it your way. It’s just better my way.”

  “I think it is better her way, too,” Bessie agreed.

  Victor sighed loudly.

  The doorbell rang.

  “Forget it. He’s here,” Victor said. “We go as planned. I am moving into the kitchen with Chad and Jerry, until we are summoned.”

  Victor left the room.

  “You must be Mr. Proctor,” Bessie greeted, as she opened the door. “Thank you so much for coming.”

  I noted that Bessie had dropped the British accent and was using a Southern twang that was more convincing than I would have imagined.

  “It’s my pleasure,” he replied, stepping into the living room. “Please, call me Gus.”

  “Please come in, Gus,” she said.

  “You are Mrs. Peterson’s sister?” he asked.

  “That’s right. We were very close,” Bessie said. “She told me . . . everything.”

  Gus froze for a second. His mouth gaped open. “She did? Everything, huh?”

  “Yes, everything,” Bessie said, smiling. It was not a pleasant smile.

  “Well, that’s great,” Gus replied.

  “Is it, now?” Bessie asked.

  Gus swallowed hard as Bessie glared at him.

  “Shall we begin? I brought some ideas with me.”

  “Please have a seat. May I offer you tea?”

  He looked at the tea and I saw his smile disappear.

  “No, thank you,” he said.

  “Oh please, I insist,” Bessie said. She poured a cup of tea and sat, smiling at Gus.

  “I really don’t want any tea,” he said.

  “Really?” Bessie said, in a bewildered tone. “Emma told me you loved tea.”

  “I do, but not today,” he said.

  “But this is a very special tea,” Bessie said. “My sister received it as . . . a gift right before she died. It came from someone . . . she trusted. Most of the original gift was gone when we arrived, but we did manage to find a small portion that wasn’t . . . lost in the cleanup up process. We thought you . . . in particular, would . . . appreciate it.”

  “I don’t want tea, thank you,” he said.

  “As you wish,” Bessie replied.

  Victor and Bessie never mentioned finding any of the wolfsbane tea, so I assumed it was part of the ruse—at least I hoped it was.

  “I feel badly about your sister,” he said, trying to change the subject.

  “Any feelings of sadness you currently have will be getting much worse, very soon, I assure you,” Bessie said, the smile disappearing from her face.

  “What did you say?” he asked.

  “Never mind,” Bessie said.

  Gus looked at her strangely, uncertain what to make of what she had said.

  “Would you like to discuss the estimate?” Gus asked.

  “No, I wouldn’t,” she replied.

  “I’m sorry,” he replied. “What?”

  “I said I didn’t want to discuss an estimate. Instead, I’d like to talk about a . . . scenario.”

  “A scenario?” he replied, looking confused.

  “Yes, I think you’ll be quite interested. It happens to be the only scenario that might keep you out of prison.”

  “What?” he repeated. His eyes widened and his mouth gaped open.

  “I think you heard me,” Bessie said, the smile disappearing from her face.

  “I can’t imagine what you are talking about,” he said.

  “Oh, I think you can,” she replied. “Agent Bloom!”

  Victor stormed into the living room loudly. Chad and Jerry were on his heels—all three men pointed pistols at Gus.

  “Hands in the air!” Chad bellowed in a loud deep voice that would have made James Earl Jones give a nod and a wink.

  “Now!” Jerry roared.

  Gus wailed like a child who had just been stung by a bee; his face turned white.

  “Don’t shoot. Please!” he cried out, raising his hands.

  “Augustus Proctor, do not move!” Victor said in a booming voice that actually scared me. Victor was not speaking with his normal British accent, either. Instead, he barked his command with a loud DeNiro quality. It worked well.

  Chad and Jerry fanned out on each side of the gardener, guns held high and pointed
squarely at his head.

  Gus stood, “Please! I didn’t do anyth . . .”

  “Sit back down, now!” Chad screamed.

  Victor’s two friends may not have been actual Federal agents but they certainly played the part convincingly. I’m surprised Gus was able to hold his water.

  Gus gasped and shrank into his chair, extending both hands in the air and closing his eyes in fear. Victor’s surprise attack worked—it caught Gus completely off guard.

  Victor held up his private investigator’s badge, keeping it at an unreadable distance, “I am Special Agent Victor Bloom,” he shouted. “Don’t move a muscle or I will happily separate your head from your shoulders.”

  I took in a breath and held it, wondering if Gus would fall for the ruse. While Victor introduced himself as a ‘Special Agent,’ he never said to which agency he belonged. That was smart. The chaotic entrance by the three of them accomplished what was intended. They had put Gus not only into a state of fear, but extreme confusion as well.

  The good news was, if I were to ever be questioned later whether Victor, Bessie or the two men ever represented themselves as law enforcement officers or agents with the FBI, CIA or Homeland Security, I could honestly say no—he didn’t. In fact, I could tell them that Victor introduced Chad and Jerry to me as friends, who were in town for the funeral—all true.

  Gus squeezed his eyes shut as if he expected Chad or Jerry to blow his head off, “Dear . . . god . . . am I under arrest?” he asked, his voice quaking in fear.

  “We’ll let you know at the end of this conversation. We are detaining you for questioning at the moment,” Victor repeated. “Place both hands on the table where I can see them.”

  Gus complied. Victor nodded at Chad, who circled behind the landscaper and began the process of patting him down. The whole thing looked shockingly real.

  “He’s clean,” Chad said. Jerry pulled a set of handcuffs and commanded Gus to put his hands behind his back. He complied. Jerry then cuffed him.

  Cuffing him may have been a mistake. Gus’s lawyer might be able to charge Victor with unlawful imprisonment, that is, if Victor admitted to cuffing him.

  “Who are these men?” Gus asked.

  “They are two of my associates, Agent Baker and Agent Brown,” Victor replied, again avoiding too much detail. “You’ve already met my colleague, Agent Bessie . . . Bessie Butts.”

  Bessie squinted at Victor.

  Gus looked at Bessie, “You aren’t Mrs. Peterson’s sister?”

  “Mrs. Peterson’s actual sister was kind enough to allow us the use of her home for this meeting, once she heard the nature of the questioning,” Victor said.

  Victor was using verbal hocus pocus. He never actually denied Bessie was Emma’s sister, but he certainly led Gus to believe Bessie was not.

  “Who are you with again?” Gus asked Victor, making me wonder if this little party would be over before it began.

  “I’ll be asking the questions, here,” Victor barked, loud enough to make Gus jump. Chad and Jerry used Gus’s question as a cue to loudly cock their pistols—an intimidating sound to say the least.

  “Whoa,” I said, under my breath. This was so real looking I worried about the potential for this little gathering to go horribly wrong.

  “But . . .” Gus began.

  Chad and Jerry took positions behind Gus, standing no more than two feet away from him—another act of intimidation. Gus’s face was almost completely white with fear.

  “Don’t play games, Mr. Proctor, or try to change the subject,” Victor sneered. “We know you murdered Emma Peterson with Aconitum. Or do you call it wolfsbane?”

  Gus drew in a deep breath and fell silent as he realized, perhaps for the first time, that his activities had not been as clandestine as he thought. His face turned white and his body began to tremble. I thought he might vomit, but he somehow managed not to. Victor had made good use of the information I had given him earlier; that in Gus’s prior marijuana arrest, he displayed an unusually high fear of the police, a fear bordering on paranoia. If getting caught with a dime bag of marijuana made him that nervous, there was no telling what his reaction would be to being accused of murder.

  “I . . . I . . . don’t know what you’re talking about,” Gus said, with as much conviction as a child with chocolate on his face standing next to an empty cookie jar.

  “Oh, I think you do,” Victor said.

  “You can’t . . . prove it . . .” he said, with even less conviction.

  Victor held up a single sheet of paper and showed it to Gus. The single sheet had a fake logo at the top. The logo had no designated agency, but looked very governmental from a distance, complete with an eagle and shield.

  “Oh, make no mistake about it, Mr. Proctor, we have you dead to rights,” Victor said.

  “What’s that you’re holding?” he asked.

  “This little thing?” he responded, holding the paper up again, “It’s only a partial list of the evidence we have against you.”

  “What evidence?” he asked.

  “Let’s see, where to start: there is the actual Aconitum plant you grew at Maxine Reed’s house; the books you checked out at the library outlining the care of the plant; books you borrowed from the library, which carefully details the orchestration of a murder using Aconitum; a deposit slip of over $6,000—money you took from Emma Peterson just prior to her death, the Witchcraft and Wicca magazine you have in your possession describing in vivid detail how to concoct an Aconitum potion that would kill quickly, and . . . oh yes, then there is this . . .”

  Victor held up the lab test Carter ran, which showed nothing useful.

  “What’s that?” Gus asked.

  “These are the results of new Aconitum-sensitive lab test we used to discover the presence of Aconitum in Emma Peterson’s urine—irrefutable evidence that Emma died of wolfsbane poisoning.”

  How Victor represented the lab test was a complete lie, but Gus seemed to be buying it.

  “We also know about your many relationships with wealthy, recently widowed women and your attempts to steal their money,” Victor continued.

  “No, no!” Gus cried out.

  “There’s no need to deny it,” Victor said. “We’ve had you under surveillance for months in Thibodaux. Does the name Thelma Slater ring a bell?”

  Gus drew a breath and held it; his eyes widened in fear.

  “Wha . . . what?”

  “I’ll take that as a yes—I thought it might,” Victor said. “Yes, we know you killed her too.”

  Emotionally, Gus seemed to be teetering on the edge as it was. The mention of Thelma Slater’s name pushed him completely over.

  “I wasn’t even in Sinful, Friday,” he claimed.

  “We know,” Victor said, confidently. He smiled at Gus. It was a wicked smile, “You’re a clever man, Mr. Proctor—just not clever enough. We know all about how you created your alibi, too. Very clever, Mr. Proctor.”

  This, of course, was a lie, but a convincing one. The look on Proctor’s face told me he bought Victor’s ruse, hook, line and sinker. We had no idea how he created the alibi. We just believe he managed to do it.

  “This can’t be happening,” he said, choking up, tears now rolling down his cheeks. He was completely losing his composure. Victor told me earlier that if Gus became suspicious, confronting him directly with serious accusations would cause him to drop his defenses. He was right.

  “I want a lawyer,” Gus cried out. Tears were streaming down his cheeks.

  Victor was prepared to answer that demand, “Relax, Gus. I’m not here to arrest you yet. There is, however, a reason it is me standing before you, and not the police. I’m here to . . . recruit you into our organization.”

  “Recruit me?” he repeated, thoroughly confused.

  “Yes,” Victor replied, taking a seat across from him. “You see, I work for a highly classified agency that officially... doesn’t exist. We specialize in . . . clandestine missions; covert operat
ions. Do you understand? My organization reports into the highest possible level.”

  “You mean Homeland Security?” he asked, lowering his voice to a whisper.

  Victor nodded and smiled, as though he were acknowledging that Gus had just nailed it.

  “You are smart man,” Victor replied. “But as you might imagine, clandestine operations must be conducted quite secretively.”

  Again, Victor nuanced his words. He just said he worked for a ‘classified agency,’ not the government. He also allowed Gus to assume he was talking about Homeland Security, but cleverly avoided affirming it.

  “You mean like spy stuff?” he asked.

  Victor nodded, “You are quite astute, Mr. Proctor. My organization protects the people through covert means when conventional actions fail to get the job done. Most of my work is . . . well, I guess you could say . . . off the books.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “As an example, if we intended to hack into an enemy government’s computer system to say, obtain launch codes, who do you think we’d seek out to help us?”

  Gus looked at him somberly and stared for a moment before answering, “Cyber specialists?”

  Victor snapped his fingers and pointed at him, “Precisely. More specifically, criminal cyber geniuses with a history of hacking into highly secure systems—breaking through firewalls, that sort of thing. Do you understand, now?”

  Gus looked confused but then began to nod ever so slightly. Then stopped.

  “Not one hundred percent, no.”

  Victor let out a breath. He stole a quick glance in the direction of the camera, out of Gus’s view. He rolled his eyes at me and turned back to Gus.

  “Let me put this another way. Could you think of a better person to help us hack into an enemy’s servers than a criminal who has a track record for success in breaking through highly secure server systems?”

  “I guess you’re right, yes.”

  “So, as you might understand, sometimes it would be better for people in my position to strike a deal with a criminal mind, so I can then use the information he provides to capture even more dangerous criminals. I’m talking about a bigger picture approach. You see?”

  Victor was once again doing a masterful job with language. He gave Gus the impression he was cutting a deal with him on behalf of the government, when in reality, he was talking in hyperbole and hypothetical situations. Again, if ever asked, I could, in clear conscience, say that Victor never promised Gus amnesty.