by Taylor Kole
Marci leaned forward. Remembering that Lisa shot Walt or Cooper alleviated some of the sickness in her stomach.
Agent Wentz cleared his throat. “Even wearing a bullet-proof vest, being shot from close range will leave a nasty bruise, which may be used for a conviction. We only need to find a man with a bruised chest.”
Marci leaned forward, “If you want a conviction, find Walton Zimbardo, Kendra Houghton, and his red-haired henchman, Cooper.”
FORTY
In the maid’s quarters, Walt watched as Kendra gave meticulous attention to Cooper’s side. He sat bare-chested on the edge of the table, his left arm was stretched over his head as if executing a swim stroke. Upon eye contact, Walt nodded stoically. What the hell am I part of now?
The intercom crackled. Lashinda’s voice came through. “Some FBI men are downstairs, requesting to come up and see you.”
Walt cleared his throat, pressed the reply button. “Send them up.”
“Yes, sir. Should I notify Mr. Lattimore?”
“I have no need for an attorney, Lashinda. Fire up the cappuccino machine. I’ll greet our guests.”
Returning his attention to the quaint table, he inspected the progress. Inches separated Kendra’s face from Cooper’s muscular upper body. Finding something amiss, she touched the edge of the concealer and blended it with a smear of her thumb.
“If you’re forced to show this to them,” Kendra said, “stay back, do so on the edge of bright lighting. If there's a female agent, keep your distance; show it to the male. We have Febreze plugged in, but concealer has an odor any woman will recognize. The bruise is hidden enough to survive an inspection, but if they poke and prod, we’ll be discovered.”
“I’ll take them to the study,” Walt said. “As soon as you’re done here, go there and turn on the main lights to warm the room.”
Cooper held his hand out, pausing him. “Boss.”
Walt met his eyes.
“If they link this bruise to the case, they’ll pull out guns and handcuffs. How do we play this, if that happens?”
Walt grabbed his wrist and tried to imagine the horror of having steel placed over them. But what was Cooper asking? Walt wanted the desert hippies to give him what he deserved. “We simply bullshit them out the door.”
Cooper smirked. “They’re federal agents, Walt. If they find this bruise, they’ll pull out their guns and start shouting until I’m in cuffs. They’ll keep an agent here until a warrant is processed and arrest you as well. We might never live another day of freedom.”
Walt wondered if Cooper could take out multiple agents. With a few hours head-start, he could get them to a country with no extradition. Frowning, he wondered if there was a non-Islamic nation that would deny America? Or if America actually allowed a single country to govern itself? Too rattled to give it much thought, he decided they would figure it out once airborne.
“With us arrested, they’ll find our staging area.” Cooper glanced around the brown-dusted room. “They’ll have the three of us cold on conspiracy. That’ll be enough to deny bail.”
Walt thought about himself. Could he turn State’s evidence on Cooper? Being the high man, and the financier, he doubted it. Their futures seemed intertwined. “Well, let’s try and put on a convincing show, shall we?”
He marched toward the door.
“And if we fail?” Cooper demanded.
Walt swallowed, thought for a moment, and said, “I’ll follow your lead.” He scrambled down the narrow servant hall, dashed through the high-rise home, and paused at the set of double-doors.
His breathing remained elevated at the first knock, which seemed to boom and reverberate down the hall.
Two more deep breaths, an adjustment of his naturally black hair, a sour grin appropriate to the seriousness of an FBI visit, and he turned the handle.
The agent that introduced himself as Wentz was so repulsive Walt almost closed the door on him. Agent Wentz looked like a giant midget with leprosy. Walt nodded as to his identity, stepped back to avoid a handshake, and asked to be followed.
Thankful to turn from the hideous man, Walt led them to the nearest study.
“Bright room,” Agent Wentz said as Walt opened the study doors.
“Helps with the reading of fine print,” Walt said.
The hybrid office/library shone much brighter than even he expected. Hotter as well, particularly when entering from the cool hall.
Hard-covered books lined the side walls. Two oak tables with four wooden chairs centered the floor. A large roll-top desk waited to the right. Two, one-thousand watt high-pressure sodium bulbs hovered over each table. They normally operated at forty percent. Their spectrum emitted vitamins to mimic the sun, and he believed their heat added an intensity to the planning phases of his many ventures.
Judging from the agents crumpled features, the bulbs being at one-hundred percent might disorient the investigators.
“I feel like I need sunglasses,” Agent Wentz said as he eased into a chair and motioned for Walt to sit across from them. “And a fan.”
“My apologies. I asked an assistant to ready this space for us. We normally keep the setting lower.”
Agent Wentz glanced at the touch screen control, as if expecting Walt to lower them. With no chance of that, Walt simply waited.
“Would that assistant be...” Agent Wentz pulled an old-school notepad from his inside pocket, flipped three pages and asked, “...Ms. Kendra Houghton, age forty-nine?”
“That’s her. Though you may want to omit the age in her presence.” Walt beamed.
“Do you mind if I record this interview?” the second agent said. “We find—”
“Not at all,” Walt said. When the agent lifted the tablet at an angle to procure video, common sense overrode decorum. “On second thought, I don’t want to be filmed.” He made eye contact with the portly Wentz, who had leaned back in his chair and was studying Walt. “I’m not sure what this is about? Besides, I live my life avoiding being recorded and photographed, and in this instance, it might be prudent to know why you’re here before I go on the record.”
“That’s fair enough,” Agent Wentz said. Yet his sidekick continued to clench the tablet, aiming its lens in his direction. “Unless it’s because you’ve got things to hide?”
An ugly, full-grown midget, but sly. Walt looked at the tablet, “Do you mind powering that off?” Once done, he grinned at Agent Wentz. “We all have our secrets, but none of mine warrant fearing the law.”
“Mr. Zimbardo,” Agent Wentz said. “Do you know Mr. and Mrs. Padesky?”
“Even at this hour, I’m a busy man. I am willing to assist you any way I can, but shoot straight, or I’ll direct you to my attorney. What brings you here?”
Agent Wentz glanced at the powerful lights above them, and loosened his tie as a bead of sweat raced down his face. “We know you’ve had some recent legal issues with them.”
“A man in my position stays embroiled in litigation. The Padeskys are a conniving pair, but the courts will sort everything out.”
“The FBI has no interest in contract disputes, or restraining orders. We are working the abduction of a five-year-old girl; and the attempted murder of a twenty-one-year-old woman.”
Attempted murder? Walt sat straighter. When Cooper reported the injury to his chest, he had said the babysitter, “fired a blind shot and was subdued.” Nothing about almost killing her. Fearing a panic, Walt pushed aside his concern, widened his eyes to what he hoped was a credible expanse. “That’s awful. What can I do to help?”
“The five-year-old girl, Janey, is the Padeskys daughter. They claim you have knowledge of her abduction.”
A dramatic exhale. “Agent Wentz, I am horrified by the thought that anyone could do anything harmful to a child. To say I might know something about that leaves me baffled. I would never involve myself in such evil. I get nasty, but only after consulting my legal counsel.” He shook his head in bewilderment, wondering if he should comm
ent on Janey further, but decided saying less was best.
“Their daughter was kidnapped last night, and I admit, it was the strength of Mrs. Padeskys conviction that you were involved, which swayed me to make the flight out here and talk to you in person.”
“I understand the cliché,” Walt said. “The cruel Ebenezer using any means to get what he wants. It’s a portrait I’ve defended against many times.”
“Accusing someone of kidnapping seems an extreme shakedown tactic.”
Walt interlaced his fingers. “In your experience, is that really so unbelievable?”
Agent Wentz cleared his throat, and dapped moisture from his brow. “Let’s stick to your relationship with the Padeskys.”
“With on-going legal issues, I must limit my comments. I’m sorry.”
“We are not interested in a civil suit, or if you cheat on your taxes. We only want to return Janey to her family.”
Walt nodded solemnly. He knew a simple way for that to happen: give him the techniques for training an army of Dream Riders. “I invited them into something unique, and as expected they brought value to my project. It’s fair to say they broke the most ground, but this is a common theme. The inventor of the steering column who works for Ford, or the scientist who discovers the cure to baldness while working for Pfizer, feels entitled. I can’t blame them. However, in the eyes of the law, Ford and Pfizer own those breakthroughs, the same as I own Dream Riding. For them, it’s personal. To me, it’s just business. I could work with them tomorrow and hold no grudge. I’ve never wished them ill.”
“They mentioned you offered them riches. Help me understand why they would deny wealth in lieu of years of legal strife. Explain why they believe you could be involved here.”
“They played a major role in developing a new branch of dream hypnosis. Having experienced it first-hand, I can attest that other sensory experiences pale. This business will impact the world, but it’s mine to control. Like other inventors, the Padeskys can’t accept that.” Seeing the Agent processing, yet holding his frown, Walt added, “I offered them millions. This could be worth hundreds, or thousands of times that.” He inhaled through his nose. He couldn’t mention Dream Riding’s potential without kick starting his heart. Remembering why he sat under hot lights, he leaned forward and said, “Another reason companies deserve the right to advancements over their main contributors is we know how to introduce them, safely. The Padesky’s are practicing this art at great peril to the client.”
Sweat dripped from Agent Wentz’s chin.
“I’m sick with sympathy about their missing daughter. I am, but in my brief investigation of their reckless, illegal, use of this dream technique, I’ve learned they’ve angered people.”
“How so?”
“They get inside your mind, agent. A deep hypnosis while you sleep. You’re vulnerable, your subconscious runs wild. It’s like nothing known to man. They elucidate visions.” He licked his lips. “We don’t know the effects on the psyche. My company is still compiling data. One of their arrogant clients is a rap artist using the stage name: Hitting Licks. He’s ranted about them ‘messing with his mind’ and then ‘refusing to get back to him.’ His inner circle is polluted with felons, perhaps capable of a kidnapping.” Messing with his mind had been an actual quote—taken out of context. Hitting Licks had used it in praise. Testing it on the federal agents and seeing both scowls proved when using a good sound bite, context mattered little.
“And you should know, they caused a man’s death.”
Agent Wentz stopped his writing and looked up at Walt.
“Martin Carnes, I believe. He purchased a Dream Ride, and days later, committed suicide, citing the dream experience as the reason in his suicide note.” He assumed the agents were smart enough to see how causing death could anger a loved one enough to do something drastic, like kidnap. Walt was using the O.J. defense: Blame everyone else.
“You could be saving a little girl’s life by sharing parts of that file.” Agent Wentz said. “And you have my word we would use it exclusively to locate Janey.”
Teammates shared plans. “I will open my life to you agent, because I hope you can see, the idea of me—or someone of my stature—being involved in nefarious conspiracies is the stuff of fiction. In real life, we have too much to lose.”
Agent Wentz’s silent partner glanced around the teak-lined office.
“We must investigate two additional interests before we can wrap up here. How quickly can you locate Mr. Cooper Heitritter?”
“He’s in the house now.”
“Great. We’ll want a quick second with him. Lastly: would you mind removing your shirt?”
“I guess that isn’t a problem.” Walt disrobed and padded close enough to force the men to lean back as they inspected his shaved upper body.
Agent Wentz wiped sweat from his eyes, more dropped on the floor. “Arms up. Rotate for me. Slowly.”
When he finished, the two agents shared a look. “Can you summon Mr. Cooper Heitritter now.”
“He’s in a little better shape than I am, but he is a decade younger.” Walt chuckled, using levity to subdue the trepidation in his belly. They’d see through the make-up, and then Cooper would kill them, initiating the destruction of his life. Grinning to stifle a cry, he said, “One moment.”
Walt moved to the display screen on the wall, activated the household icon, and addressed the entire domicile as he redressed. “Mr. Heitritter report to the study.”
Activating the microphone in a specific room left the audio open for ten seconds, extended by speech. The universal announcement opened all reception. Cooper’s reply sounded crisp. “Right away.”
Cooper arrived in a loose fitting T-shirt, tan in color and a size too large. His fire-red hair was slightly messed. Having never seen the man dressed casually, or dressed in ill-fitting clothes, Walt hoped they weren’t telegraphing guilt by breaking routine.
Cooper came to the edge of the second table, stopping at the outer edge of the light.
Facing his conspirator, Walt said, “These men are investigating a horrible crime, of which we have been falsely accused.” Walt almost smiled at Cooper’s slight furrow and the confused dart of the eye from Walt to the agents and back. “They know we are innocent, but we’ve been named, so they’d like to inspect your chest for scratches or some type of marks.”
“Hands first,” Agent Wentz said.
The command so aligned with “hands up” Walt almost lunged at them. Thankfully, he had been facing Cooper.
Cooper extended his meaty paws under the light.
Agent Wentz spoke as both agents examined. “A woman was beaten to near death with a man’s knuckles.”
Walt shook his head in serious revulsion. Not from the act of beating a woman, but at the added risk, maybe because Cooper seemed to be having all the fun.
Cooper’s hands were clean, with no markings.
Walt had seen Cooper’s sparring gloves. Black with the light padding on the knuckles. The thought of a brute his size raining heavy blows on a petite, half-naked college girl made Walt cringe. Then his penis swelled. What a perfect time to lay some pipe. The hot chick’s disoriented and confused, but alive, primed for whatever.
“Now the chest,” Agent Wentz said.
Cooper stood erect, placing a hint of shadow on himself and eight feet between them.
He lifted his shirt without wincing, and slowly rotated, leaving the bruised side at the far end of the rotation.
Walt went rigid as he neared the final pivot. A clear line of make-up arched under the snow-white armpit. Without a gun tucked in his waistline, Cooper must plan to snap their necks or choke them to death. When he acted, Walt would have to join. Clenching his core, Walt stepped to block the view. With psychotic effort, he smiled. “It seems all clear.”
The second agent’s line of sight had been obstructed from the start, and Agent Wentz, God bless his obesity, nodded offhandedly as he glared at the bright light and wip
ed his face with a handkerchief.
Walt spoke, “Cooper worked at the FBI before he came to me.”
“We’re aware of Mr. Heitritter’s service,” Agent Wentz said as he stepped toward the door. “How quickly can you transfer that file to us?”
“I’ll call my investigator immediately, have everything screened by my attorney, and see if we can’t get you the file in a few hours.”
“Have a good day,” Agent Wentz charged out of the hot room.
Walt planned to have a great day. A series of them, starting with the next time he looked upon the subservient faces of Corey and Marci Padesky.
FORTY-ONE
Marci entered the hospital in west Las Vegas and wondered, if she ever had to visit Janey here, would she be relieved, devastated, or mad? She pushed the thoughts aside. Janey would return, unharmed, because she was meant for something.
Passing the third floor and slowing on the fourth, she exhaled as she pictured the injuries required to be admitted to this floor. She considered leaving and coming back another time.
She had visited Lisa’s room each of the last two days and knew the visiting hours and how to check in.
Though she had never known Lisa to be social—and had considered them the closest friends in each other’s lives—well-wishers had lined the hall on the first evening. The second saw a drop. Today, perhaps due to the early afternoon hour, no young people waited in the halls, staring into their phones, or taking selfies, or pictures of each other.
Lisa’s parents, fixtures in the hall or beside her bed, were not at their usual post.
Heading toward the desk to sign-in, Marci stopped short as the door to Lisa’s room opened and a doctor exited.
Marci had met Dr. Fleeing while he was speaking with Lisa’s parents on a previous occasion. With no one else to interfere, she approached. Speaking in a whisper, she said, “Are Lisa’s parents inside?”
The doctor had penetrating hazel eyes, and a clean shaven face to match his scalp. He inspected her, no doubt remembering Marci’s role as the secondary victim, and then he said, “They’ve been awake for two days. I finally convinced them to book a hotel and sleep.”
