Greatest Hits Mysteries Boxed Set (Books 1-4)

by Langtry, Leslie

  Ronnie drew herself up to her full height. She’d made some kind of decision. “I will tell you the truth about Drew. I love him. That’s all you need to know.” She spun on her heel and went inside the house, slamming the door behind her.

  It took everything I had to get back into the car and start the ignition. Unfortunately, I looked at the window and watched as Drew draped his arm around Veronica and kissed her forehead .

  I made the twenty-minute trip back to Cedar Rapids in eight minutes. During that time, my brain was turned inside out. Why didn’t she tell me about this Drew character? Clearly they had a relationship by the way he touched her. And that looked like a house, not an apartment I dropped her off at.

  Oh my god. She totally played me with that innocent bullshit! And I fell for it for the first time in fifteen years. She even pretended to love my guinea pig! Sartre was made a fool of! Well, I couldn’t stand for that.

  The pilot wisely said nothing as I climbed on the jet and told him to take me to Santa Muerta to dispose of Arje Dekker.

  I don’t remember much of the flight. I had a major headache, and I don’t get headaches. Ever. Somehow we crossed Central and South America and landed on the Bombay Family’s private island before I could string a sentence together.

  Mum was standing on the airstrip, waiting for me. Apparently, the pilot let them know I was coming and she’d made the trip to meet me there.

  I dragged Dekker off the plane and tossed him roughly onto the tarmac. Mum threw her arms around me, but I felt like I was made of stone.

  “How was your trip, Squidgy?” she asked.

  “It sucked.” I pointed to Arje. “I have to kill this guy.”

  My mother looked from me to Dekker. She pulled out her cell and dialed.

  “Carlos?” She spoke in perfectly accented Spanish, asking one of the staff members to come and get my Vic and take him to the holding area. None of the staff on the island spoke English, and every last one of them was male. They never asked questions and got paid handsomely for their work. Carlos wouldn’t have to kill the Vic. That was a Bombay job. But he could take him to a room below the main level that was basically an escape-proof cell.

  “Come on, dear,” Mum said, taking my hand. “When was the last time you ate?”

  I didn’t really feel like eating. But I allowed her to take me to the dining hall and set before me a plate of my favorite food. In case you are wondering, it’s tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches. With all my worldly experience, that is what I want to come home to.

  Mum watched me eat without saying a word. She knew something was up. She also knew that I wouldn’t talk before I was ready. I felt like a stubborn child, but was in no way interested in a conversation about how Veronica Gale played me for an idiot.

  So my mother chattered on about my cousins, Dad and the weather. I took in the information but it never registered.

  “Why don’t you let us take care of your Vic?” Mum’s words caught me up short. “You look like you could use a break.”

  I shook my head. “No. It’s my job. I just need to get some sleep. I’ll take care of him tomorrow.”

  She nodded, patted my hand and left. I finished up and after liberating a bottle of twenty-five year old scotch from the bar, headed up to my room.

  As I mentioned, the Bombay Family has their own island. This is where the Council stays most of the time and runs the actual family business. My cousin Missi and her sons live here year-round. The island is our home base. We have family reunions here every five years where we get to hang out, have our evaluations and sometimes take a turn on the ropes course.

  Santa Muerta is virtually invisible to the rest of the world. The main rule is that everyone goes inside between 4pm and 6pm to avoid notice from the various spy satellites overhead at that time. The island resembles a resort with a main building where every Bombay has their own suite of rooms.

  My room was just as I’d left it less than one year ago at the last reunion. Bookshelves covered the walls, full of well-worn books. The furniture was overstuffed leather – perfect for curling up and contemplating the mysteries of life.

  I took a glass and two ice cubes with the bottle of scotch out onto the terrace. There was a great view of the ocean. The scotch was an Islay single malt. It went down smooth to mend my frayed nerves. But it did little to ease my mind. How in the name of Immanuel Kant did I get mixed up with Veronica Gale? I thought I had her all figured out. Boy was I wrong. The irony of this thought was not lost on me, but I was too upset to be rational. Was her whole “poor little orphan girl” thing some kind of con? If so, why me? And who the hell was Drew?

  Thinking back to the first day I met her didn’t help. All it did was give me goose bumps. I pictured her and remembered what she said. But there was no clue – nothing that made her seem other than how I’d pegged her.

  My thoughts reeled back to Miami and how we met there. But no matter how many times I replayed the scenes, I found nothing that tipped me off. Mongolia swam into view but the memories were too fresh. I felt nothing but pain and embarrassment when I remembered the month there with her.

  My scotch went dry as I contemplated how I could have done things differently. The surf crashed against the rocks and I sympathized. Those rocks were taking the same beating I did. Veronica had gotten under my skin in a way no woman had since Frannie Smith.

  I poured another glass, wincing at the name of the first woman who played me for a fool. I guess that all these years my subconscious controlled my desire for a relationship to protect me. And I blew it by falling for Ronnie.

  Damn. Did I really just think that? I turned the idea over in my mind, searching for holes. But no, it was too late. I had fallen in love with her. And she made me look like an idiot. I pictured her even now sitting with the handsome Drew, laughing at how she played me. Would she tell him that she slept with me? Probably not. The woman was a liar. And I’d saved her life.

  Then again, she’d only been in danger in the first place because of her connection to me. I couldn’t really blame her for that. My thoughts turned to my prisoner three floors below. Chances were the staff had fed him. For a moment, I felt kind of friendly toward him. I had no idea why.

  The sun set on my gloomy mood and I nursed the bottle as the sky changed from turquoise to navy. No matter what I did, I still felt worse than stupid. And as I drank, my mood darkened.

  Various thoughts popped into my head over the course of the evening. I thought of looking up Drew and killing him, but he wasn’t the real culprit. Isn’t it strange how your mind plays tricks on you? I imagined him making love to her and ended up hurling my bottle into the sea. That sucked because I didn’t like littering. Veronica Gale made me look like an idiot, and she made me litter. I hated her for that.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Samuel: Your resume is quite impressive. Sixteen years of military experience, extensive counter-terrorism work. I’m surprised anyone could afford you. What’s the catch?

  Creasy: I drink.

  - Man on Fire

  “Are you going to kill me, or what?” a tired and bored Arje Dekker asked me an hour later. I sat across from him in the holding room. He was chained to the wall in a way that allowed him to move around a cot, chair and toilet. I was perfectly safe. A little drunk but okay.

  “I just don’t get it,” I droned on for the fortieth time. “How did I miss it?”

  Dekker rubbed his eyes. “I’ve told you, I don’t know. I thought she was this naïve little schoolgirl too.”

  I sat up. “I never thought she was naïve.” I poured Arje another paper cup half full of scotch and withdrew to a safe distance.

  He drained it in one gulp. That made me sad inside. It was no way to treat such a good single malt.

  “Look, Bombay, what does it matter in the grand scheme of things? We’re men of action.”

  I giggled at his words and he smirked.

  “Men like us don’t get used by women. We use wom
en.”

  “I don’t use women, Dekker.”

  An ugly smile crossed his face. “Oh, no? Ronnie said you had all kinds of rich, housewife carnie groupies. Are you telling me you weren’t taking advantage of their fantasies to get laid?”

  “You know,” I said a little too slowly, “your English is really good for a Dutch mercenary.”

  “If you aren’t going to take this seriously, then just leave so I can get some sleep before I’m killed.”

  I shook my head. “A little extra sleep isn’t going to help, my friend.”

  “And drinking yourself into a stupor over that little bitch isn’t helping you either.”

  “Hey! Don’t call her that!” I rose to my feet to do…to do what? He was right. So I sat back down.

  We didn’t speak for a moment. I did refill his glass. To his credit, he drank slower this time.

  “I don’t know why you are talking to me about this,” Dekker said quietly. “I’ve got no experience with feelings toward a woman.”

  I lifted my glass to the light and turned it slowly, examining the amber fluid. “Well, I guess I just needed someone to talk to.”

  He snorted. “And you thought that someone was me? I am surprised. After all, you see me as some kind of genocidal monster.”

  I was a little defensive. “I’ve seen your file, Arje. I’ve seen what you have done to women and children. Just for fun.”

  Dekker shook his head. “Back to that, are we? What do I have to say to make you think about that?”

  “Are you denying it?” That would be stupid. I don’t believe everything I read. But the Bombay network has always been completely accurate. Why would they lie about it?

  “Yes. I am denying it.”

  “Well that’s damned convenient.” I shouted. “Now that you face your death, I not surprised that you’d recant.”

  “How can I recant something I never said in the first place?” Arje said quietly. “You are the one with the faulty source, not me.”

  I started to pour another glass, but stopped myself. “Let’s drop it. I shouldn’t have come down here.” I stood and collected my bottle.

  He looked me in the eyes, causing me to sit back down. “I guess if I was to have any regrets, that might be the big one.” He rubbed the stubble on his chin. “It would’ve been nice to be in love. You got that over me.”

  I snorted. “Yeah. And I really picked a good one.”

  Arje Dekker got up from his chair, walked over to his cot and laid down on it. “Turn out the lights when you go. I need to get my beauty rest for the execution to come.”

  I didn’t want to go. I wanted to talk more. But I did as he asked and left him. I took the bottle of scotch with me. I’m not a total idiot.

  Sartre’s shrieks woke me from a dream where Dekker and I were in the Brazilian jungle fighting off a tribe of Amazonian women who all resembled Veronica Gale. Staggering from my bed, I pulled some fruit from the basket on the table and broke it up, tossing it inside her cage. While she jumped greedily on the mango, I had the distinct impression she was pissed off at me for my lack of presentation.

  A knock at the door revealed my mother and father, holding a platter of scrambled eggs, sausage and biscuits. I wearily let them in. After all, it had been a long time since I’d had eggs. There aren’t many chickens in Mongolia.

  “That’s my boy.” Dad smacked me on the back, launching my hangover into overdrive. I excused myself to clean up a bit. One shower later I was clean. Hung over, but clean.

  “Your mum says you aren’t yourself,” Dad said with a grin. “She thinks it’s because of some lady friend in Mongolia.”

  “I’m alright,” I managed as I finished my second helping of eggs. The food was giving me a little strength. “It’s nothing.”

  My parents looked at each other. They’ve always been able to read me. I’ve been lucky in that they never once questioned anything I did. They seemed just as proud of my decision to become a carnie as they were when I got my Ph.D. from Yale. This prying into my emotional affairs was something new.

  “Squidge,” Mum started, “I’m a little worried about you.”

  “Why?” I’d given them no reason to worry. How did they know?

  Mum handed half an orange to Sartre, who was our living centerpiece, before continuing. “You haven’t killed your Vic yet. That’s not like you.”

  Oh. This was pretty unusual for a Bombay. There had been rare occasions when one of us would drag a live one home, or there wouldn’t be holding cells on the property. But keeping one alive so I could get relationship advice from him must have seemed a bit strange.

  “I saw the surveillance tapes and know you went in there, but we’re having some difficulty with the sound.” Mum frowned. “I don’t know what we were thinking sending Missi off on assignment. Nothing works here without her.”

  “You were spying on me?” I asked.

  Dad nodded and my mother shot him a deadly look, causing him to dive into another helping of sausage.

  “I was worried about you. Is there something you are trying to get out of him before you take him out?”

  That sounded good. “Yes. He has some information I need and he’s not coughing it up.” She would believe that. Obviously a Vic wasn’t going to spill his guts before we literally spilled his guts. He’d try to keep any information he had to prolong his lifespan.

  “Oh. Okay.” Mum looked distracted. “So, when will you do it then?”

  I sighed and leaned back from the table. “Soon. I promise. I just have to do a little research first. That’s all.”

  We finished breakfast and after kicking my parents out of my rooms, I hit my laptop. There were a couple of things I wanted to look up before I did anything else.

  The next two days were a blur. I spent a lot of time online and calling in favors to get some information. My mother made frequent visits to see when I was going to clear my assignment. I didn’t see the other members of the Council, but I knew she was getting pressure on this.

  The hardest part was forcing myself not to find out who Drew was. It wasn’t easy, but I was so torn up about Veronica’s admission that I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. Drew seemed like a nice guy. Who was I to say otherwise? Besides, cyber-stalking him would probably just make me mad. And I might find out he’s a better man than me. That would suck bigtime.

  “So, what do you think?” I said to Dekker on one of my late night visits to his cell. I made sure to permanently disable the sound on the surveillance cameras. It was just enough to confuse the Council but not enough to incur Missi’s wrath when she returned.

  Dekker rubbed his face. “Jesus, Cy. Will you just end it already? I swear that your drama is making me want to kill myself.”

  “Come on, just one more answer.” He was right, this was beyond weird. I was the first to admit it. But something about these midnight sessions made me feel a little better. I thought that Dekker should be happy he was helping in some minor way. Apparently, he wasn’t.

  “Okay, okay. I think you should just confront her.”

  “What? You’ve been telling me all this time that I should forget about her! How can you flip-flop like that?”

  “Well, that was before you did all this research and found out what you did. Now that you know the story, you should let her know. Then you can end it.” He held out his hand. “Now can I please have my cyanide pill?”

  “You want to die now?” That was a shock.

  “No. But this is beyond annoying. You are keeping me alive to be your analyst. And after all this time, you still haven’t asked me about the truth.”

  I shook my head. “Not this again. Everyone on death row says they are innocent. And more than likely, they’re not. Why should I believe you?”

  Dekker spread his hands wide. “I’m not going to beg. I’ve done some bad things in my career. But you keep accusing me of genocide and torture. And while I’m guilty of many things, those two are not on the list.”

>   I cocked my head to the side, feeling a little like a spaniel who thinks he might have heard the word ‘treat’ but isn’t sure. “Look. My evidence is credible. And you admit you’ve committed acts of evil. Why should I believe you?” Seriously, this saw was getting dull.

  “Why do you insist on pigeon-holing me?” He said quietly and the words shook me.

  “What…what did you say?”

  “You heard me, Bombay.” Dekker steepled his fingers. “I have killed a lot of men. Most of them were armed. I’ve given orders for torture to retrieve information. But I’ve never directly participated, nor have I ordered the torture of civilians. I’ve been paid handsomely for my work. But I’ve never tolerated the torture or murder of women or children.” He punctuated his monologue with a shrug.

  I stared at Arje Dekker for a long time. His words wormed his way through my brain and froze there. They caused just enough doubt…just enough to make me stop and think. Oh, there was no doubt when it came to the fact Dekker was a gun for hire. There was no doubt that he’d chosen whoever paid him most, good or bad. But the fact that some of what he said made me question my beliefs was important. Dekker might, indeed, be innocent of the gravest offenses – the ones that would make me want to kill him.

  “You are right.” I said finally. “I did pigeonhole you.” His expression did not change as I continued. “And maybe that makes you right about other things too.” I stood up, gave him a brief nod, and left Arje Dekker alive.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Dignon: Just hear me out. It’s called Hinckley Cold Storage. Here are just a few of the key ingredients; dynamite, pole-vaulting, laughing gas, choppers – can you see how incredible this is gonna be? Hang gliding, come on!

  - Bottle Rocket

  I knocked on the door and stepped back to await an answer. Nothing. I rapped a little more firmly. Still nothing. It was two o’clock on a sunny afternoon. I decided to wait it out on the swing on the porch.