The Kingfish Commission: A suspense novel about politics, gambling — and murder. (Kingfish Corruption Series Book 1)

by Hal M. Harrison

  “OK. When do you want me to get you? I’m off in about a half hour.”

  Rob couldn’t wait that long.

  “Rocky, I need you to come get me now. I’ve had a wreck and I’m stuck in an overturned Explorer full of water and I’ve got to get back to Baton Rouge before someone else gets hurt. It’s real complicated.” Rob had blurted out the explanation as quickly as he could. Every minute could make a difference in Sherry’s safety. “I need you to get here as fast as you can.”

  “I’m on my way,” Rocky replied. Rob could hear the engine of the helicopter pitch up several octaves from a slow cruise to a much faster speed.

  “I’ll be out of the truck, near the highway,” Rob said, optimistically. “Don’t shut down your engines, just grab me and go.”

  “Got it. I’ll be there in about ten minutes. This baby can really haul ass, and she needs a good blowing out, anyway!”

  Rob punched the cellphone off and put it back in its cradle. With one hand he supported his weight against the roof of the truck, while he unbuckled the seat harness with his other hand. He slowly slid into the slimy water that covered the upper interior. Rob noticed how sore his whole body was, as he struggled to lift himself out of the overturned Explorer and crawl through the gaping hole on the passenger’s side.

  He heard something move in the water to his right. Rob didn’t look to see what it was, as he got to his feet and sloshed through the shallow water, around the Explorer and to the steeply banked dry patch of land that lead back up to the elevated highway.

  It had taken him several minutes to climb from the wreck. He fell down to rest on the dry incline. His whole body ached and his head still felt as if it were surrounded in gauze. Rob was wet, cold, tired and hurting.

  He checked the pocket of his jacket. The flash drive and printout were still there.

  Rob noticed a faint buzzing sound. Was that another symptom of shock?

  It was the sound of an approaching helicopter. He must have passed out for several minutes.

  Rob slowly got to his feet and climbed up to the highway, orienting himself to the ghastly scene. Down below, the Explorer was facing in the opposite direction from which he had been traveling, tires skyward, looking very much like nature’s poorest pedestrian: an armadillo. Road-kill.

  Just down the highway was the smoldering remnants of the eighteen-wheeler and the dark sedan.

  It was obvious no one could have escaped from the car, but Rob wondered what had happened to the trucker. One of the doors to the tractor-trailer’s cab was open, so Rob assumed he had escaped.

  Thank God.

  Rob knew he had made a desperate attempt to elude the sedan and had prayed in the last moments before impact that his drastic action didn’t cause a loss of life — other than his own.

  But, he also knew that when it came to the occupant, or occupants, of the chasing sedan, it was kill, or be killed.

  A small group of bystanders was looking in the direction of the eighteen-wheeler and the remains of the car and hadn’t noticed Rob emerge from the Explorer. They probably didn’t know his truck lay partially submerged in the swamp that bordered the raised highway.

  As Rocky’s helicopter approached, the group turned around and finally saw Rob.

  “That’s him!” A lanky man wearing work-boots and a plaid shirt that hung out over his faded jeans was yelling and pointing at Rob. “That’s the bastard that caused this wreck!”

  It must be the trucker. He was obviously very much alive.

  “He tried to kill himself and almost killed me, too!” The trucker was now running toward Rob, looking as if he was intent on finishing the suicide that hadn’t been completed.

  Rob looked up. Rocky’s chopper was at tree level and approaching fast. Rob grabbed his wallet and pulled out a small clump of business cards. He was about to leave the scene of an accident and wanted to let the authorities know how to reach him. He would explain later.

  The trucker stopped running towards Rob as the helicopter began its descent. His face was contorted in a mixture of rage, consternation and amazement.

  Rob threw the business cards onto the highway and ran over to where the helicopter was touching down. The cards were scattered by the chopper’s air wash, but the trucker scrambled to pick one up.

  “Let’s get out of here!” Rob yelled to Rocky.

  Rocky LeBlanc’s face also showed a measure of confusion and surprise as he surveyed the scene, but he was already talking as Rob jumped into the adjoining seat.

  “...the scene of a major accident on Highway One just south of Moss Point. It’s not a problem for metro commuters, but involves an eighteen-wheeler and perhaps two other vehicles: a truck and possibly a car. No report of injuries is yet available as authorities have not arrived on the scene. Rocky LeBlanc, with this exclusive report, for Skywatch Traffic.”

  Rocky pointed to a headset in front of the passenger seat as the interior filled with the noise of the chopper regaining altitude. Rob paled from the combined effect of the rapid ascent and the tilting maneuver of the helicopter’s sudden change in direction, along with the wooziness he was already experiencing from the wreck.

  “Are you OK?” Rocky yelled the question, a frown of concern showing from under his Saints cap. He retrieved his stored gum off the control stick and resumed chewing.

  “I’m all right,” Rob answered without enthusiasm. His voice was thin and weak. Rob put on the headset to aid their communication. He noticed that his head was still wet and his slacks were covered in mud, as were his hands. He shivered from exposure and every muscle in his body ached. No wonder Rocky had asked him if he was OK. Rob wasn’t really sure that he was.

  “Long time no see,” Rob heard through the headset.

  “Yeah. Good to see you, Rocky,” Rob replied, trying to strengthen his voice. “Thanks for the help. I’m in a real mess.”

  “I see that.” Rocky nodded to the accident’s scene which was rapidly retreating below.

  “That’s not the half of it.” Rob couldn’t look down. He felt as if he might throw up at any second.

  Rocky looked at Rob again and with his right hand reached behind Rob’s seat, moving objects around in the small storage compartment. He retrieved a thin, drab-olive wool blanket that was neatly folded into a compact square.

  “Here, try to warm up,” Rocky said as he handed the blanket to Rob.

  Rob nodded and unfolded the blanket, spreading it over his legs.

  “We’ll be in Baton Rouge in about ten minutes,” Rocky said. “Do you want me to head to the downtown airport?”

  “No, just downtown.”

  “Downtown?”

  “The Petroleum Tower.”

  “They don’t have a pad on the roof, do they?”

  “I don’t know. We’ll figure out something.”

  Rocky shrugged his shoulders, smiled confidently and pulled the cap down lower on his forehead. He chewed his gum even faster. It wouldn’t be the first time he had adlibbed a landing.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Rob’s legs were warming and the nausea had passed for the moment. His mind cleared and he began analyzing his situation.

  “How many stations do you do reports for?” Rob asked after a moment.

  “Three radio stations and one television station. Why?”

  “Can you get through to their newsrooms?”

  “Sure. They all monitor the reports for major accidents.”

  “I’ve got a big story to call in.” Rob turned to see Rocky’s reaction.

  LeBlanc’s eyes searched Rob’s face, then he nodded.

  “I’ve got another traffic report to do here in a couple of minutes and then I’ll patch you through to the first station’s newsroom,” Rocky said, while flipping switches on the communications panel.

  The helicopter was flying at an extremely low altitude and the trees below were soaring past. Even at this low level, Rob could already see the Baton Rouge skyline on the horizon.

  There
was no traffic in sight, but Rocky issued another update, as scheduled. This time he reported no accidents.

  When the brief broadcast was completed, Rocky contacted the station’s news department. After establishing his credibility with the news director, Rob related the information that he and Sherry had gathered so far. It was more than enough to get the news director’s attention. While Rob was filling in some of the details, he could hear the newsman already issuing orders to his staff. The information Rob and Sherry had found would be rapidly supplemented by the best news organizations in the state.

  If KLOM and KAGN couldn’t break the stories, no one would get the exclusive — Rocky patched-in the helicopter’s communications to as many stations as he could in their short flight-time back to Baton Rouge.

  By morning, it would be the biggest story in Louisiana.

  They approached the business district as Rob finished outlining the story to his fourth radio station. The station was owned by a company that also ran Baton Rouge’s highest-rated television station, and both news departments had put Rob on a conference call, so that they could get the information simultaneously.

  When he switched off the comlink to the stations, Rocky looked at Rob. Baldwin had slumped in his seat, exhausted, his voice almost lost from emotion, stress and fatigue.

  “So, you’ve been a busy boy since the last time I saw you,” Rocky dead-panned.

  The irony of the gross understatement made Rob laugh. Rocky winked and smiled, but never stopped chewing his gum.

  His hand was now well up her dress.

  Every time she would try to move, his grip on her jaw would tighten. She was sure the facial bruise would last for weeks, but that was the least of her worries. Sherry hoped she would get out of this situation with nothing more than a few bruises. Ashton Brocata was insane. She had to find a way to escape. His eyes terrified her and his voice was low, threatening and lurid.

  How can I get out of here?

  He forced his lips on hers and kissed her. His breath was awful, and came in sudden gasps, almost snorts. His lips were overly wet, his hands sticky and cold. He was absolutely the most repulsive animal that had ever touched her.

  And now she was going to act like she wanted him.

  Sherry stop resisting. As he finally pulled away, she moved back toward him and kissed him deeply. She stifled the urge to vomit and forced herself to kiss him again, her tongue probing his mouth. He responded by moving his right hand out from under her dress, the other loosened its grip on her jaw and he held her in what was now a passionate embrace.

  So far, so good.

  He was still bending down over her as she sat. Sherry eased off the chair and kneeled down as they kissed. She moved her hands to his belt and began unbuckling it. Ashton Brocata’s loud breathing quickened as he stood. Again a wave of nausea flooded over Sherry, but she forced a smile and attempted to guise her face in an expression of desire. Brocata looked down at Sherry, his eyes half-shut in anticipation. She unzipped his pants and pulled them down. They quickly dropped to his ankles. Brocata’s hands were stroking her hair and lightly gripping the back of her head.

  She pulled down his boxers and closed her eyes, as if with passion, but in reality to hide her disgust.

  Brocata moaned.

  “Yes, Sherry. Yes. I knew you’d see things my way.” He leaned his head back in delightful expectation.

  She wrapped her hands around his waist and felt the muscles in his body relax. His guard was down. So were his pants.

  In one sudden, single motion, she moved her hands from his waist to his ankles, sharply thrusting her head into his soft gut and sweeping his ankles forward. As Ashton Brocata fell backwards, Sherry jumped to her feet and ran from the office. The sight of Brocata’s milky white legs with calf-high black socks flying up in the air and his chubby, naked torso flapping as he fell on his butt, almost made Sherry laugh. It was a welcome relief from the disgust she had just felt.

  She ran through the hall and to the elevators as she heard Brocata scramble to get to his feet.

  “You son-of-a-bitch! I’ll kill you!” Brocata’s rage had intensified with his humiliation.

  She punched the ‘Down’ button on the elevator.

  Come on. Come on!

  The elevator was still on their floor from Brocata’s arrival and in a moment the doors opened.

  Sherry turned to see Brocata jumping through the door of the bookkeeping office, grabbing his pants and pulling them on as he hobbled through the hall.

  He would get to the elevator before the doors could close with her safely on board alone.

  She would have to try outrunning him on the stairs.

  He’s a pretty old guy. I should be able to outrun him easily.

  Shouldn’t I?

  There was no time to weigh the options. He was already halfway across the lobby, his face red with rage. Brocata now had his pants on and was picking up speed with each step.

  She ran to the metal door leading to the stairwell beside the elevators.

  As she bolted through the door, Brocata suddenly stopped, spun around and ran down the hall to his office. He rushed to his desk, scattering papers from its surface to the floor as he yanked open the bottom right drawer.

  And pulled out a 9mm Beretta 92F.

  The bitch can’t outrun a bullet.

  He hurried from his office and within seconds was at the stairway.

  He could hear her heels rapidly tapping down the flight of stairs below.

  Sherry was running as fast as she could down the stairs. She didn’t stop to look behind her to see if Brocata was gaining on her. She just ran.

  The mostly dark stairwell was stuffy, with warm, stale air.

  As she ran, she only heard the sound of her own breathing and the clacking of her heals on the metal plates guarding the edges of the concrete steps.

  She hesitated for a moment, removing her heals to quiet the sound of her escape. It only took seconds, and then she continued her reckless, near free-fall down the stairs.

  Then, abruptly, she stopped.

  The agency offices were on the twenty-second floor.

  I can’t run all the way down! Surely, Brocata won’t!

  He would take the elevator and calmly be waiting for her in the lobby.

  She listened.

  Silence.

  Brocata wasn’t even chasing her.

  She looked up the flight of stairs from which she had just descended.

  Nothing.

  She looked down.

  Nothing.

  The silence made the skin on the back of her neck prickle.

  She walked from the stairwell to the metal door leading to a lobby, putting her shoes back on as she walked, but being careful to step silently on her toes.

  Sherry tried to regain normal breathing and pulled back a thick strand of her black hair which stuck with perspiration to her forehead. She slowly opened the door and looked into the hallway of the 16th floor. It was dark and silent. Only ambient lighting illuminated the hall and the lobby area leading to the elevators. She saw the name on the wall. The floor was home to one of Baton Rouge’s most respected accounting firms, but it wasn’t tax season and Sherry heard no sound of a late-working CPA. The cleaning crews had yet to arrive.

  She was alone.

  Except for Ashton Brocata who was stalking her, somewhere in the building.

  She cautiously walked from the stairway to the elevators.

  The tally lights showed both elevators to be waiting on the ground floor. He must be waiting for her now in the main lobby.

  Call 9-1-1. I’ll tell them I’ve been working late and heard someone else in the building and got frightened — silly me! — but, could an officer escort me out of the building, just to be on the safe side?

  She’d use a little charm on the officer and discount her fear to silly, ground-less paranoia, then thank him profusely and be on her way.

  Brocata wouldn’t be able to touch her.

 
He listened to her footsteps filter up the narrow stairwell. She was already several flights down. Maybe two floors, three at the most.

  He punched the elevator for the nineteenth floor.

  In seconds he was in the lobby of an architectural firm. A light was on at the end of the hall, but no one was to be seen. He walked to the metal door to the stairway, but did not open it. Ashton Brocata listened.

  He heard her scuffling in the distance.

  Brocata opened the door slightly to get a fix on her position. She was down another few flights.

  He’d try two floors down.

  As he got off the elevator on the seventeenth floor, he was pleased to note that it was a vacant and unfinished floor. The Petroleum Tower was a relatively new building and about sixty percent occupied. He pulled the pistol from his coat pocket and rushed to the stairway.

  Brocata’s heart nearly stopped as he realized she had just passed the door and was still heading down. He raced back to the elevator and punched the button for the ground floor lobby. She would think he had taken it down to the ground floor.

  Suddenly, her steps went silent. Had she stopped running?

  Maybe she’ll step out of the stairway on this floor, right into my arms.

  He returned to the door and put his head close, listening.

  She was not far down. He could hear her breathing.

  She had stopped for a moment. Brocata listened for her next move.

  He heard a rustling and then the breathing quickened and got fainter.

  She must have taken off her shoes and continued running!

  Brocata carefully opened the door and looked into the stairwell. Silently he peered down the space between flights. He could barely see her, two flights down, running frantically, but now only with the sound of her frightened breathing.

  He silently but briskly walked down the stairs in pursuit. She was tiring and he figured she would not be able to keep up this pace all the way down to the ground floor.

  He was right. In a moment she stopped and began moving to a floor entrance. He waited. Sherry was slowly entering the lobby to the floor just below. When she had finally moved through the door, Brocata made his way quietly down the remaining stairs to the 16th floor.