by Peter Parkin
Lloyd’s stomach did a turn. He looked over at James. The executive’s face was now a cold mask, and the large pistol in his hand was pointed at Lloyd’s head.
In an instant, a myriad of thoughts went through Lloyd’s mind. Not the least of which was Sandy’s ominous warning, jumbled together with an image of Cassidy waiting for him on the dock with a pitcher of martinis.
But the one thought that was paramount in his quick brain was the car’s accelerator. He slammed his foot to the floor and the powerful engine roared. The vehicle lurched forward and within seconds the speedometer indicated they were hurtling along at 140 miles per hour.
James yelled. “I’ll put a bullet in your head right now! Slow this sucker down!”
Lloyd yelled back as he held his foot to the floor. “Fuck you, asshole!”
Then, with the steely determination that had been pounded into his brain back at West Point, he steered the car off the road, down an embankment, and directly toward a massive oak tree.
Eliminate the threat before anything else.
Lloyd flung his right hand to his side, and pushed down on the red latch release on his attacker’s seatbelt, hearing the reassuring click. He was vaguely aware of the man’s frantic attempts with his gun-free hand to slip it back into place.
As the tree loomed ahead, he saw the face of a child.
A young girl lying dead on a mattress, blood pouring from her forehead.
He could even smell the scene—the sickening, sweet odor of semen mixed with horny boy-sweat.
For the first time in years, Lloyd Franken felt tears in his eyes.
Tears that clouded his vision of the crash.
20
It was pouring rain in Lexington. The entire Boston area was under the angry shroud of a January storm, threatening to turn itself into a blizzard by evening.
Sandy waited in the dry comfort of his house foyer until he saw the car pull up in front. Then he made a mad dash out to the curb, holding yesterday’s newspaper over his head for protection.
The door opened magically and he ducked inside, pulling shut the heavy bullet-proof shield of metal behind him.
The windows of the black stretch limousine were tinted, casting the interior of the massive vehicle in a dark gloom.
Cigarette smoke drifting up from the occupant sitting across from him only added to the atmosphere and served as a sober reminder of who he was meeting.
The custom-made Cadillac pulled away from the curb and cruised slowly down the street. The movement of the vehicle prompted the first words from his host.
“Feel free to crack the window open if the smoke bothers you, Dr. Beech.”
Sandy shook his head.
“No, thanks. I’d rather not be the subject of gawkers. This car does draw attention. That’s why I asked that you just meet me somewhere discreet instead.”
“I had some business in downtown Boston this morning. Meeting this way was just more quick and convenient. I hope you don’t mind.”
Sandy pulled on the handle of the footrest, and stretched his legs out in the cavernous cabin.
“No, it’s okay. I’m glad you agreed to meet.”
The man poured himself a cup of coffee from a thermos resting in a side stand.
“Would you care for a cup, Doctor?”
“Yes, that would be fine. Thank you.”
As the man poured, Sandy studied his expression. He seemed calm and relaxed, despite being formally dressed to the nines. A custom-tailored black suit, with matching vest. High collared starched shirt adorned with a pink silk tie.
Only real men wore pink.
Cool, calm and dapper was the essence of the man Sandy knew as Vito Romano. Consigliere to Boston’s Ferrara crime family, reporting directly to the Godfather himself, Paolo Marino.
The man’s demeanour oozed the same confidence as his appearance.
He had a dark “film noir” quality about him, reminiscent of gangster movies from the ’50s. Broad shoulders, slim and trim build, perfectly coiffed dark hair, and a face that reminded Sandy of Tony Bennett in his early years.
Despite who he worked for, Sandy liked Vito. Had known him for several years now and, although their relationship had always been mutually helpful and friendly, it had remained formal and respectful.
Which was exactly the way Sandy wanted it.
Vito was the type of guy who could be comfortable at the race track, the opera, the occasional gangland shooting—or standing in front of a jury, which, being the Mafia family lawyer, he’d had to do on many an occasion.
He hadn’t lost a case yet.
Vito took a long sip from his coffee cup, then broke the silence with his smooth velvety voice.
“Before we get into the reason for our meeting, I wanted to pass along thanks to you for that information on MIT admissions guidelines. Those changes were good for us to know in advance. We have several family members trying to get in there, and that inside track you gave us will be helpful.”
Sandy nodded sheepishly.
“Glad to be of help.”
Vito laughed.
“No, you’re not. But, thanks for being polite and saying so. At least you can console yourself in knowing that those little secrets aren’t anything related to national security. Like, you didn’t exactly tell us about all those secret weapons you’re working on at the Lincoln Laboratory, right?”
Sandy smiled.
“I’m not working on any secret weapons.”
Vito returned the smile.
“No? You have nothing to do with something called the Pulsed Energy Projectile—the PEP?”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about, Vito.”
Vito shrugged his shoulders. “Okay, we can do this dance together—as we usually do. Someday, maybe over a glass of expensive scotch, you’ll tell me all about it.”
“That will never happen, Vito.”
The Mafioso placed his right hand over his heart and nodded.
“I respect you, Doctor. Just jazzing with you. You’ve never sold out to us—never taken a dime. Our relationship has always been one of just information exchange. That’s admirable, compared to most of the people we know.”
“Thanks.”
The man opened a briefcase that was resting on the seat beside him and withdrew some papers.
Then he extinguished his cigarette and looked straight into Sandy’s eyes.
“We’re still sickened by what happened to your family, Doctor, and all the other families. I want you to know that our hearts were broken that day, and I can’t imagine how you’ve managed to go on. I don’t know if I could have been that strong.”
Sandy lowered his eyes and nodded.
“We heard that the deputy mayor tried an ambush on you. And that you left his bodyguard in pretty bad shape—ended up in the hospital with a punctured larynx.”
Sandy poured himself another cup of coffee from the thermos.
“Yes, and all I got for my trouble was an envelope with blank pages. I think he thought I was bluffing, shooting blanks.”
“Mr. Christopher Clark has been on our payroll for a few years now, as you know. He’s been a useful idiot, paving the way with certain city contracts and projects. We’ve paid him handsomely and, on a deputy mayor’s salary, our offer was too tempting for him to ignore. But, as we alerted you, we heard through the grapevine that he’s been on the payroll for others as well. We didn’t really care all that much until we heard that he might have had some involvement with that Quincy Market affair. Nothing specific, just some rumblings about him.”
Sandy leaned forward in his seat.
“I told him that I knew about his Mafia contacts. And that you folks had given me a hint of his involvement. I guess I was a bit on the naïve side, thinking that if he knew I was on to him, he’d just tell me
what I needed to know and be assured that I’d leave him alone after that. He’d be just a small fish to me—a conduit to the ones I really need to know about.”
Vito smiled. “First, let me correct you. We don’t like the word, Mafia. Prefer Cosa Nostra, okay?”
Sandy smirked. “Okay, Vito. From now on, you’re the Cosa Nostra to me.”
Vito fingered through some of the papers in his hand, stopping at one, running his index finger down the side of the page.
“Mr. Clark arranged permits for three horse-drawn ice cream wagons that day, for a company known as Boston Party Pleasures. We checked—that company doesn’t exist. Mr. Clark also signed the orders to have the road barriers temporarily removed and for the Boston Police to allow full access to the promenade for the wagons.”
Sandy’s mouth was hanging open. Then he blurted out, “Why wasn’t this ever disclosed as part of the terrorism investigation? The official report said that the barriers were compromised and that the police were confused as to what their orders were.”
“Well, you are indeed naïve, aren’t you, Doctor? It shouldn’t surprise you how easily things can be covered up, glossed over, particularly when the public is more concerned with the actual horror itself. The World Trade Center investigation was another joke, as was the Warren Commission on JFK’s killing. The Boston Marathon attack was another one full of inconsistencies and cover-up. This is what makes the world go round.”
Sandy was aghast. “But how were you able to find this out?”
Vito laughed. “As I said earlier, maybe we can do some more information trading one day over a nice scotch. We’re tapped into most things, Doctor. And, we keep quiet on most things as well, because, to us, information is currency.”
“Is that why you’re telling me this?”
Vito’s face took on a serious mask.
“No, not at all. We consider you a friend, one of the good guys. What happened to your family makes us sick. And to all those children that day. Children are sacrosanct. We don’t intend to trade on this information. You owe us nothing for this.”
Sandy crossed his arms. “Who paid him?”
“Before I tell you that, it’s important for you to know that you’ve rattled our fat little friend. He’s been making some discreet enquiries about you with one of our contacts—basically a “handler”—the guy we use to make payments to him and arrange for the help we need from him from time to time.
“The two of them have become pretty close over the years, and I guess Clark trusts him. Anyway, our foreman played along with him and kicked it up the pyramid the way he’s supposed to. We told him that you’re hands-off, and that he’s not to entertain any discussions about you. Anyway, you should know that Clark asked if something could be done to you.”
Sandy felt goosebumps run up and down his spine.
“You have nothing to worry about from us, Dr. Beech. But I would suggest you perhaps buy yourself a good watchdog and an alarm system for your house. Desperate people will sometimes do desperate things. Clark feels vulnerable now, and you’re the reason. While he’ll get no help from us, with the amount of money we pay him he can afford his own little army. Be on guard.”
Sandy clenched his hands together and cracked his knuckles, the sound reverberating through the cabin.
“Okay. Thanks for the warning. So, who paid him?”
“We have some of the best forensic accountants and internet chasers on the planet. We discovered that Mr. Clark has a numbered bank account in Bermuda. Two deposits were made by separate entities three months prior to the Quincy Market attack. Large amounts. Both of those entities were shell companies. But we tracked back to the principals.”
Vito glanced down at the papers in his lap.
“The first deposit was made by a company traced to a Meagan Whitfield. She’s a high-powered mergers and acquisitions lawyer on Wall Street. The second deposit was traced to a guy named Bob Stone, a defence contractor, also of New York.”
Sandy’s back stiffened.
“What connection could these people have with the Quincy slaughter?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. But they do have some things in common. They’re both shareholders in an exclusive sperm bank thing in New York called Legacy Life Ladder Inc. Only for the rich and powerful—very much under the radar.
“We also tied them together with that senator running for president right now. That Lincoln Berwick character? At the time of the Quincy attack the presidential race hadn’t started yet, but they were both involved at that time in a consulting capacity with his senatorial office.
“And, now, lo and behold, they’re both shown on official registration records as being players on his presidential campaign team.”
It felt as if all of the oxygen had just been sucked out of Sandy’s lungs. As he struggled to catch his breath, he saw ghosts dancing in front of his eyes.
The happy faces of Whitney and Liam holding out their little hands. Excited for the ice cream money that they knew their loving dad would never refuse them.
21
The damn beeping sound wouldn’t stop. Every four seconds it beeped and it was driving him crazy. That, and the fact that he couldn’t move. He’d tried but it was impossible. He was strapped to the bed, his body on a slight incline.
At least, he thought he was strapped in.
Couldn’t really tell. The only parts of his body that could move were his eyeballs, and even they were restricted by the wrappings that covered his entire face. His nose was uncovered, though, and there seemed to be a slit where his mouth was. He could feel that there were bandages on the top of his head too. Tubes ran from his arms and a couple of other wires ran from—somewhere—towards that damn beeping machine.
He concentrated on rolling his eyeballs downward. Yep, strapped in at the chest, pelvis and lower leg areas. Concentrated on moving his head slightly to the side, but that was impossible. Instead, shifted his eyeballs back and forth, side to side. Could see that some kind of wire cage surrounded his head, extending down to his chest area. Reminded him of the contraption that Hannibal Lector was forced to wear in Silence of the Lambs, but what he was wearing was more like a cage than a mask.
Two nurses were whispering to each other in the corner. The room seemed small, from what he could tell with the limited range of view he had. And, it looked as if he was the only occupant.
Neither of the nurses seemed interested in approaching the bed. They just kept watching him. And whispering.
The door opened and a uniformed police officer poked his head in. He said something to the nurses and they just nodded in return. Then the door quickly closed again, and he could see through the little window that the officer was standing right outside the door.
Standing guard, he presumed.
No one else was in the room watching over him. No wife, kids, or friends.
And he didn’t really expect any.
His head was still a bit foggy, but getting clearer with each minute that went by.
They’d been in the car together, driving towards a place called The Greenhouse restaurant. There had been a left-hand turn coming up, but they missed that.
Instead, they raced against the wind. He remembered hearing it whistling outside the window, feeling its pressure of resistance against the massive vehicle. The car had sped along so fast that the trees along the side of the road were just a blur, a swath of green with no distinctive features.
Then they went down. Over an embankment, bouncing along the rough gopher-holed landscape. Shockingly, the car seemed to pick up even more speed as it tore through the underbrush, with a thick old oak tree dead ahead as its apparent target.
The Lincoln Navigator drew a bead on the tree and didn’t waver.
He remembered the seatbelt sliding across his chest, going in the wrong direction. Caught it with his left hand, and
tried to ram the clasp back into its bracket. He couldn’t remember if he’d succeeded or not.
And he couldn’t remember hitting the tree, either. But, clearly, they must have.
Two other things were suddenly unsettling to him—as if being strapped to a hospital bed wasn’t unsettling enough.
Had he succeeded in his assignment?
And—had they found his gun in the wreckage?
*****
His parents had died ten years ago in a car accident. Driving through the countryside of upper New York State, they’d lost their lives in a one-sided duel with a moose. The massive animal came right through the windshield.
Sandy was told that they’d died instantly. Cynically, he knew the authorities almost always said that, in a pathetic attempt to give solace to grieving relatives. But, once he saw the havoc that the antlers of the beast had wreaked upon the head and throat areas of his mom and dad, he knew they hadn’t been lying to him.
Sandy was an only child and while he and his father had not been biologically related, the wonderful man had raised him as if they were blood-relatives. He wished he’d had at least one or two siblings, but that wasn’t to be. He guessed that it was because his father was sterile, and it was enough of a gamble to go to a sperm bank once. Twice might have been too much for his parents to roll the dice against.
It certainly wouldn’t have been the expense that stopped them from having more than one child. They were wealthy and well-connected. One of Boston’s power couples. His dad had been a successful investment banker and hedge-funder. He’d been clever in choosing all the right moves throughout his career. Street-smart, and even somewhat of a street fighter, too, when he had to be.
But, Sandy’s mother was the genius in the family. One of the nation’s most celebrated neurosurgeons. She practised medicine right up until the day she died.
As he sat on his front porch with a four-foot-high pile of file folders on the floor beside him, Sandy pictured them in his mind. He missed them every day, but more so today than ever. Looking through old records and photos had taken him back in time, to lives well-lived and lives well-documented. His parents had suddenly seemed real and alive again.
