The Jake Boulder Series: books 1 - 3

by Graham Smith

  Now I’m sober again, I know that hitting him isn’t the best idea when I need his help, or should I say, my half-brother needs his help. Nor do I believe he’ll show any degree of repentance. If he had wanted to connect with me or Sharon, it would have taken one call to my grandparents to find out where we were. That call may have happened, but whether it did or not, he never turned up on my doorstep with a hangdog expression and a mouthful of apologies.

  When I spoke to Grandad on the phone, I was on the point of asking him if he’d kept my father updated on my life, when something stopped me. Looking back, I think it was the fear of Grandad telling me that Father had never asked about us. Whatever else happens when I confront him, I know I’ll be guarding myself against the pain of further rejection.

  A cubicle becomes free so I enter and concentrate on not breathing through my nose.

  When I pull Ms Rosenberg’s envelope from my backpack, I see a signature has been scrawled across the sealing flap.

  I take a close look at the signature and see the envelope has remained unopened. Either Nolan and his predecessors are unworthy of my distrust, or they’ve been deterred by the signature.

  I’m not. I tear the sealing strip back and fish out the contents.

  There are some pages that have been torn from ring-bound notebooks, two typed pages, six black and white photographs, and a small envelope.

  The envelope can wait. I look at the loose notebook pages first, but see nothing except a series of indecipherable squiggles. My best guess is that it’s shorthand. With luck, Taylor will be able to translate it for me.

  Next, I look at the typed statements. After reading them, the reason I’m holding my breath has nothing to do with the cubicle’s previous occupant. What’s on these pages is huge. Not quite earth-shattering or world-changing, but still huge. I now know why Ms Rosenberg had feared for her life. In her place I’d fear for mine.

  Except, I am now in her place. I’m the one who holds damning proof.

  I tear open the small envelope and find a key to a post office box. There’s no mystery to this one. Just a scrap of paper with an address.

  I don’t know what it contains, but if it’s as incendiary as this envelope, the country will be rocked by the level of corruption.

  The people in the pictures aren’t anyone I recognise, but I’m sure they were recognisable when they were taken.

  Taylor’s face is expectant when I join her at the small round table in the centre of the room. Nobody is paying us any attention – other than a pair of city workers who’re probably entranced by Taylor’s beauty.

  Regardless of our anonymity, I’m nervous about bringing Taylor up to speed in a place where so many people could overhear us. I lean towards her and whisper that I’ll tell her everything as soon as we’re alone.

  We take a walk after finishing our coffees. Half a block along from the bank we find a children’s playground. We sit on a bench with graffiti scratched into its paintwork and I let Taylor see the contents of the envelope.

  When she’s finished reading she looks at me and gives a grimace. ‘It’s a long time since I learned shorthand, but I can make out most of what Ms Rosenberg has written. We can pick up a notebook on the way to that PO box.’

  I’m so pleased by her willingness to help, that I could kiss her. So I do.

  She breaks after the kiss. ‘Maybe we’ll get some mints for Mr Whisky Breath before you get your usual ideas.’

  This tells me I’m forgiven for last night’s mistake. Sex hasn’t been on my mind this morning, but it is now. With luck, we’ll get to the PO box, retrieve its contents, and be back at our hotel soon.

  It’s then that I remember my father’s address. It’s within striking distance of New York. Any romantic thoughts will have to be shelved until I’ve met the last person I want to introduce myself to.

  23

  Taylor brings me a coffee, takes a seat and sips at her water, leaving a smear of fuchsia lipstick on the glass. On the table in front of us is a great sheaf of envelopes that we’ve retrieved from the PO box. Some are yellowed with age, whereas others are crisp and bear postal stampings with recent dates.

  We’ve kept them in the order they were put into the PO box, and we start with the first. It’s a newspaper cutting with notes about the people mentioned, and their involvement in the crime Ms Rosenberg had uncovered.

  I’ve known the secret for over an hour now and I still can’t get my head round it. I’ve read the evidence Ms Rosenberg had compiled, more than once, but I’m still struggling to take it all in.

  Taylor’s expression tells me she’s going through the same thought processes I am. Neither of us follow politics with any great attention to detail, but we’re both aware of the major issues.

  ‘This is amazing, isn’t it?’

  Taylor’s voice is low, but she needn’t worry. The dive bar we’re in isn’t the kind of place where people care about the conversations of others. There’s two guys sitting at opposite ends of the bar, drinking themselves stupider, and what I presume is a hooker, numbing herself ahead of her working day.

  ‘That’s one way of putting it.’

  She looks at me, all hazel eyes and prominent cheekbones. ‘To think he’s built his campaign on exposing his opponent’s links to organised crime, and this …’ – she waves a hand at the envelope-strewn table – ‘… this just proves that he’s worse than they are. We have to expose him, Jake. There’s no way he can be allowed to become Mayor of New York.’

  ‘You’re right. The thing is, the minute we put our names to exposing this, we’ll be painting huge targets on our backs.’

  Taylor looks scared. She should; it’s not some random bunch of thugs or bad guys who’re involved in the mayor-elect’s corruption. It’s the mafia.

  The mafia cannot ever be allowed to identify us as whistle-blowers. If that happens, Taylor, Alfonse and I will die. Their numbers and contacts are too great for us to believe that exposing their links to the mayor-elect will lead to their incarceration – and that of anyone who may exact revenge on their behalf.

  Every envelope we open is filled with details of the mayoral candidate’s career, first as a lawyer, then a judge. Specific cases are highlighted with examples of links between the defendants and organised crime.

  Three of his rulings as a judge, favoured what Ms Rosenberg had revealed as shell corporations, owned by known mafia individuals.

  This case may have cost Ms Rosenberg her job and a life with Halvard, but it was quite obviously never been one she could stop building. Her dedication to compiling evidence crosses the line into obsession.

  It’s going to take a while for Taylor and me to collate all the evidence, then we must find a way of duplicating it all, so it can be shared with as many news outlets and law enforcement agencies as possible.

  I’m not sure if this should go to Homeland Security, the FBI, the police, the NSA, or some other three-letter organisation. Although I am sure that it should go to as many as possible to ensure it gets into the right hands.

  For someone to get into office as the mayor of New York with such a corrupt background is unthinkable.

  I need to speak to Alfonse. He needs to know what we’ve got, and I’m hoping he’ll come up with the best way to distribute it without putting a noose round our necks.

  24

  Cameron has everything in place. All he needs to do is transfer the money, wait until it’s been verified as received, and he’ll be able to start his new life. Or as he likes to think of it: his final new life.

  He logs on to the site and keys in all the necessary passwords. A minute later, he’s ready to make the transfer.

  Seven million dollars are moved from his employer’s account and into the account of the dealer.

  He reckons that by the time he turns up at the dealership, the money transfer will have gone through and he’ll be able to escape with his purchase.

  He only needs an hour or two head start and he’ll be home and dr
y.

  Everything he needs is in his car apart from one bag, which is sitting by the door ready for collection.

  The only way his plan can go wrong, is if his employer checks his bank account before he gets to the dealership. Cameron knows the odds of this are small, as it’s his job to manage the accounts for them.

  He throws the bag over his shoulder and opens the door.

  There’s a man standing on the porch, with his hand raised as if he’s about to knock. The man looks uncomfortable, as if he’d rather be anywhere but here.

  None of that matters to Cameron.

  All that matters is that he recognises the face.

  It’s the face he used to see in the mirror many years ago. This version has a cut lip and scrapes synonymous with received punches, but it’s still the same face.

  ‘John? Is that you, John?’

  ‘I’m Jake. Your firstborn son.’

  Cameron doesn’t know what to say. All of a sudden, his legs are weak and he’s aware of his breath shortening.

  Despite the fact he’s kept moving around, and has changed his name on several occasions, he’s always feared the day that one of his children would turn up unannounced.

  He finds his voice, but still isn’t sure what to say.

  Jake is looking at him in a way he can’t fathom. Cameron isn’t sure whether his son is getting ready to punch or hug him.

  To say something, and break the silence, he looks at the woman with Jake. ‘Sharon, my little girl, you’ve grown up to be a beautiful woman.’

  ‘This isn’t Sharon. This is my girlfriend. She’s called Taylor.’

  Even when Jake speaks, Cameron struggles to gauge his mood. Right about now, Cameron could use a stiff drink. And if his son hadn’t picked the worst moment in the last twenty years to show up, he’d damn well have one.

  He knows he needs to get this unwelcome reunion over and done with so he can make his escape. Every minute spent playing happy families, is a minute stolen from his getaway.

  ‘I’m sorry, but this isn’t the best of times for me. Perhaps we can arrange to meet somewhere later?’

  Cameron knows he should feel guilty about arranging a meeting he’ll never attend, but he feels nothing except a burning desire to get to the dealership.

  ‘You haven’t once asked how I am, how my sister is, or if our mother is still alive.’

  Jake’s tone holds a ferocity that rocks Cameron. He takes a look at his son’s hands and sees the white-knuckled fists; he knows what happens when the MacDonald blood gets heated.

  ‘I’m sorry, it’s just such a shock seeing you here.’ An idea comes into Cameron’s mind. Another pair of hands may be useful, and having the boy’s girlfriend around will certainly improve the scenery. ‘Why don’t you come with me? I can drop you at the station as I pass it.’ He hands Jake the keys to his car and the bag from his shoulder. ‘Jump in. I’ll just be a second.’

  Cameron goes back into the house and into the kitchen. He turns on the gas stove, but doesn’t spark the igniter, and lays a can of gasoline on its side after removing the top. Standing behind the front door, he sparks his lighter and touches the flame to the wick of a candle. By the time the gas fumes reach the candle that one of his lady-friends brought over, he’ll be at least a mile away.

  25

  Now that I’ve met my birth father, all the years I’ve spent hating him seem justified. I can’t think of him as my father anymore; he may be, biologically speaking, but having experienced the offhand way he greeted me, his long-lost son, I’m beginning to think that him walking out on us was a good thing.

  The moment I’ve both dreaded and rehearsed for many years has come and gone, and none of it happened how I’d imagined. Sometimes I’ve thought he’d welcome me with open arms, other times I’ve imagined him spurning me.

  Disinterest wasn’t a reaction I’d anticipated, not even once.

  It’s like my visit is a nuisance to him and he’ll be happy to be rid of us.

  He’s asking me questions, but since I had to give him prompts, I don’t believe he’s asking out of genuine interest. Rather, I believe he’s controlling the conversation so I don’t ask him for any answers.

  Finally, he asks the question I’ve been waiting for.

  ‘The reason I looked you up, is because my half-brother John came looking for me.’

  Cameron nods. I can’t even call him Father in my head anymore. Mr MacDonald would be another option, but that term would afford him a respect he doesn’t deserve. I could call him a derogatory name, but that would indicate I care enough about him to get angry. There’s no way I’m going to give him the satisfaction of knowing I’m still hurting. As far as I’m concerned, he’s Cameron.

  ‘It’s nice that he found you. I’ve always thought boys should have a brother.’

  It takes all my self-control not to ask why he didn’t stick around to give me a brother. Instead of snarling abuse at him, I decide to use bad news as a sucker punch. ‘John needs a bone marrow transplant, otherwise he’ll die of leukaemia. He looked me up hoping I’d be a match.’

  ‘For his sake, I hope you are.’

  ‘I’m not. I was close, but not close enough.’

  I fall silent and let him join the dots by himself.

  His eyes close for a moment and then he swallows.

  ‘So, you looked me up to tell me your brother is dead?’

  ‘No. I looked you up to tell you my brother needs you to save his life.’

  It’s Cameron’s turn to fall silent.

  I let him have some thinking time. My own moral compass would never require time to consider a request such as this but, while we may have similar genetic codes, I have morals that were instilled by a strong woman with bags of determination and a good heart. Mother may be a narcissist but, regardless of how much she complains, she would always put Sharon and me first.

  His behaviour promotes a different set of values that centre around the sole needs of Cameron MacDonald.

  As I look out of the window at the streets of Clifton, I try and guess what brought him to live in New York’s commuter belt. Sure, there will be anonymity, but he could find that wherever he went. His house, if it is his house, looked like a good one. I’ve no idea what house prices run to around these parts, but I’m guessing it’ll be worth at least three times what I paid for my apartment.

  Part of me is willing him to make the right decision; to save the life of a son he abandoned. Not just because it means my brother will get to live, but because it means that whatever relationship I have, or don’t have with Cameron in the future, I’ll know that for once in his life, he has stepped up and done the right thing for one of his children. I never had a proper father I could look up to – although Neill Boulder was everything a stepfather should be – so I would like my one association with Cameron MacDonald to be one I could think about with something akin to pride.

  When he speaks, his voice wavers. ‘How urgent is it that he gets the bone marrow?’

  ‘He’s got another three weeks. After that, he’ll be flying back to Scotland so he can die with his wife and daughters at his bedside.’

  Some people might consider mentioning John’s wife and daughters to be a low blow. They can go screw themselves. I’m trying to persuade a selfish prick to save his son’s life. I’ll hit as low as I need to.

  ‘You mean he’s here? In the States?’

  Cameron hasn’t asked about John’s daughters, which doesn’t go unnoticed by me, but it’s hardly a surprise. If he can abandon his own four children, he’s not going to suddenly care about grandchildren he’s never met.

  ‘Yeah. When his rare blood type prevented any donors being found in the UK, he came looking for me and Sharon. With neither of us being a match, you’re his last chance.’

  ‘Jake, I want to help. Please believe me, I want to help.’

  His tone is plaintive, almost pleading, I get what he’s saying. More important, I get what he’s not asking. Namely: ho
w he can help and where he should go to give bone marrow or at least get tested.

  The problem is, there’s a but coming. I decide to wait him out; give him chance to ask how he can help.

  ‘I’m sorry to have to say this, Jake.’

  I feel Taylor’s knee press against the back of my seat. She’s probably warning me to proceed with caution. Warnings never did go down well with me.

  ‘Say what? That you can’t help him? Or that you’d rather your son died, than inconvenience yourself for a couple of days?’

  ‘Dammit, boy. Don’t you give me any of your snash. You make out like I should just drop everything and ride to his rescue. Things aren’t that simple you know.’

  The anger in his tone takes me aback for a moment, but I use the time to gather my wits and fire back at him in a low growl. ‘Growing up without a father wasn’t simple. Neither was trying not to expect him to come home at any minute. Listening to your mother cry herself to sleep every night, because your father had abandoned her, wasn’t simple. Trying to work out if you had left because you hated us, wasn’t simple.’ I rest my hand on his leg and squeeze until he bats it away. ‘My life hasn’t been simple, but I got by. Tell me, what’s so complicated that you’re prepared to let your son die?’

  Cameron begins to speak. His words sound foreign to my ears. What he’s telling me, doesn’t happen to people from Glasgow. Certainly not to people like him.

  The sad thing is, what he’s telling me is too far-fetched to be made up.

  I turn and look at Taylor. I’m hoping for advice from her, but she stays silent. Her point is clear: the decision is mine. It’s one I’ll live and quite possibly die by.

  It’s not a choice I should have to make, yet there’s no escaping the fact it is one I have been presented with.