Deadly Rumors

by Jeanne Foguth

  “Yes, you do. You must know. Think!”

  “Should I call 911?” the guard asked.

  Doran shook his head. “Cops protect their own, even if the badge is tarnished.”

  “I p-put the dead ch-chicken on her d-door to scare her because Marv is always m-making dumb jokes about c-c-chickens and laughing at me b-b-bec-c-cause I don’t understand.”

  That was it!

  “Zoë, you’re great.” Doran kissed her forehead, then let her go. She stumbled backward against the guard. Doran grabbed his phone and punched in Quinn’s number. “Botts kidnapped Kelsey. I think he took her to PBCO.”

  The guard turned an odd shade of gray.

  Zoë stopped crying and stared at him. “PBCO? Where I got the chicken?”

  “He wouldn’t take her there while there were witnesses,” Quinn said. “He’d wait until after dark.”

  Doran turned to Zoë. “What’s Frederickson doing tonight?”

  She shrugged and shook her head.

  “How the hell should I know?” Quinn said.

  Zoë wet her lips. “He said something about counting chickens now that they’d hatched.”

  “PBCO,” Doran said. “It has to be PBCO. Quinn, meet me at the truck stop and bring the goodies. I figure this’ll be a formal affair and we’ll need to wear black.”

  “I’ve already got the Kevlar in my van. As soon as I get out to the parking lot, I’ll be on my way.”

  “See you in ten.”

  Zoë grabbed his arm. “Take me with you. I want to help.”

  Doran gestured for the guard to hold her. “Stay here. The less people to confuse the issue, the easier it’ll be to get her back.”

  Zoë howled in misery, which only served to harden Doran’s resolve to keep the noisy turncoat as far away from him as possible. As the guard hung onto her, Doran hopped back into the old truck, gunned the engine and turned around. As he floored it and headed for the meeting he glanced in the rearview mirror and saw Zoë running up the driveway toward the house.

  ooo

  Zoë blew her nose as she drove slowly through the parking lot, looking for Marv’s silver Lexus. When she'd told his campaign secretary she was the personal assistant for the secretary of state, the dumb woman had let it slip where Marv was meeting supporters. Now, she stared up at the posh apartment building, and wondered if the old hag had sent her on a wild goose chase. But with Kelsey's life in the balance, she couldn’t give up. Zoë found the Lexus, with its SENATOR tag parked near the rear entrance.

  She parked her Porsche in a shady space on the far side of the parking lot, turned off the ignition and leaned back to think about how she could find out exactly where Kelsey was and what she could do to help.

  “I can’t just confront him," she told her reflection in the rearview mirror. She rubbed her aching eyes and wondered if she should just follow him in the hopes that he would lead her to Kelsey.

  A woman’s husky laugh caught Zoë’s attention. She looked up and saw Frederickson walking an elegant looking woman toward his car. He was smiling down at her as if hanging on her every word and gently caressing her fingers, where they nestled in the crook of his arm. Everything about the pair screamed of the casual intimacy of longtime lovers.

  That dirty, lowdown, sonofabitch was two-timing her!

  Before she could reconsider her actions or quell her fury, Zoë leaped out of her car and ran barefoot across the parking lot. Marv looked her direction. Halfway into an indolent arc of the brow, his mouth flattened and he motioned her away.

  The woman gave a gentile laugh. “That frump looks like she’s charging at us.”

  Marv scowled at her, then smiled gently at the woman. “That's the bimbo I told you about before, the who won’t leave me alone. She seems to think that her vote means she owns me.”

  Zoë screamed with rage. She was going to kill him.

  “Obviously she’s either drunk or on drugs,” he said. “Go ahead to the car and lock the doors. I’ll get rid of her then drive you home.”

  With a final disdainful glance, the woman turned away. Zoë hated the prim walk and sensible suit. Hated the woman for every cell of blue blood, which she obviously possessed.

  Marv was walking toward her, anger in every step. If they’d been somewhere less public, she knew he’d be on her like a lust-fest.

  “Who is that woman?” Zoë demanded.

  “A voter,” his soft, harsh tone was filled with suppressed emotion. Marv turned his back to his Lexus and looked her up and down; his expression suggested that he was inspecting a cesspool. Belatedly, she remembered that she hadn’t washed her face. She probably looked like a sick raccoon.” Specifically, Lynette Pinkney.” He let the glorified Pinkney name hang in the air like a trophy. His expression turned smug. “She just pledged a hundred grand to my campaign fund.

  “And how many fucks did you promise her?”

  “Vulgar today, aren't you?” He looked as if he never wanted to touch her again.

  New tears burned the back of her eyelids.

  Marv casually glanced around the parking area. The only other thing within earshot was a fat gray squirrel. His expression hardened. “You dress like a tramp.” His words and tone scalded like acid. “You act like a trash. How dare you approach me in public?”

  “I lov-“

  “What do you think you are? High-class like Lynette?” He snapped her spandex lace top as if it offended him.

  “You bought me this. You made me what I am.”

  “You’re a worthless bitch.”

  Her heart ached as if he’d stabbed her.

  “Quit whining after me.”

  She looked down, amazed that blood wasn’t streaming from her wounded chest.

  “B-b-b-but I l-l-l-love y-you; you love m-m-me.”

  “Fool,” he spat. “You’re good for one thing.”

  A cold, hard calm settled over Zoë. "You lied when you said you cared and wanted to marry me, didn’t you?”

  “Why would I tie myself to trash like you? You’re lucky you still serve me in bed, or I’d have gotten rid of you by now.” His harsh whisper suggested six feet under.

  With that, Marv turned his back on her and strutted to his Lexus.

  Zoë stared after him and gritted her teeth. He would pay for every wrong he’d ever done to her. But first, she had to find Kelsey.

  ooo

  Kelsey tested the plastic tie wraps, which Jake had used to secure her to the metal folding chair with, but they were no looser now, than they’d been when he’d first slammed her onto the hard seat.

  If there was any justice in this world, she would get out of this alive. But that thought seemed highly unlikely.

  Still, there had to be some way to get out of this room. She carefully looked around at the area. Long tables, covered with more bottles and beakers than her chemistry prof would have ever allowed, took up one side of the large room. That area was bathed in harsh, white light, so the longhaired, tattooed guys playing at being chemists could see what they were doing, but her side of the room was relatively dark. She squinted past the tables and charts pinned to the white wall, but couldn’t see any sign of a window.

  She looked behind her chair, but couldn’t see anything except the large boxes labeled SOAP piled behind her, and on either side.

  Defeat choked her, but she knew that there had to be hope, so as bad as things seemed, she would keep looking for a way to escape, until she found one.

  ooo

  Doran slipped through the late-afternoon shadows of PBCO’s parking lot to get a closer look at the vehicle, which was half-hidden by the dumpsters near the freight docks. As he neared the back of the red Taurus, the stench of decay overpowered every other smell. He lifted his binoculars and examined the rear bumper. There were no streaks, or any other sign that a body had been in the trunk.

  It wasn't much of a relief, but it was something.

  The radio in his pocket vibrated. Doran adjusted the thin plastic tube close
to his lips. "Yeah?"

  “I ran the tags.” Quinn's voice was clear through the tiny transmitter in his right ear. “The car is registered to Botts's wife. Looks like your hunch was right.”

  Doran grunted. “And it matches the model Trent saw firebomb Kelsey’s.”

  “I noticed the similarity. You think he threw that cocktail at you?”

  “I’d bet on it. I’m almost positive he did the brakes on my car, too, but it’s only gut instinct.” Doran moved closer and peered in the windows: a few dried brown spots, which had probably been coffee or coke, some cheerios and a couple raisons, but no blood or damp spots. Unfortunately, that didn't mean Kelsey was safe, there were thousands of ways to murder a person without leaving body fluid. He touched his pocket, expecting to feel Marnie’s photo, but only felt the rapid beating of his own heart. “I’m going in.”

  “Without backup or a warrant? No way.”

  Hadn’t Quinn figured it out when he left his badge in the van? “You’re monitoring me.”

  Quinn groaned. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this. It could be a setup. Worse, we only have a hunch that she’s inside.”

  “Yeah, but I’m still going in.”

  “At least come back here and -”

  “What? Wait for Christmas?”

  “Dealing with this bunch, you need to go formal.”

  Doran suspected Quinn’s request was motivated as much by the desire to stall him until backup arrived, as it was by knowing that wearing body armor around Ling was a sensible precaution. Either way, his partner was right and the last time he'd ignored him had been a disaster. He reversed direction and climbed into the surveillance van. The printer was spitting out page after page of paper. Quinn’s back faced the bank of monitors, and his expression was grim as he read the printout.

  Doran shucked off his holster and dark silk shirt, then opened the locker containing his night gear and vest.

  After putting his bulletproof vest over his T-shirt, he dressed and filled his pockets with a tracking device, night-vision goggles, a miniature transmitter, which sent an audio-visual to the van, extra ammo clips and a knife.

  Meanwhile, Quinn grabbed pages from the printer as fast as it could spit them out and read them with an enthusiasm that Doran hadn’t seen since he’d become reliant on wheels.

  When he was ready to leave, Quinn lowered the papers and cleared his throat. “Before you go, let me try to summarize this data.” He shuffled several papers, until he found what he wanted.

  Oh, no, not another of his delays. Doran cracked open the door.

  “In the previous eight years, a total of fifty-three people close to Frederickson died in a variety of accidents and unexpected illnesses, and some very interesting suicides.”

  Fifty-three! Doran closed the door and stuck his head and shoulders through the blackout curtain. “How many were close to Martha and Zoë?”

  Quinn frowned and scanned the document. “Maybe a dozen for Zoë. I'd guess only a couple for Martha. She might be an innocent.”

  “She gave birth to Frederickson’s kid.”

  “That's what she claims. I’d have bet dollars to donuts that either Calhoun or Winston was the father.” Quinn’s expression said that he still wanted a blood test to disprove that one. “If Martha offed Rose, I bet it had something to do with the paternity thing.”

  Doran grunted in agreement. “Zoë does seem close to Frederickson.”

  “I thought it was sexual until my chat with Martha.” Quinn fingered the printout. “She could be mom and dad’s go between, but I don't have any motive for that.”

  “Interesting hypotheses,” Doran said. Blood was thicker than water, perhaps his initial assumption had been right except for the guilty family.

  Quinn taped a page. “My favorite deaths are the ones labeled suicide.” He cleared his throat, then read, “For instance, Ben Galligher died of a gunshot to the back of his head, but the autopsy labeled it suicide.”

  “You’re kidding.” Quinn solemnly shook his head. Doran frowned. “Why does that name sound familiar?”

  “He’s a legend in covert ops. Or was until he went after Ling.”

  Memories of the rumors surrounding Galligher’s disappearance gave him an uneasy feeling. “And he’s listed as one of Frederickson’s friends?”

  With a sharp nod, Quinn looked back at the printout. “Eight years ago, fourteen of Frederickson’s friends and acquaintances died: four heart attacks - five if you count Rose MacLennan - five in plane crashes and five due to auto accidents.”

  “That’s only fifteen.”

  “And it was only one year. He’s been busy since then, too.” Quinn looked him in the eye. “It seems like someone made an effort at not leaving a pattern.” His mouth flattened. “The effort to avoid one, becomes one.”

  Doran scowled and motioned for Quinn to continue.

  “In the past couple years, the casualties have primarily been by gunshot." Quinn lowered the paper and peered over top. "Assuming Frederickson is responsible, one might surmise that he's discovered this method is more efficient or he's got someone new doing his dirty work who likes to shoot.”

  “Or one could conjecture that once his crony, Botts was in office, it was easier for him to get away with murder,” Doran said.

  “Interesting point. The seven questionable deaths, which were labeled suicide, were here in the County.” He cleared his throat than read, “Four people fell through windows and were decapitated in the process…. Another seven died by gunshot – that included Galligher.”

  “If he rigged Ramsey’s car, you can add two more deaths of innocents.”

  “The more I learn about the guy, the more I think he’s a plague to society and I can see why Ling considers him a pal.”

  Doran gritted his teeth. The more he heard about the jerk, the more concerned he was for Kelsey's safety.

  “Amazing what the voters will elect to represent them, isn’t it?”

  Doran grunted in agreement and moved to leave.

  Quinn dropped his relaxed attitude and checked the screens, which all showed desolate night landscapes. “You should be clear to go. But, for God's sake, be careful. Ling is involved, so this might turn into a rowdy party.” He sighed. “Wish I could come, too.”

  “I know, pal. I’m hoping that bastard shows up. We owe him. We owe him big time.”

  “Don’t do anything stupid.”

  “I’ll try not to.”

  Quinn shook a finger at him. “You blink wrong and I’m dialing for help.”

  He wouldn’t have expected anything less and was actually surprised that Quinn hadn’t already called in the Marines. Doran stepped through the blackout curtain, then silently exited the van. As he closed the door, he imagined Quinn leaning toward a monitor and testing his heat-signature against the residual heat of the nearby asphalt. Despite useless legs, Doran wouldn’t have trusted anyone else to back him. He latched the door and moved toward the building.

  Once inside PBCO, he began a methodical search of the main floor rooms. Odd how desolate the building seemed. Normally, in a building like this, someone was working late or at least there was a janitorial staff to avoid. Though the lack of people helped him move freely, it also gave him an even worse feeling than he'd had when he found out Kelsey had been captured.

  As Doran entered a large corner office, lights illuminated the window-wall. He went still as a statue and watched the vehicle park. When the lights went out, the room became dark as night. Amazing how quickly things went black after sunset.

  He put on his night-vision goggles and adjusted them, then studied the car, which was parked in the murky shade of a magnolia. Though everything appeared greenish, he recognized Frederickson as he emerged from the light-colored Mercedes. When Frederickson headed to the front door, Doran inched the office door open, so he had a view of the reception and waiting areas.

  The tidy desk supported a philodendron and a professional phone. Beyond it, three impressionistic paintin
gs dominated the area.

  Frederickson came up to the thick glass doors, then opened an inconspicuous panel in the outside wall, which revealed an access to the security system. He held up a flashlight and confidently keyed in the code.

  “You recording this?” Doran asked.

  “What to you think? The DA will think it’s Christmas."

  Doran grunted in agreement.

  “Notice what he’s driving?”

  “Ramsey MacLennan’s Mercedes.”

  Quinn made a blaring sound. “Wrong. I did a close-up of the plates. It looks like he overlaid a mockup of Ramsey’s plate over another one.”

  “Good way to mislead witnesses.”

  “You got it. Did you notice what Martha drives?”

  It had never occurred to him that she had a car. “Let me guess, a white Mercedes?”

  “Bingo. What’s even more interesting is that she purchased it twenty-seven days ago; two days after Ramsey leased his. I’m telling you that those Lancaster women are dirty as sin.”

  Doran grunted in agreement. When Frederickson finished keying in the code, the lights on the alarm panel changed. He closed the panel then dug a key out of his pocket.

  “I’m going silent.”

  “I’ll be watching. The least hint –“

  “I know; you’ll call in the troops.”

  Quinn sighed. “Wish I could do more.”

  The door squeaked open and Frederickson stepped inside. He moved with a confidence that bespoke familiarity with the surroundings. His shoes clicked across the marble entryway, but when he got to the gloomy hallway, carpet muffled his steps. Still, Frederickson didn't falter, as he headed straight for Doran.

  Doran fought the urge to close and bolt the door. A moment before an inevitable confrontation, the senator’s direction changed and Frederickson passed close enough to Doran's vantage point for him to smell the woodsy scent of his after-shave.

  As the hallway bored deeper into the windowless area, Frederickson turned on his flashlight. A few soft footfalls later and the flashlight stopped in front of the elevator bank. Ding. A rectangle of light from the elevator flooded the hallway and illuminated Frederickson’s face. He walked in, as if he owned the building and had every right to be there long after everyone else had gone.