Jack II

by Stella Marie Alden

  I shake my head, remembering what it was like to be penniless and a bit of a thief. “First, I’d go to my employer and try to shake him down. However, not until I had a whole lot of evidence to blackmail him with.”

  “Oh my God. That’s it! I totally forgot. When I asked Philip why the kidnappers didn’t just kill him outright, he said he gave evidence to a friend at The Post… or was it The Times? Shit. I can’t quite recall but wherever it was, Zheng’s gang must’ve believed him.”

  I lift her out of her chair and kiss those sweet, adorable lips. “You may have just saved my ass. Give me a second.”

  I type some constraints into the computer and suddenly the facial-reco software starts spitting out images.

  She jumps up and points at the photo of a small man standing in front of the Empire State Building, then going into another one nearby. “What’s this building, here?”

  I grin. “The New York Times. We’re going home.”

  We get tickets online and I call Grayson from the air. “We found Blakely’s Philip but his real name is Lance, Lance Barlow. Blakely’s certain he’s friends with a journalist working for The New York Times.”

  Patten sounds relieved. “That’s great news. At least we know the man exists.”

  Blakely pipes up, mouth full of pretzels. “You had doubts?”

  He chuckles. “What I meant to say is now, we have something to show the FBI. But what makes you think you can find his journalist friend. The Times is a huge organization.”

  I field this question for her. “We had Slate do some cross referencing. There’s a blogger working there who went to college with Lance. It has to be him. He’s agreed to talk with us.”

  “If they’re friends, why would he agree?” Grayson has an excellent point but I already thought it through.

  “When this story breaks, we’ve promised him exclusive rights to an amazing story. He was thrilled. Listen. We’re landing. I’ll call you when we get there.”

  The rest of the flight is blessedly uneventful. Having no luggage to claim, we call an Uber and go straight to Forty-First Street. Holiday traffic is in full swing and it takes us over an hour to get from downtown to midtown.

  Finally, Blake pays the taxi driver and says, “We can walk from here.”

  She grabs my hand and rushes up the street, ignoring gloriously decorated windows, festive tourists, and skyscrapers. Her mind is set on one thing, finding Lance. She pushes twenty-two in the elevator and smiles up at me a little nervously, her cheeks red from the run in the cool air. “We’re almost there.”

  “Uh huh. We got this, luv.”

  A millennial with spikey hair and a Comic Con t-shirt meets us at the elevator. “Hi, I’m Mike Kane.”

  “I’m Blake and this is Jack.” After we all shake hands, Mike takes us into a conference room named Associated Press and pulls out a flash drive. After setting his laptop onto a glass table, he plugs it in and scrolls through his file explorer.

  “This is all Lance sent me.” He turns the screen, clicks on a file in the drive, and a popup waits for a username and password.

  The young man points to the waiting window. “Lance said if he died, I’d receive the credentials needed to access these files. Until then, this is all I got.”

  Blake’s eyes go wide. “That’s pretty cloak and dagger stuff.”

  He shrugs, wrinkles his nose, and the ring in his right nostril dances. “You’d be surprised how often shit like that happens.”

  “Why in the world did you agree to hold onto this?” Blake presses hard to get the guy talking but I squeeze her hand because I think she’s gone too far.

  A pair of hazel eyes light up with fire and his voice fills with passion. “If the story is real, it could mean a Pulitzer Prize. Hold on. Is Lance dead? Is that why you’re here?”

  “Yeah. Sorry. He was murdered.” I raise my brows when Blake almost denies it but luckily she follows my lead. When Mike doesn’t look too broken up, I move forward with the lie. “I’m guessing you two weren’t close?”

  “We were in college. Drifted apart. You know how it is.”

  Actually, I don’t, but nod sympathetically. “We wanted to check in with his mom, give our condolences. Do you know where she lives?”

  “Let me see. He scrolls through his phone. Here’s her address and phone number. You might want to call her first.”

  “Thank you so much. As soon as our story breaks, you’ll be the first we call.” Blakely shakes his hand as do I, then we head out the door, down the elevator and sigh deeply in the lobby.

  Chapter 18

  Blakely

  Grabbing Jack’s arm in the lobby of The Times Building, we find a quiet corner by the elevators. He calls Lance’s home number, talks for a few minutes, and after hanging up, he’s all smiles.

  “I told her I was an old college buddy looking to connect over the holidays. His mother gave me his address. He lives just south of Trenton.”

  “The home of Jackson Pharmaceuticals?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Okay, then, let’s go.” Finally, we have some leads.

  We catch a cab, get my car out of the garage, and soon we’re headed south toward Trenton. Even though I try to stay awake, my eyes get heavy and when I wake, we’re almost there.

  Jack makes a few turns in the small suburb and stops in front of a sixties asbestos-shingled cape.

  “Is this it?” The block is filled with similar small houses, shiny driveways, and manicured lawns.

  “Yeah. He’s not home.” With no car in the driveway, we walk to the back porch and peer in the sliding-glass door. Both front and back doors locked, we try a few windows.

  “Here’s one.” I point to where someone left a back window opened a crack.

  Jack pulls off the screen and worms his way into the home. A few seconds later, we both stand in what must be Lance’s bedroom and I turn three-hundred-sixty-degrees. The bed is unmade and the comforter’s stuffing has seen better days. Laundry, both clean and dirty, litters the entire wood floor.

  “What are we looking for?” I turn to Jack, already searching the closet.

  “Anything that will get the Feds off my case.”

  I rifle through a few drawers then shout, “My gun. Those liars. The FBI didn’t have it after all.”

  “Don’t touch it!” He grabs my hand as I’m about to pick it up.

  “But we need to show it to the FBI.”

  He moans. “They’ll say I planted evidence. Blake, something’s wrong. No murderer, no matter how stupid, would hide a murder weapon in their top dresser drawer.”

  Suddenly, the front door slams and Jack says, “Shit. Call 911.”

  “But.”

  “Do it.” He steps in front of me but it’s too late to do anything other than raise our hands in the air.

  “What’re you doing here?” I stare at the gun and raise my gaze to the face of the man holding it, Mike Kane.

  He laughs and I swear there’s a little insanity around the eyes. “What do you think? I’m getting a good story.”

  Jack edges forward but Kane points the gun at my belly. “Try anything and she gets it through the bullseye.”

  He waves his gun at the dresser. “You, Jack. Pick the gun up by the barrel and then sit over there. Put it down by your feet. Real slow though, you don’t want me thinking you’re not cooperating.”

  I watch, completely confused. “We told you we’d give you our story.”

  “Blake, Blake, Blake. You just don’t understand. That’s not good enough. Try this on for size.” He puts his hands out wide, as if reading an old ticker tape on Times Square. “Blogger walks in on double-homicide, finds key to greatest hoax in history.”

  “You set us up?” Jack’s eyes narrow.

  “You set yourselves up by lying to me. I know Philip isn’t dead and that’s the problem. I need him to be. To write the story, I have to open the flash drive. You, Jack, are going to help. This is what will happen. Philip will walk in, f
ind intruders, and shoot you both. You shoot him, I shoot you. It’s perfect.”

  “That’s doesn’t even make sense.” I stare, horrified. “No matter, no story is worth all those dead people.”

  “Easy for you to say. You have a doctorate. A guy with a degree in fine arts? It’s hard enough to find a job, let alone the story of a lifetime.”

  Mike is delusional, maybe manic, but seems to have some ability to reason. Using a gentle, non-threatening tone I implant a better scenario into his warped mine. “I have a different idea. When Philip arrives, we’ll help you force him to tell you the username and password so you can look at the files.”

  He frowns but at least his gun is no longer pointing at my midsection. “I don’t know… It’s nowhere near as good as finding four people dead.”

  Jack says, “But it’s a hell of a lot less risky.”

  “I don’t know, don’t know, don’t know. I really need a good story.”

  A car pulls into the drive, someone fiddles with the lock, and curses. Then, the door to the living room opens.

  After taking us all in, Lance’s eyes veer to his college buddy. “Mike? What the hell is going on here?”

  “Sit and open your laptop.” Mike hands him the flash drive. “Unlock this for me.”

  “Those files are top secret. No one can see them but the President of the United States.”

  Me and Jack exchange glances. Lance sounds a little looney, too, but I go with it. “It’s okay, we have top security clearance.”

  Jack flashes his fake badge. “Undercover. FBI. Special Agent Diamond.”

  The badge was meant for Lance, but Mike pales. “Shit.”

  Jack bluffs, “The rest of my team is listening in and will be here in just a few seconds.”

  For a second, I wonder if Jack has sealed our fate. Will Mike shoot us all before running? Instead, he grabs the USB stick, turns on his heel and takes off.

  As I watch Mike make his way down the street, I ask Jack, “How did you know he wouldn’t shoot?”

  “I had a gut feeling.” He’s still smirking when I call 911, Slate, Grayson, the FBI, the evening news, and just about everyone else with a stake in the game.

  The first ones to our crime scene are detectives from Trenton. They recognize Jack and cuff him immediately. I point out my gun and suggest they might want to run some tests as I believe it was used for Yan’s murder. After that, it gets pretty nuts and I’m taken to the police station for questioning.

  Chapter 19

  Jack

  For the second time in that many days, I’m detained in a small, dimly-lit room, questioned by idiots. Andy, living just a few hours north, will be here any minute.

  A woman detective works the bad-cop angle. She’s got messy brown hair, a matching suit, and saddle-shoes. “What were you doing at Mr. Barlow’s home?”

  “Looking to talk to him.” I figure I can get a few preliminary questions out of the way without my lawyer present.

  “Why is that?” When she leans over the table, I rest back into the uncomfortable slats of the wooden chair, not wanting to challenge her authority.

  “I just wanted to talk.”

  “About what?”

  “Why he killed Yan.” My voice stays flat and unemotional but she takes it up a notch and slams a fist on the table.

  “You killed Yan and were planting your wife’s gun in his house!”

  “Get real. Lance killed Yan, gave the gun to Mike, who planted it at his house. If I was going to hide a weapon, I wouldn’t’ve used the top dresser drawer. Give me a little credit.” At that, I lawyer up until Andy enters the final act.

  He takes off his long wool coat and adjusts his white cuffs. “I thought we agreed you’d stay quiet until I got here.”

  “They were so stupid, I had to say something for fear it might be catching.” When I grin, despite his best efforts, he cracks one, too.

  After that, I tell him all that went down and in about two hours, Andy and the woman reenter the small room.

  “You’re lucky all the evidence supports your story.” She motions me toward the door but I linger and tap Andy’s arm.

  “Did Lance give up the password to the hard drive?”

  “Yes.” He motions we should exit the room into a dingy hall but I’m still dying to know.

  “So, tell me, what did he have on Jackson Pharmaceuticals?”

  The woman detective shakes her head. “Working as a lab tech, he found traces of fentanyl in the contaminated samples. The hoax was pure bullshit.”

  “Get out of town.” I did not see that one coming.

  A few days later, the Feds drop all my charges and to celebrate, Blake invites everyone to our house for eggnog made with real cream and fresh nutmeg.

  Grayson sits next to Isabella on our couch, Slate has Lilac in his lap in our leather lounge recliner. Lucky’s breaking in the new rocking chair while me and Blake pass around hors d’oeuvres playing host and hostess.

  Lilac turns with her arms around Slate. “I can’t believe I missed all the fun while I was working. I still don’t get it. Why did Philip, I mean Lance, kill Yan?”

  I cross the small living room and hold forth a plate of bacon-wrapped scallops. “After Lance found the Fentanyl, he went to the Chinese Embassy, hoping they would pay him off to keep quiet. Instead, Yan put a contract out on him. The Feds think Lance found out and beat him to it.”

  “Wait, so Yan knew about the fentanyl all long?” Grabbing a toothpick, Lilac plucks an orb from the middle of the serving tray.

  “Yan was in charge of the whole US operation. Lance thought he was muscling a diplomat and when he learned about the contract, he panicked and convinced his old roommate he had evidence of a big cover-up. The hoax was an easier story to sell to his friend, Mike. Poor crazy guy got no Pulitzer. I heard The Times fired him, too.”

  “I can’t believe you guys didn’t ask me about the vaccine. I could’ve shared the latest stats with you.” Lilac stands and grabs another beer while Blake sits next to me on the couch.

  She asks, “Hun? If Yan’s suppliers were shipping fentanyl and replacing it with some kind of placebo, and Lance’s hoax was all made up, why didn’t anyone notice?”

  Lilac reenters the room. “Sad, right? Over a third of the vaccine was fake, no one knew and I can guess why. It takes a lot of money to start a big study and honestly? The US government and Big Pharm wouldn’t do it. What if the vaccine was less effective than stated? Would they really want people to find out?”

  “Wow. So, if Jack didn’t listen in on McAlister’s blackmail, people would still be getting phony flu shots and fentanyl would still be flowing into the US in vaccine bottles?”

  Slate nods. “The Chinese are far bigger importers than Mexico. They just keep a lower profile.”

  “Well, I for one, am glad it’s over.” Blake raises her virgin eggnog. “To the New Year.”

  “Cheers!”

  Christmas Eve

  Blake

  “I’m so glad you could make it.” I open our apartment door and Lucky drags me into a big hug.

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world, luv.” He kisses me on the cheek and hands me a twelve-pack of Foster’s with a huge red velvet bow on top.

  “Thanks. It’s lovely. You shouldn’t have.”

  “My pleas-ah.” The big Aussie grins as I walk him into the living room and take his coat. He shakes hands with Slate and kisses Lilac on the side of the mouth, “Hasn’t that wank-ah made an honest woman of ya? If he doesn’t soon, I swear you’re free game for blokes like me.”

  Grinning, Lilac whispers in his ear, and I never saw Lucky blush so red before.

  “Nev-ah proposition a sheila with a scalpel, mate.” Feigning to shudder, he grabs his crotch then reaches for the beer.

  Bottles clink and my husband says, “Merry Christmas.”

  “Right back atcha.”

  When the doorbell rings again, it’s Grayson and Isabella. She hands me their coats, then shows
off her Grumpy Cat in a Santa hat t-shirt. It says bah humbug. Grayson’s shirt is of a man’s naked chest, two red bulbs hanging on nipple rings.

  “I think we have a winner.” Jack puts a hand over Grayson’s head and snickers in his Bad Santa t-shirt.

  “No way. Mine is definitely worse.” Lilac reaches into her bag and pulls out hers. I have to admit, the naked old-lady boobs are pretty awful.

  “Our ugly Christmas t-shirt contest has officially hit a new low.” I chuckle, thinking my Trump in an elf suit is the best. “We’ll have to vote.”

  Lucky unzips his sweatshirt, LED’s lighting his Christmas poo. “You yanks take these t-shirts way too seriously. Next year, I’ll up my game.”

  In the background, Christmas in Zitherland plays out Silent Night and I grin as everyone shudders. The rest get a turn at worst-Christmas-music-ever while we break open a new deck of Cards Against Humanity.

  Laughing until tears run down my face, I raise a toast. “To Jack’s new job.”

  “Here, here.”

  Lucky slaps Jack on the back. “You’re going to be guarding some nob living on Central Park West?”

  “And driving his kids back and forth to school. Piece of cake.” Slate takes a long pull from his beer while Jack grabs my hand and pulls me into his lap.

  “Blake and I have been married for months yet never lived together for more than a few days in a row. It’s high time.”

  “You did do things in a bit of an odd order.” Lucky grins and takes another beer while Jack looks offended.

  “How can you say that? I married her to save her.”

  “And the bun in the oven, mate?”

  “Not my fault. Blakely attacked me when I was sound asleep.”

  “I did no such thing!” I slap him playfully and blush to think of that night.

  “I know you hooked up in Utah but how did Jack end up in DC and you here?” Lilac feeds a couple bites of cookie to Slate and he nibbles her fingertips until she giggles.