One Man Two Votes (The Robert Carlton Series Book 1)

by J Russ Briley

  “Mr. Carlton? It’s Agent Karelonski. May I come in?”

  Robert still felt disoriented. “Who’s with you?”

  “Agent Brown has come to replace me. I’d like to introduce you.”

  He sounded relaxed and unemotional. Robert answered with just a touch of apprehension in his voice. “Come in.”

  The door opened and the two men came in. Peter had straightened his tie and put his charcoal grey jacket back on. Agent Brown was dressed in what looked like an identical suit. If they had been wearing dark sunglasses they could have been characters from a movie.

  “This is Agent Brown.” Peter gestured toward his partner.

  Brown extended his hand toward Robert. “Pleased to meet you, Sir.”

  “My pleasure.” Robert replied. He turned to Peter. “I thought the other agent was your partner.”

  “We train in several different sized groups. Groups of four to six are most common. We’re all partners and work as teams. We are a team of six.” Agent Peter responded. “We primarily help out on presidential assignments, or dignitaries’ trips. We’re one of the advance security teams that arrive before the President.”

  “Of course.” Robert could see the logic in that. “I didn’t hear you talk. How did you know who it was? And what time is it?” It was still dark outside.

  “It’s twelve-thirty, Sir.” Then touching his earpiece Agent Peter said, “We use radio communications. We stay in contact with each other.”

  Robert was beginning to wake up fully, his eyes blinking away the drowsiness.

  “Fewer surprises that way.” Peter continued, smiling. “Well, it’s time for me to get some shut-eye. Mrs. Carlton said we could use the guest room.”

  “Yes, of course. The bed’s always made up in there, and there should be plenty of towels in the guest bathroom. There are guest supplies in the drawers. Toothbrushes, shampoo and so forth.” Robert sat back in the chair as the two agents left the room, closing the door. He rubbed his eyes and ran his fingers through his hair. It was badly disheveled. The heat of his right cheek told him it was red from pressing into his desk while he slept. His collar was askew, and in general he knew he must appear to be a wreck. He decided to go upstairs and get a little real sleep in his bed. He wasn’t going to achieve anything being groggy and exhausted.

  When Robert reached the bedroom, the closet sent another shockwave through his system. Now he could see why Tracie had placed so many suitcases in the hallway. There was nothing casual left in her closet. One full side was empty. There were still dozens of shoes, dresses, and formal outfits, handbags, hats, scarves, and negligees, but there was no doubt that Tracie planned to be gone for some time.

  Quickly checking the boy’s rooms he found the same half-empty closets and drawers. The car must have already been partially packed with their stuff when he’d arrived. Tracie’s half of the bathroom was devoid of most of her makeup, hair accessories, perfume, and jewelry. The boy’s pictures were gone, but Robert’s picture still sat on the table. It stood alone except for a note leaning against it.

  “You should have called.”

  Tracie

  Robert frowned at the reprimand, wadded up the note, and threw it into the corner.

  Chapter 52

  Marty lay stretched out on the couch as the sun flickered through the trees into his eyes. It was sunrise. He clenched his eyes shut. The frost on the leaves glistened as the weak winter sun shot through them, creating alternating flashes of light and dark on his face. The light flickered and dimmed as the sun rose over the edge of clouds many miles away. Another grey, dreary day began.

  Groaning, Marty opened first one eye, then the next. He squinted, raising his hand to block the faint light, but it was already gone. Cold and grey prevailed.

  “Unhhhhh,” he groaned again, as his head pounded with the movement. His tongue rolled to each side of his pasty mouth, then across his teeth, feeling dry, sticky, swollen, and much too big. As he lifted himself slowly into a sitting position, he knocked over two empty bottles. He almost hit the third bottle as he overbalanced, putting out his hand to steady himself. He let out a low grumbling, “bleh,” and dragged himself to the bathroom.

  Digging through his medicine cabinet, he knocked over several old prescription containers that clattered into the sink. His head rang with the noise.

  “God!” The guttural word was barely audible as his hand moved to the side of his thrumming head. He finally dug out an old, wrinkled packet of effervescing antacid, and dropped the tablets into his water glass. His head jerked away from the glass. The fizzing mixture always smelled bad to him, but it smelled really awful when he had a hangover. His eyes alternated between open and closed as he drank the foul mixture. It tasted worse than he remembered. He thought he would throw it right back up, but he kept it down after two gulps. He didn’t think it would help, but he had to try something.

  What a night, he thought to himself. Trudging into the kitchen, he recalled how he used to be able to drink three six-packs of beer by himself, and had never felt this bad. He was out of practice, and no longer had the ability to sleep until noon as he had in his twenties. Now he suffered for his excesses.

  Marty staggered into the kitchen. Ignoring a burnt smell emanating from the coffee maker, he dropped some fresh coffee grounds on top of the old ones in the filter. He poured two cups of water into the top, and switched on the machine. Leaning heavily on the counter, he grabbed the TV remote and clicked on the early news. He didn’t expect to hear anything. He just wanted some sound. The coffee didn’t take long as it poured directly into his giant mug. It was too hot to drink, so he carried it toward the bathroom, leaving the last drops to fall, hissing, onto the hot pad. Turning on the shower and stripping off his clothes, he stepped in.

  He stood with his head bent forward under the spray for several minutes, not moving. Eventually he washed his hair and soaped down. His eyes began to fully open as he climbed out and dried off. Pulling on his robe, he latched his hands around the coffee mug and took a deep swallow of the harsh, bitter drink.

  “Oh, God.” The coffee was awful, but it had the desired effect. Grimacing, he set the mug on the counter. By the time he’d shaved and dried his hair, the mug was empty. He got dressed and headed out to the car.

  The windshield was covered in frost. He grumbled to himself, as he did every day, about cleaning out the garage so he could park inside. His ice scraper was a heavy one, with an attached simulated sheepskin mitt. He made short work of the windows as the car warmed up, and was soon on his way to work. He would be late, but that no longer matter. He’d decided what must be done.

  Chapter 53

  Robert did not feel particularly spry, but he had gotten ready quickly after the alarm jerked him up from bed. The Agents were up and ready to go. It was hard to tell how much sleep either had gotten.

  Robert had showed them around the kitchen, and offered the use of the espresso machine earlier. Brown apparently had made lattes before, and set them each up with one to go, after locating cups and lids. Robert accepted his, and decided they would stop for egg and bagel sandwiches along the way at a place he frequented. Drive-up windows were apparently a risk, so one of the agents went in and ordered, returning with the sandwiches and Robert’s change.

  Robert was discovering that it was handy having a chauffeur. Not only did he eat the sandwich and drink his large coffee without risking his life by driving at the same time, but he also made several calls and texted en-route to the office. He confirmed a meeting with Carey and Davidson, which would take place upon his arrival, and set up a time for Jerry to give his update. He also picked up his messages from Lorraine. Lorraine was in the office early, as usual.

  By the time he arrived at his office Carey and Davidson were waiting inside. Agent Long had taken his customary seat, facing the hallway with his back to Robert’s office door.

  “Good morning, Lorraine...Agent Long.” Robert was feeling the coffee buzz.

  �
�Good morning, Mr. Carlton.” Lorraine seemed to have recovered from her attack of nerves.

  “Good morning, Sir.” Long replied.

  “Good morning, Gentlemen.” Robert said to Carey and Davidson as he walked into his office. Both men started to rise from the guest chairs near Robert’s desk. “Please stay seated,” he said, motioning to stop them from getting up. “We’ll go over everything in just a minute.”

  Robert opened the closet and hung up his coat. “Can Lorraine get you anything? Coffee?” he asked the men.

  “No, thank you.” They said, almost in unison.

  “She already asked.” Phil held up his coffee mug in his right hand, and an onion bagel in the left, with a smile on his face.

  “Of course, I should have realized that.” Robert smiled, and moved to the backside of his desk. Hitting the intercom button he said, “Lorraine, could you please get me some coffee, and a bagel?”

  The words had hardly left his mouth before Lorraine was placing the coffee cup and bagel at Robert’s elbow. “Thanks, Lorraine.” Lorraine frowned slightly, and waited for a moment, clearly hoping for some enlightenment about the previous day’s events, and Robert’s need for protection.

  Robert ignored her completely, and Lorraine left as he turned his full attention to Carey and Davidson. He still felt a little wired from the espresso. He wondered if it showed. He was feeling a need to get a lot of answers this morning.

  “Have you been able to find out anything about any of the items on our list?” He asked the men. Glancing back and forth at each of them, he waited for an answer.

  Carey began. “We’ve checked the police reports for each incident you mentioned. Chris Stoker’s death was obviously a homicide. They have turned up no witnesses.” Carey was reading the reports, photographed on his smartphone. “The front bumper of his car showed damage from a recent collision. There is no report of an earlier accident, and his estranged wife does not recall him mentioning any previous accident.” He swiped the page. “There were traces of grey spray-paint, not automotive, on the grill, and the height of the bumper impact would suggest that the car hit a passenger vehicle. Stoker’s head hit the steering wheel, based on a bruise going across his forehead. The police have surmised he hit a car from behind, doing twenty, to twenty-five miles an hour at impact. His airbags did not deploy.”

  “Not automotive paint?” Robert asked, mystified.

  “No, Sir.” Carey replied, “Standard hardware store stuff.”

  “What does that mean?” Robert asked. Hadn’t Carey just said that the height of the damage correlated with the bumper of another car?

  “It’s too early to speculate, Sir. It could be unrelated to the impact, but it is most likely Mr. Stoker hit a car that was cheaply spray painted, or touched-up with spray paint.” Carey swiped to another page as Phil shifted in his chair, munching the last of his bagel. Robert continued to listen intently.

  “Stoker was shot at extremely close range by a .40 pistol. Based on the ballistic scoring, they think it was a SIG P229. The bullet weight was on the high side at 200 grains, and there was a set of brush scores. This indicates a suppressor may have been used, but they can’t be absolutely sure because of damage to the slug from the window, skull, and far door panel.”

  Robert could feel his stomach churning. “The window?”

  Carey continued as if reading a menu. “The shot was fired through the driver’s side window.”

  “A suppressor?” Robert queried.

  “Yes. You might call it a silencer.” Carey translated.

  “A silencer,” repeated Robert, thinking that was not the average car-jack or street hoodlum gun.

  “Yes,” nodded Carey, evidently picking up on Robert’s next question. “His wallet, rings, watch, and car were left at the scene. This sounds like a professional hit, not a robbery. There are no suspects.” Carey finished reading the report, and looked up. His face showed no expression.

  “That’s it?” Robert was noticeably discouraged, and sounded it. All that report had given him was more questions.

  “That’s all they have. I reviewed all the police, paramedic, and preliminary Medical Examiner notes.” Carey swiped to a different report. “As to the assault on Lieutenant Colonel Grady Barlow...”

  Carey scanned down the page. “His home has been burned down to the foundation. The garage also burned down, but large portions were apparently blown away from the fire by the exploding gasoline, vehicle, and motorcycle. Remains of a body were found near the point of origin—the living room, they think. It was an incendiary explosion. The body can’t be identified at this point. There is very little left, but the police assumed it to be Barlow, and have requested his dental records.”

  “But it wasn’t Barlow.” Robert interjected.

  “We know that, Sir, but I did not advise them of that fact. If you feel it would expedite the investigation, we could tell them, but then there would be inquires as to how we know, and how we are involved with the case.” Carey continued unruffled. “The fire department reports that the explosion and fire were most likely arson, caused by a military incendiary-type hand grenade.”

  “A what?” Robert expected to hear something out of the ordinary, but the idea of a grenade surprised him. “How do they know?”

  Carey continued from farther in the report. “A fuse mechanism was found in the area of the living room near the kitchen. It was an M201A1 fuse. This would be a match for an AN-M14 TH3 incendiary hand grenade. Apparently there is a former marine on the fire investigation team. When he spotted the fuse, he reported it to the ATF.”

  “Great.” Robert groaned. “Now the ATF is involved. Incendiary—you mean a phosphorous grenade.” Robert ventured.

  “No, the most common phosphorous grenade would be the M15. It uses an M206A2 fuse. The explosion is different. The grenade used in this case seems to have been a Thermate grenade.” Carey seemed confident about his knowledge. “The Thermate material burns very hot—over four-thousand degrees.” Carey referenced his report again. “Some molten particles made direct contact with the body and damaged the teeth extensively. Even dental records will take time to confirm. Beyond that, the police reported that it was impossible to determine whether there had been a break-in, or struggle, which, considering the condition of the structure and the extent of the burn, is not surprising. There were fresh tire tracks behind the house and nearby. The police are interviewing the neighbors, hoping for some eyewitness accounts, but it was late and dark enough that the neighbors were all inside. They live a little too far away to see anything specific, anyway.”

  Carey looked up from his phone. “I would say that the police would not have actively considered the idea of a break-in, assault, or foul play so soon, had it not been for the grenade fuse. That, combined with the human remains, will require a homicide investigation in addition to the arson investigation. With all that in mind, the tire tracks will be considered suspicious. They have made casts.”

  Robert had been listening intently, numbly. After a long pause, he asked, “Have you any idea who was found burned in the house?”

  Carey responded flatly. “None. There are no public records of a second occupant of Barlow’s residence, so I assume it is one of the assailants.”

  “What about the car explosion we witnessed?” Robert asked.

  Carey swiped to the next page. “As I told you earlier, they found a body in the kneeling position in the right front floorboard, face pressed downward into the seat. The body is burned beyond recognition, just like the one in the house. It is no more than a partial skeleton now. Molten remains of a release handle in the car, and a pin in the roadway near the car were discovered.” Carey looked up at Robert. “I would guess it came from the same kind of grenade. The police will figure that out soon. That common factor will pop up on the ATF computer, and the two incidents will be linked. From that point, Homeland Security is likely to get involved, and would take full charge of both investigations.” Looking back to th
e report, he continued. “They have positively identified the body as Barlow’s from his dog tag. Apparently he kept one in his wallet, and the metal resisted the high temperatures, thanks in part to the layers of wallet materials, and the body being between it and the explosion.”

  “Homeland Security,” Robert said, then sat back in his chair, silent. Carey and Phil watched quietly as he mulled over the information.

  Robert mentally tallied some salient points. First, Phil, Carey, and Long knew that Grady had survived the attack in his home, but Robert alone knew Grady was still alive. Robert knew the man in the car was someone else, but whom? Grady had told Robert that two men had attacked him, but Robert didn’t remember telling Carey how many there were, yet he’d used the words, “one of the assailants.” How did he know that there had been more than one assailant?

  Phil had waited long enough. He turned to Carey, saying, “Dog tag; that’s it? That isn’t conclusive. Have they checked dental records on the car victim?”

  Carey looked at Phil. “That police unit also requested Barlow’s dental records, but it will take time to get them. Plus, the grenade destroyed most of the teeth and bone. At some point the report from Barlow’s house might be connected with the car explosion. The reports will be compared. When the determination that Barlow was killed in the car explosion comes through, they’ll start trying to figure out who died in his house.”

  Robert still sat quietly thinking. Phil and Carey both turned toward him. Robert felt their eyes fall on him, and he looked up. “What about that car that exploded? I think Grady drove a Jeep Wagoneer, or some kind of smaller SUV. That car didn’t look like his choice of vehicle.”

  Carey quickly surveyed the reports. “There’s no specific mention of that type of vehicle, but the Wagoneer may have been the car that blew up in Barlow’s garage. The police will check the serial numbers on both vehicles, and determine where they came from.”