The Tangled Web: an international web of intrigue, murder and romance

by J. P. Lane

  Lauren flashed her press ID at the two policemen. One strolled over to the car.

  “You can’t go any further,” he told her.

  “Then what am I to do?” Lauren asked with exasperation. “This is a one-way street. I can’t turn back!”

  “Pull up over there,” the policeman instructed, pointing to a stretch of sidewalk not nearly wide enough for the VW Bug.

  Lauren looked at the space doubtfully.

  “The car will be fine there,” the policeman said. “Nobody is going to be coming down this road anytime soon.”

  Lauren pulled the car over and switched off the engine. “Well, I guess that takes care of that,” she grumbled. “We’ll just have go the rest of the way on foot.”

  She arrived at the square in front of the capital building to find Robert Palmer barking orders at a surrounding army of law enforcement officers. On the perimeters of the group, Special Forces faced every direction, their M-16s trained on windows and rooftops of surrounding buildings. At the foot of the steps, two ambulances waited, their emergency lights flashing in futility. Lauren edged her way forward and surveyed the scene. Erick Freeman lay at the top of the steps, the position of his body already outlined in chalk. Two medical examiners leaned over him. Lauren’s eyes descended the steps, slowly panning the assembly of officials still standing where they had been when the bullets hit the Prime Minister. Margaret Thomas stood motionless with lips pursed. Lauren’s eyes moved from her aunt to the man standing closest to her – Allan Harvey, the Deputy Prime Minister, his face an inscrutable mask. Slightly below him, Frank Sterling, the Minister of National Security and Defense stood looking shattered. Lauren’s eyes moved along, stopping briefly at John Boyd, the Minister of Tourism. He was talking quietly with someone beside him. Standing a few feet from Boyd was Jason McCloud, the Minister of the Interior. McCloud seemed frightened.

  Lauren fought her way along the yellow tape until she was as close to Robert Palmer as she could get. “Inspector Palmer,” she shouted, waving to get his attention. “Can I have a quick word with you?”

  Palmer walked over to Lauren. “Yes, Lauren,” he said impatiently. “What can I do for you? Please make it quick.”

  “At what time was he killed?”

  “Two o’ clock, give or take a minute.”

  “Are there any suspects?”

  “No, not at this time,” Palmer answered hurriedly. “However, it would appear the shots were fired from one of those windows up there,” he confided, indicating the Foster & Foster building.

  Lauren gazed at the Foster & Foster building. “You mean the law offices?” she said in surprise.

  “Yes,” Palmer acknowledged, “But for heaven’s sake please don’t print that. It’s much too early to say where the shots came from with any certainty. Last thing I need is a bunch of attorneys on my case.”

  It was on the tip of Lauren’s tongue to ask how many shots had been fired when Palmer turned and hurried back to his corps of law enforcement officers.

  “What the hell!” Tony Martin’s eyes rounded in astonishment as Erick Freeman, smiling at him from the TV screen, suddenly collapsed on the steps leading up to the entrance of the capital building. Martin grabbed the cell phone on the bedside table in his hotel room. “Shit,” he cursed as he frantically dialed Smith’s number only to find it no longer in service. Impatiently, Martin waited for the string of commercials that had just started to come to an end. At last, the broadcast of the event resumed.

  This time, Martin watched with an analytical eye. The governor and Freeman ascend the steps followed by a throng of government officials. A photographer aims his camera at Freeman. Freeman turns around for the photo op. Dashing smile. Bam. Freeman falls. People ducking. Others freeze. Where did the bullet come from? No way to tell from the angle of the cameras. But if it was someone who knew what they were doing, and they obviously did, the shot had to have been fired from across the street. That meant it could only have come from one place. Martin suddenly found himself in need of a drink. He went to the wet bar and poured himself a straight Bourbon.

  By the time he turned around, the commercials were on again. Martin sat on the edge of the bed, eyes fixed on a couple in swimsuits drinking beer on a beach – blue water, white sand and palm trees – an island paradise. If there was one thing Martin was sure of, it was that he needed to get out of paradise fast. He deliberated for a moment then threw back his head and laughed as the realization hit him. What had just taken place was a blessing in disguise. “This is good, this is really good,” he chortled. As far as Smith knew, the Foster & Foster building was still a go. That meant Smith would be under the assumption he had done the shooting. The cartel would come to the same conclusion, unless an investigation proved otherwise. And even if that were to happen, he could always claim the authorities got the wrong man. As far as the piper would ever know, he had paid, this time in full. Once he got rid of the gun, he would be home free.

  Gordon Matthews started as his executive assistant flew into his office in the pitch of excitement. Gordon stared at her nonplussed. What she was saying didn’t make sense.

  Hearing no response from him, she repeated, “Someone just shot the Prime Minister in front of the capital building! The Prime Minister is dead.”

  “Are you trying to tell me someone just walked up to the Prime Minister and shot him in full view of everybody?” Gordon asked in astonishment.

  “No, the shot came out of nowhere. A friend just called and told me. She saw it on TV.”

  It took a minute for the news to sink in. When it did, Gordon was visibly shaken.

  “What time did this take place?” he asked tensely.

  “I think about half an hour ago, about two o’ clock.”

  Gordon fumbled for his car keys. “Ask the driver to bring my car to the front of the building, would you? On second thought, forget about the driver. Do you mind getting the car yourself?”

  His assistant looked surprised. “You want me to get the car?”

  “Yes, yes, please, if you don’t mind,” he said distractedly.

  No sooner had she left than Gordon picked up the phone. “Dan, have you heard the news?”

  “No, I just got back from lunch. What’s going on?” Dan Matthews drawled.

  “Erick Freeman was just gunned down in front of the capital building.”

  Without waiting for a response, Gordon stormed down the hall to his brother’s office.

  “I warned you and Gary you were playing with fire,” he growled pulling up a chair.

  “Spare me the sanctimonious ‘I told you so’, Gordon. You were happy enough with your cut of the first shipment.”

  It was with effort Gordon kept his voice low. “We agreed it would be only one shipment. Look, if you and Gary want to act like a pair of hoods, that’s your business, but my ass is on the line here. Are you aware what this could mean? Aside from the whole thing blowing up in our faces, our lives could be in danger. We don’t know who was behind Freeman’s death.”

  Dan’s eyes narrowed on Gordon. “Think Sterling was behind it?”

  “Who the hell knows?” Gordon answered testily.

  He rose abruptly. “You better let Gary know about this mess if he hasn’t heard already. I’m heading home to Vale Verde. I won’t be back until one of you figures out what the hell is going on.” “And I would be careful if I were you,” he added, pausing at the door. “My advice, if you’ll take it for once, is ratchet up your security. War has been declared and right now the enemy is faceless.”

  THIRTY-NINE

  There was a hush over the island the following day, an uncharacteristic stillness, the cities devoid of everyday street sounds. Even the trade wind off the sea seemed to have given way to the abundant speculation being expressed in muted tones and heated discussions in every corner. What had happened was so far removed from any national experience no one knew what to make of it. Some believed it was politically motivated, others, who had heard whispers,
suspected the motive for the crime was even darker. Opinions on why it happened may have varied, but regardless, Erick Freeman’s assassination had come without warning, as quickly and unexpectedly as a bolt of lightning before a thunderstorm.

  Downtown was not exempt from the pervasive mood of sobriety as Lauren pulled into the Foster & Foster parking lot shortly after ten and took note of the man with the AK47 stationed at the back of the building. To her mind, the presence of Special Forces meant one thing only: the Foster & Foster offices were under scrutiny. Explaining the purpose of her visit to the security guard in the parking lot, she parked and proceeded on her mission.

  She took a quick look across the street as she walked purposefully towards the front entrance of the law offices. The area around the capital building remained cordoned off. Police were still all over the place. On the other side of the street, just a few yards ahead of her, stood an obstacle to her intent. Not to be deterred, Lauren stepped up to the two Special Forces officers and presented her press ID.

  “You can’t go in there today,” she was told bluntly.

  “But I’m with the press,” Lauren protested.

  The law enforcement officers stood firm. “The building is being processed by the C.I.D. No one is allowed in except members of staff who have special permission. Sorry.”

  Lauren persisted. “I won’t be more than half an hour,” she pleaded offering her driver’s license as additional ID. Seeing she was getting nowhere, she pulled out all the stops. “Can you at least call your superior officer and ask if I can go in? Or better, could you contact Chief Inspector Palmer? He knows me personally.”

  The men glanced at each other uncertainly. One at last pulled a two-way radio from his belt. There was a static-filled exchange for a minute or two before he returned the radio to his belt.

  “What did they say?” Lauren asked anxiously.

  “They’re checking, ma’am. Please be patient.”

  Rather than stand there twiddling her thumbs, Lauren crossed the street for a closer look at the activities on the other side. Again, she wondered who was behind the assassination. From the little she had learned from Robert Palmer, it had been a meticulously carried out undertaking. They had found not a shred of evidence thus far. She was on the verge of asking a few questions to fill the time, when she heard the crackle of the two-way radio from across the street. She hurried back to see if she had clearance.

  “Yes, sir. Yes, sir. All right then, sir,” one of the men was saying into the radio. He returned the radio to his belt as Lauren came over to him. With a grudging look, he said, “You have permission to enter the building, Miss Anderson, but you’ll have to be fingerprinted. While you’re inside, please don’t touch anything if you can avoid it. They’re still lifting fingerprints in there.”

  The Foster & Foster law offices were as quiet as a tomb as Lauren got out of the elevator at the fourth floor and went over to the reception desk where an attractive younger woman sat looking excruciatingly bored. On seeing Lauren, she smiled with relief that she had been momentarily saved from her solitude.

  Lauren introduced herself with a smile in return. “I was wondering if I could talk to a few people in the office.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you, but there’s hardly anybody here today, except the police,” the receptionist told her. “The two senior partners and their secretaries are the only ones who came to work.”

  “Can I speak with either of the partners?”

  The receptionist looked doubtful. “I don’t know if today is a good day, but I’ll check.” She picked up the phone. “Mr. Foster, Lauren Anderson from Island Daily News is here. Can you spare her a few minutes?”

  The pretty face contorted in a series of grimaces. Lauren was not surprised to hear the answer. “He says not today, Miss Anderson. If you’d like to call and make an appointment, he’ll be happy to talk with you another time.” “Maybe I can help?” she offered with a hopeful look.

  Lauren tried to get past her disappointment. She would have dearly liked to hear what the partners had to say about the possibility of their offices having been used for an assassination. Resigned that the receptionist was as much as she would get that day, she took her up on her offer. “Where were you when the Prime Minister was shot?” she asked readying her recorder.

  “Right here, sitting at this desk.”

  Lauren viewed the capital building through the windows. “You didn’t see anything?” she asked surprised.

  “Not a thing. I didn’t even realize anything was wrong until I saw people rushing to the windows saying something about the Prime Minister being shot.”

  “Were you here all day?” Lauren asked.

  “I was here from nine until when it happened. I had a doctor’s appointment at three, so I was planning to take a late lunch.”

  Lauren thought it strange that the woman had been oblivious to the commotion that had immediately followed the shots, but she chose not to linger on the subject.

  “Is this the only reception area?” she asked.

  “Yes, it’s the only one.”

  “Does that mean you would have seen everyone who visited the firm between nine and when the Prime Minister was assassinated?”

  “You sound like a detective,” the receptionist laughed. “That’s the same question the C.I.D. asked. No, I wouldn’t have seen everybody who might have come to the office yesterday. Only clients come through the front. Delivery people go to the back door. That’s where we come in too.”

  Lauren paused to think for a minute. From what the receptionist had told her, she deduced the sniper must have slipped in through the back door. Certainly they would not have been able to get past the reception area without an appointment, or without knowing someone who worked there.

  “Would it be possible to sneak in the back door?” she asked.

  “No. You can’t get in without a key, or unless a member of staff buzzes you in. Besides, there’s a security guard there, so no one can just waltz into the building through the back door. If somebody wanted to sneak in, it would be easier to get in through the front.”

  “Why would it be easier to enter that way?” Lauren was curious to know.

  “There’s a door in the downstairs lobby that leads to the back corridor where the emergency staircase is. You can easily get to any part of the building that way.”

  “I didn’t see any door when I came in. What door are you talking about?” Lauren asked puzzled.

  “You didn’t notice it, did you?” the receptionist smiled. “That’s not surprising with all those old photographs of the city down there. They kind of draw your attention, don’t they?”

  Lauren couldn’t help being baffled by such a gap in security, which would have allowed the sniper easy access to any floor. Even so, how would they have made it to their destination without being detected? The assassination took place in the middle of the day.

  “Where is the entrance to the emergency stairs on this floor?” she asked.

  “Right there,” the receptionist pointed.

  Lauren walked over to the door to open it before remembering she had been instructed to touch nothing. Besides, someone sneaking around the building didn’t seem right. Her instincts told her the person had entered the building either posing as a delivery person, or a client.

  “What happens when somebody delivers something at the back entrance?” she asked returning to the reception desk.

  The woman looked at her quizzically. “I’m not sure I understand you. What do you mean by what happens?”

  “Who takes the delivery? Where is it put?”

  “Who takes it depends on what the delivery is. Anyone can take a delivery. If it’s office supplies or something like that, it goes immediately into a room near the back door. If it’s documents or mail, there’s also a mailroom there.”

  “So if I were making a delivery, there would be no reason for me to go much further than the back door.”

  “That’s correct.”r />
  The sniper sailed in the front door, Lauren realized with growing excitement. “Can you remember who came into this reception area between nine and two?” she asked.

  The receptionist pulled up a calendar on her computer. “There weren’t that many clients yesterday because of what happened,” she murmured studying her screen. “Let me see. There were a total of seven appointments yesterday morning – all before lunch. David Foster was in court in the morning, so he had nothing scheduled until afternoon. Wait a minute,” she suddenly remembered. “How could I have forgotten? He had an appointment immediately after lunch!”

  “What time was Mr. Foster’s after-lunch appointment?”

  “Two o’clock. But the client arrived twenty minutes early. I would have remembered him if only for that reason. Though he would be hard to forget.”

  Lauren’s brows arched in a question mark. “What made that particular client so memorable?”

  “The man was drop-dead gorgeous,” the receptionist confided, girl-to-girl. “I could hardly keep my eyes off him. He was as good looking as they come, like a model out of a magazine. But the thing that stood out about him most was his eyes. I’ve never seen such riveting eyes. They were almost feline, the color of clear amber.”

  Lauren’s sharp intake of breath was audible, but seeming not to notice, the receptionist rattled on, “He was about five eleven. Dark hair, kind of tousled. You know the look. Very well dressed. Nice hands. He was English. He didn’t say he was, but I could tell from his accent. One of those highbrow English accents.”

  “What was his name?” Lauren forced herself to ask.

  “Philip Duncan.”

  The name was not the same, but Lauren already knew the answer to her next question. “Had you ever seen Mr. Duncan before?”

  “No. He doesn’t live on the island from what I gather. But then Mr. Foster has a lot of international clients, land investors, hoteliers, that kind of thing.”