by J. P. Lane
With dread Lauren asked, “Where was Mr. Gorgeous when the assassination took place?”
The receptionist blinked. “I’m not sure. There were people everywhere it seems. He was here in this room…I guess.” “Now I remember!” she at last recalled. “He may have been in the restroom. He asked if he could use the restroom while he was waiting on Mr. Foster. I remember thinking he was taking an awfully long time. But then the next thing I knew, he was standing over there at the door looking lost. He didn’t have a clue what was going on. It must have been quite a shock for him when he discovered the Prime Minister had been killed, almost in front of his eyes.”
Lauren stared at her in horror. “Where is the restroom?” she asked weakly.
“One floor up – on the fifth floor.”
FORTY
A bone weary Robert Palmer paced the floor. Sitting not far from him, Scotland Yard veteran Bruce Wilson stroked his chin contemplatively. Having just rushed from London to assist the C.I.D. with the investigation of the murder of Erick Freeman, Wilson was also suffering the effects of lack of sleep. As Palmer continued to pace the floor, he ran through everything that had taken place thus far. Within hours of Erick Freeman’s death, he told Wilson, it had become clear the assassination had been a professional undertaking. The probable suspect, in Palmer’s opinion, was an Englishman by the name of Philip Duncan who had visited Foster & Foster at the exact time the assassination took place. Palmer had wasted no time soliciting the services of INTERPOL to help track Duncan down. INTERPOL had responded promptly, however with negative results. There was no record of a UK passport in the name of Philip Duncan. Neither had any passenger going by that name arrived in the UK in the twelve hours following the assassination. Whatever his real name, the man had disappeared without a trace after being checked and cleared by Special Forces immediately before leaving for the airport. Philip Duncan, or whatever his real name was, had slipped through their fingers with a wave and a smile.
Wilson finally spoke, “You say no shells were found when your men went over that room?”
“No shells, no gun fire residue, no weapon. The room was as clean as a whistle. And we turned the entire building inside out. In addition, every car in the immediate vicinity was searched within minutes of the crime. I don’t see how someone could have slipped out of the area with a rifle. Our men were thorough. Which means the weapon is hidden somewhere under our noses.”
“Outside garbage containers were checked also?”
“Yes, everything someone could have dumped a gun into.”
Wilson frowned in thought. “If he wasn’t frisked, he may have managed to hide something like a sniper pistol on himself. They’re long range, but discreet.”
“That’s a remote possibility, but we’ve narrowed it down to a rifle.”
“What puzzles me is the back door lock,” Palmer confided. “There were new pick marks on the lock cylinders, so there was definitely a fairly recent attempt at a break-in. If Duncan was able to waltz in and out posing as a client, there would have been little point in him trying to break in.” Just then, a Crime Lab specialist, also on loan from Scotland Yard, entered the room.
“You got something?” Palmer asked.
“Yes, here are the results of the test patterns, Chief Inspector. The shots were fired from a distance of two hundred and ten yards, 192.024 meters.”
Palmer took the report. “Where would that place the sniper?”
“I’d say the middle of the fifth floor of the Foster & Foster building.”
Palmer gave Wilson a studious look as the lab man left them. “Well, that pretty much confirms our suspicion,” he grunted. He walked over to a long table against the wall where the floor plan of the law offices was spread out. Wilson went and stood beside him. Together, they scanned the fifth floor. Palmer pointed to a location on the side facing the square. “The window in this room was open a crack when our men went in to inspect it,” he told Wilson. “Since the room is used only for storage, an open window pretty much confirms the forensic report.” Palmer paused in thought. “The only thing is our men found the door locked when they searched the building. From what we learned, the room is always kept under lock and key.”
“That would suggest the sniper had a key,” Wilson suggested. “But even if he had a key, how did he get as far as that room without being detected?”
“Unless he’d been hiding out there from the night before – which would fit in with the lock being tampered with.”
Wilson pursed his lips. “However, that would eliminate Duncan as a suspect.”
Neither said anything for a minute. Wilson was the first to speak again. “It seems the sniper would have had to have had access to the building to survey it. Follow me here: he enters the building by the back door when no one is around, scopes it out for the best location for his hit, positions himself, waits it out, bingo.”
“I’m still thinking Duncan is our man,” Palmer argued. “I don’t think the timing of his visit was coincidental. Added to that is his mysterious disappearance.”
“When did you say he arrived on the island?” Wilson asked.
“Less than forty-eight hours before the assassination. Not much time to make such elaborate preparations. Which leads to the question: where would he have got hold of a weapon in that short a time? He certainly couldn’t have landed at the airport with it.”
“Could be his weapon was waiting for him when he arrived.”
Palmer’s fatigued eyes lit. “Wilson, I think you may be on to something. We questioned law enforcement officers and security guards who worked that area during the week before the assassination, just to see if anyone noticed anything out of the ordinary. Turns out a man visited the capital building a few days before the assassination. Went upstairs and looked around. Claimed he was a history professor doing research.”
“Have we got a description of this character?”
“Not much that we can go on. Dark glasses and an ‘Indiana Jones’ hat that obscured recognizable features such as the color of his hair and eyes nicely. But here’s the thing that’s interesting. He showed up in the Foster & Foster parking lot the same afternoon. Seems he made rather an impression on the security guard there. The hat is what stuck in everybody’s minds. Rather unusual attire for downtown. From all reports, the man was American, maybe in his early forties.”
“Interesting,” Wilson mused. “An alleged client of Foster & Foster who had never been heard of prior to making an appointment for the exact time of the assassination. He disappears into thin air immediately after the shooting. A foreigner in an Indiana Jones hat snooping around the capital building and the Foster & Foster parking lot days before the other man appears on the scene. Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
Palmer nodded. “They were working together.”
“Here’s what it boils down to, Palmer,” Wilson concluded. “This was a planned undertaking executed by a highly skilled professional, most probably two. International assassins of that league don’t come cheap, unless they’re indentured servants of some drug cartel. So the questions are these. Who would gain by Erick Freeman’s death? Secondly, who had the financial resources to get rid of your Prime Minister? What we’re looking at here supports your theory the crime was drug related. Everything points to a cartel hit.”
The emergency meeting of the Cabinet was in an uproar as Allan Harvey rapped on the conference table for the second time. “Ministers of government, I’d like to call this meeting to order, please.” The voices gradually subsided as the Acting Prime Minister began with the request for a minute of silence in respect of the late Prime Minister. Heads bowed in a mandatory show of respect while the minute slowly passed, each member of the cabinet lost in their own thoughts about what had taken place. Allan cleared his throat, signaling the observance was over. “Before we get down to the business of planning how to move forward from here, you may be interested in hearing the latest C.I.D. reports.” At his words, all eyes t
urned expectantly to the Minister of National Security and Defense.
Frank Sterling quickly gathered his thoughts. As Minister of National Security and Defense, the investigation of the Prime Minister’s assassination fell under the auspices of his ministry. The investigation was underway, but what only he and the Minister of the Interior knew, was who was responsible for Erick Freeman’s death. Sterling shifted in his chair uncomfortably before beginning.
“So far there is nothing to report. Except the bullets removed from the Prime Minister’s body have been identified as likely coming from a sniper rifle. It’s believed the shots were fired from the Foster & Foster law offices across the street from the capital building.” There was a gasp of surprise. “But that has not been confirmed as yet,” Sterling quickly clarified. “INTERPOL and Scotland Yard are assisting us with the investigation. I’m afraid that’s all the information available at this time.”
The voice of the Minister of Education floated down from the other end of the table. “Have they no idea at all who may have been behind it?”
“None,” Sterling answered. “But rest assured our entire law enforcement force, as well as the military, are leaving no stones unturned.”
Allan waited for the murmur around the table to fade before moving on to the next item on the agenda. “There’s another matter of vital importance that needs to be addressed immediately. Two members of the cabinet have resigned unexpectedly. That leaves us in somewhat of a crisis with those cabinet positions empty at a time like this.” As he said the last, Allan’s eyes darted first to Frank Sterling and then to Jason McCloud. He smiled inwardly, knowing full well their resignations were the result of having got the message. It had arrived in the form of an unsigned letter to each. There was no need for a signature for Sterling and McCloud to understand from whom it came. And the underlying threat, though couched subtly, provided enough of an incentive for them to meet the demands that had been laid out.
Questions began flying around the table. Allan waited patiently for a lull before declaring somberly. “It is with regret that I announce the resignations of Frank Sterling, Minister of National Security and Defense, and Jason McCloud, Minister of the Interior.”
His announcement was met by a prolonged hush. He scanned the surprised faces, noting the exchange of glances around the table. Allan cleared his throat. “These resignations come at an inopportune time, but we have to respect Frank and Jason’s decisions. Not knowing who was behind the Prime Minister’s assassination, it is understandable that many of us now feel threatened.”
There was a pregnant pause before the Acting Prime Minister continued. “I know we’re all deeply shaken by the circumstances surrounding Erick Freeman’s death. But there is a future and we have to move on. Let us work together to rebuild this country as quickly and expediently as possible. Our voters are counting on us to deliver what we promised. We have been blessed with one of the most physically beautiful countries on earth and the additional blessing of fertile land. It is time to end our dependence on imported foods. Let us make this nation as beautiful a place to live as it is to look at – for us, our children, our grandchildren, for everyone who calls this island home. Let us work towards restoring the economy. Let us begin narrowing the divide between those who enjoy abundance and those who have too little! Let us restore the moral fiber that has been ripped apart over the past decade! Let us educate our youth and rid our cities of violent crime once and for all! There will not be another generation of criminals in this country!”
Tumultuous cries of “Hear, hear!” followed. Allan glanced at John, then at Margaret. Their faces revealed nothing of how they felt, though Allan suspected they shared his sadness on that day. Despite his commitment to the plan that had unfolded throughout the year and eventually brought them all to this sobering moment, he, found himself struggling with the reality now it had actually come to pass. The assassination had been awful to watch. In that place where the laws of the nation were made, he, Margaret and John, three ministers who had vigilantly fought against violent crime, had effectively committed murder. Would any of them be able to live with that, Allan wondered.
FORTY-ONE
Mystified, Logan put down the phone. This was his fourth attempt at trying to reach Lauren since his return to New York from London, and she had not returned his calls. At first, he had simply assumed she was overcome with work. The assassination had to be the biggest story of her life. Also consumed by the after-shocks of the event, he hadn’t given Lauren’s absence of communication much thought. But now that he had more time to think, he found it puzzling that she had not tried to contact him seeing she had every means of doing so. She had the number for his private line at the office, his home number, and his mobile number.
Logan frowned, trying to figure out what was going on. The last time he had spoken with Lauren was the evening of the assassination. He was in London and had just received the news from Allan when she called. Having no other option, he had feigned complete surprise as she delivered a blow-by-blow account of what had transpired. To his great discomfort, she had asked who he thought was behind it. He had felt like a jerk as he gave some inane answer that strayed far from the truth.
Now, gazing unseeingly out his office window, he wondered how long Erick Freeman’s death would linger in the forefront of his mind. At the time it was being planned, he had not fooled himself into believing he would be immune to its effects. But he had not anticipated how shaken he would be. It had been deeply disturbing to watch the event playing out before his eyes in living color, though admittedly from the distance of BBC news. He was not so cold-blooded that he did not feel a certain degree of remorse as he watched the man being gunned down. If there was any redemption to be had for such an act, it was that a dark era on the island had come to an end. Though change wouldn’t happen overnight, he knew. It would take years to restore the shattered economy and move the island away from the prevailing culture of corruption.
The island was not the only country going through turmoil, Logan reminded himself. When he had watched the news the evening before, it seemed there was one calamity after another, from one end of the world to the other. There wasn’t a corner of the globe unaffected. If it wasn’t the economy, it was war. If it wasn’t war, it was crime, disease, or some natural disaster. It almost led him to think those who believed in the End Times and that kind of thing might have something. Though he had always been skeptical of those rather esoteric predictions. Men had claimed the world was coming to an end for thousands of years. So far, it had held up.
That aside, Logan wondered if everything he had struggled to build really mattered that much in the long run. He remembered his grandmother had been fond of hurling a particular Biblical passage at his father when David had reached his financial zenith. Logan tried to bring the words to mind. He was surprised to find he remembered them off the bat. And whatever my eyes desired I kept not from them; I withheld not my heart from any pleasure, for my heart rejoiced in my labor, and this was my portion and reward for my toil. Then I looked on all that my hands had done and the labor I had spent in doing it, and behold, all was vanity and a striving after the wind and a feeding on it, and there was no profit under the sun.
Logan considered the passage. Like Solomon to whom it was attributed, he had not withheld his heart from any pleasure. He had earned everything he enjoyed. It was the reward for his toil. He smiled. No doubt if his grandmother was still alive, she would have run out of stones to throw while taking aim at him, Virginia and not least of all, Gordon. They would all have been striving after the wind as far as Ella Armstrong was concerned. She was quite a character as he recalled – feisty, highly intelligent, with a tongue as sharp as a razor. She never did like Gordon though. Logan still couldn’t help wondering why, except she had cautioned his mother that Gordon was ‘weak’ when Gordon and Virginia became engaged. It had always been his opinion Virginia had married on the rebound, something no one else in the family seemed to h
ave taken into account. But he had never quite understood Ella’s opinion when it came to Gordon. There was nothing weak about Gordon as far as he had ever been able to tell. But they were young then, too young to be discerning. One’s vision became sharpened with experience. How did he see Gordon now they were in their mid-years? For some reason, an unhappy Virginia was the first thing that came to mind. Somewhere along the way, his sister had lost her sparkle. Was it merely empty nester syndrome, or had her shine begun to dull before her children left for college? Events had begun to blur over time, fading the lines that had been sharply defined in youth. It was hard to tell when Virginia’s social smile had replaced the one radiating from her true self.
Another thought sprung to mind, swiftly connecting one dot with another, the second being a conversation between Allan and himself. It had been about the suspicion surrounding Indies Shipping. Allan had admitted the detective involved in the investigation had not found conclusive evidence. Regardless of that, he leaned toward believing the Indies Shipping vessel was hauling drugs.
Logan had defended Gordon vehemently. If what Allan was saying about Indies Shipping was true, he didn’t think it necessarily meant Gordon was himself involved.
“Okay, I’ll grant there’s a possibility Gordon isn’t directly involved,” Allan had conceded, “Though how could a thing like that be going on without him knowing? He’s not an idiot by any stretch of the imagination. And what makes the whole thing doubly suspicious is that detective being murdered. There has to have been massive transshipments taking place for anyone to go to such lengths to squelch the investigation.”
Logan had given Allan’s argument due thought. However, he remained unconvinced. “I don’t buy it, Allan,” he said. “I’ve known Gordon almost as long as I’ve known you. I can’t see him being involved in something like that. Besides, he’s more than comfortable. Why would he want to involve himself in drug trafficking? It makes no sense.”
