by Ben Muse
Just before I was out of earshot, Bailey yelled as I reached the ocean’s edge. “Chase, he’s dying. He has maybe nine months,”
“He’s been dead to me for about a minute,” I said in a whisper Bailey couldn’t hear.
Nine months. Damn.
Chapter 20
Monday, March 19, 2012
“You are a good friend, Hank,” Sergei lied, from the bed of his Nassau hospital room. Stupid American, he thought, just because we share similar family issues does not make us brothers in kind. Your country stole too much from us during the Cold War. Pride for starters.
Now the America was busy with its newest enemy, crazy Muslim fundamentalists, and so Sergei would strike while America had its eyes focused elsewhere.
He went through the timetable in his head once more while he listened to Hank drone on. In four days, a cargo ship would depart from the Port of Genoa, bound for Savannah. Money, life-altering sums already deposited into numerous accounts, would ensure safe passage of the cargo. Inspectors would look the other way, and records would be altered. Halfway across the Atlantic, at the appointed time, cargo from an intermodal container would be tossed overboard. A Broadcom GPS chipset planted inside the canister would allow one of his ships to track it and snatch it from the water. If all went according to plan, America would be in chaos two weeks later. He called his plan Grom, Russian for “thunder.”
“Sergei, I think we should postpone our upcoming training run, in light of what you’ve gone through and what you’ve lost,” Hank suggested. “You need to rest and recover, my friend.” He noticed that Sergei didn’t seem to be his normal self today; he seemed detached and distant, but then he’d also taken a bullet to the chest and lost a wife in the past forty-eight hours.
“Hank that will not be necessary. I will go home to London, bury Viktoria, and then return. She would want that. I would like to express my sincerest appreciation for all you’ve done for me. I will let the authorities do their job of finding the killer, and you and I will maintain our schedule.”
“Are you sure? Your boat will not be ready for a year, perhaps as much as eighteen months?”
“I am sure. I want myself and my crew trained on your special feature, and I want to be able to test them on it throughout the build-out. What you’ve done to the Anchor Management is amazing, Hank.” What I will do with her will shock the world.
***
I woke surprisingly refreshed and ready to tackle the day ahead. A long walk north along the beach last night to clear my thoughts and let my low-grade buzz wither had been the perfect elixir. One hundred-percent, grade-A pissed-off was how I began the walk, and by the time I made the turn two and a half miles later at the Walnut Island Pier, my mood had changed completely. I was at peace. It would be me against the world, and although I had told Bailey I was calling my parole officer, that couldn’t have been further from the truth. Going back was no longer an option I even considered. I’d made a deal with the Feds and I would follow through, damn the consequences.
It was a perfect morning for a run and a drive in the Mustang. I felt alive and empowered, and grateful. It was a Chamber of Commerce kind of day in Foggy Harbor. The fog from last night had burned off, giving way to bright blue skies and temperatures in the mid-sixties. I put the top down and drove the five miles to Pampas Park, situated adjacent to the broad Cape Fear River. Today would be a busy day. After the run, I would drive back home, shower, and begin to follow through on the plan Schmidt had laid out. I had no idea who I would run into, but by the end of the day, the word would spread. Chase Hampton was back in town.
After stretching, I began the first of five, mile-long laps around the picturesque park. Geometrically placed in the middle were baseball, soccer and football fields along with two playgrounds and four refreshment stands. The parking lot was only a quarter full as I started jogging on the crushed gravel path that paralleled the river. After a quarter mile, the trail angled inward into a sea of tall pines and short, vine-choked trees. It was wide, much like a road, with two designated lanes. Bright-orange reflective poles planted in the center of the path about every fifty yards reminded people of this.
I took a left at the first feeder loop trail, increased my pace, and bounded over the small bridge at Jebsen Creek. To my left was Cotton Slough, a wide-open, marshy wetland with the creek snaking through it. A Sandhill crane stood stoically in the middle, a lone sentinel watching for danger or an unawares salamander or tadpole. A cacophony of smells assaulted my senses: the decaying stench of something organic mixed with the sweet smell of honeysuckle and other swamp flowers. Bumblebees gorged themselves on nectar and pollen, flying from flower to flower haphazardly. Spring in coastal North Carolina is nature’s coming-out party and you could feel the forest coming to life and shaking itself from its winter slumber. With the current scene imprinted in my mind, I could’ve run forever. I felt born again.
I finished the first mile in a rather pedestrian nine minutes and thirty seconds and decided to run the upcoming mile hard. Another runner was halfway down the parallel, and I challenged myself to overtake him or her before the first feeder trail sign. I spied a blond ponytail swishing back and forth behind a black ball cap, and as I made up ground, I could see lean, tan legs moving with a purpose. Graceful, I thought, until she stumbled and went down in a slow-motion tumble of arms and legs. I sprinted to her to offer my assistance.
“Ma’am, you okay?”
She turned and looked up at me with big, emerald eyes. “I was hoping to run into you here. Now help me up and walk me slowly back to my car.”
Special Agent Jenna Brighton. The leading lady in our two-person production.
Chapter 21
“You didn’t have to bust your ass to get my attention.” As I noted earlier, Jenna is a single brilliant ray of sun in a year of cloudy days. We put our arms around each other’s shoulder and she fake-limped as we chatted, and as much as I tried, I couldn’t help but admire the way she filled out her Nike Dri-Fit running shirt and shorts.
“Actors on a stage, Chase. Never know who’s watching. Besides, it was a controlled fall. We have a lot to discuss.” She spoke in short, crisp, let’s get down to business sentences.
“Any leads on Viktoria’s killer?”
“Nothing I can share. Were you able to switch the key on your father’s laptop?” I’m pretty sure she knew I didn’t. This was more of an honesty question, a deal-breaker if I decided to lie.
“No, things got a little crazy after Viktoria’s murder. And he’s still in Nassau as far as I know.”
“He’ll be back tonight. A flight plan was filed for his private jet. A simple hop down to Nassau and back. You’ll be happy to know that Anna is flying back with him.”
“Why’d you say it like that?” I said, amused. Jenna didn’t strike me as the catty type.
“Well you two seemed to be enjoying each other’s company in the hot tub Saturday night,” she offered.
“That was a fact-finding mission, Special Agent Brighton. Did you enjoy the performance?”
She blushed, “Part of the job, but I must say you seemed to take a lot of pride in your work. And by the way, it’s Jenna.”
“Right, Jenna. Viktoria said she thought Anna could be trusted?”
“Again, I can’t comment on that.”
“Is Bailey Masters a target of the investigation?”
“Why do you ask?” she said curiously.
“She blindsided me last night with something. Can you at least tell me what you know about her?”
“She’s the lead legal counsel for Aquatic Expeditions, graduated top five in her law school class at Stanford. She turned down offers from big firms in Atlanta and San Francisco to work with your father. Is there something I should know, Chase?”
“According to her, she’s my half-sister, but it’s just her word. She said Hank could corroborate it.”
“Hmm,” mumbled Jenna, “we didn’t know that. Makes sense though on why she would
rebuff the more lucrative job offers.”
“Side note, Jenna. If they had disclosed that Bailey was my sister during my legal troubles, do you think I would’ve been given such a long sentence?”
“Well, you found out about it after the fact, but had you known before the fight and if she truly is your sister, then yes, you would have stood a good chance of getting a better deal.”
“Another thing . . . She said my father is dying.”
“We all are, Chase. Have you seen the statistics? They’re pretty alarming.”
“An FBI comedian, fantastic.” We were back to the parking lot.
“I’m the gray Civic,” she said. She turned and looked at me before getting in and gave me her most alluring smile. “Chase, this is gonna be a whirlwind romance. I’ll be at Shooters tonight. Try to bring your sister and some game. It takes a lot to get me interested in a guy.”
“You need your ego stroked.”
“No, we just need to convince people that I could possibly find you attractive enough to take home.”
Ouch. “Just to make sure things are clear between us, I don’t screw around on the first date,” I said in mock seriousness.
She looked away, laughed quietly, and looked back. “Chase, if you can’t give us what we want, I guarantee you’ll be fucked.”
“Where did such a sweet and pretty girl get such a potty mouth?
“It’s called growing up with two older brothers,” she said, though for some reason, I didn’t believe her.
“How’s Agent Schmidt doing?”
“He’s antsy and wants information.”
“Viktoria thought her husband was on to her. Do you think there is any way possible she could have been the real target?”
“We’re looking at all possibilities. Fortunately, we were able to retrieve the listening device she was to install on Sergei’s computer, before he could find it. Listen, Chase, I know you want to fulfill your end of the bargain, but I need you to understand that information flows one way, and that’s from you to me. Understand?”
“You might just be the bossiest girlfriend I’ve ever had,” I deadpanned.
She handed me a pink sticky note, her name written on it in cutesy print, the “e” a heart.
“See you at eight; don’t be late. And pack a toothbrush; you’re spending the night,” she advised before driving off.
As if I would be late for a date with Jenna Brighton.
***
After the impromptu meeting with my potty-mouth FBI girlfriend, I went home and showered, and changed into jeans, Cole Haan loafers, sans socks, and an untucked, light-blue dress shirt. Clothes, new ones with trendy names, somehow found their way into my bedroom-sized closet. I pictured a man frantically moving my clothes from one location to another, hoping and praying I’d decide on one permanent location. His wish would be granted tomorrow, unless Jenna put the kibosh on my plan to get my own apartment.
I went into the wall safe, retrieved a couple hundred dollars from the ten thousand my father gifted me, and headed out for a few hours of job hunting. The first stop would be the Grind, a doughnut/coffee shop located on Broad. It had been a Foggy Harbor staple for close to two decades. I had dated the owner’s daughter, a prim and proper gossip named Jill, for about six months during my junior year. Her parents hated me.
A ringing bell announced my arrival, and a few heads turned or looked up from newspapers or the latest Pat Conroy novel. The interior had undergone a complete renovation. Gone were the standard white walls and cheap linoleum flooring. In its place were solid-wood floors and dark, earthy-toned walls with stone accents. The heavy smell of stale grease was replaced with the intoxicating scent of a dark roast. A short, chunky man with an acne-scarred face stood at the register awaiting my order.
“Good morning, I was wondering if I could possibly fill out a job application. I am in need of employment,” I said in the most well-mannered voice I could muster.
“We’re not exactly hiring,” he said, confused, as if someone had never come in looking for a job.
“Okay, well, could I at least put in an application? See, I was just paroled after spending seven years in prison for manslaughter, and I have to seek gainful employment or they’ll toss me back in. Tell you what, are Bill or Marie available to talk?” Heads turned upon hearing this.
His face went white when I said the word manslaughter. “Let me, ah, check for you,” he stuttered.
“Just tell them Chase Hampton is here.”
Two minutes later, he returned, trailing the walrus-like Bill Dougherty.
“Chase, I didn’t realize you’d been released. I’m sorry, but we aren’t hiring.”
“I understand, Mr. Dougherty, but may I at least fill out an application. My parole officer needs to see me putting forth the effort.” This was true, though who my state-appointed parole officer was remained a mystery to me.
Two tired eyes evaluated the situation from the small, square windows of the swinging double doors that led to the back of the store. I waved like a goofy five-year-old, and they quickly withdrew from sight.
Hello, Marie. Calling Jill in 4-3-2-
Wordlessly, Bill produced a simple application and retreated to the back.
“Thank you, sir,” I said enthusiastically as the double doors swung wildly from his departure. “Please give my regards to Jill.” I purchased a bear claw and a medium coffee and took a booth near the door.
The actual filling out of the application took two minutes from start to finish. Under job history, I dutifully listed library associate and dishwasher for the North Carolina State Department of Corrections. That was the extent of my work experience. I honestly couldn’t even note that I’d attended a “Take your son to work day” on the application. I listed my address as Foggy Harbor Marina, Anchor Management, Slip 15, Junior Suite. Chew on that Bill.
The same scene played itself out at the next two locations: The Hilton at Foggy Harbor and a dive on the waterfront, Aquaholics. I did manage to run into a former classmate at the Hilton. Allison Rivers, Restaurant Manager, it said on the card she handed me, complete with her personal number scribbled on back. She was cute and had a nice smile, but there were already too many women taking up space in my life. I made a show of entering her number into my phone, but deleted it when I left. No need to complicate matters further.
Three applications completed, and one to go. I’d saved the best for last. I strode into the Foggy Harbor Municipal Complex with an air of superiority and announced in a louder-than-normal voice to the receptionist that I wished to fill out an application for employment. A middle-aged clerk with curly brown hair and oversized glasses, who didn’t recognize me (damn), handed over a three-page application. I sat down at a small school desk and scanned over it: General Info, Work History, Consent to Background Check.
Back to the counter I went. “Excuse me, ma’am. In order to be hired, must I consent to a background check?” Three heads in the office turned in my direction.
“I killed a man here seven years ago and was just paroled. That’s probably gonna throw a red flag up on my application, huh?”
“Mr. . . .” she began.
“Hampton, Chase Hampton,” I said. There was name recognition now.
“Mr. Hampton, I appreciate your forthrightness regarding your past, but yes, we would need your consent. It’s policy for all applicants.”
I sat back down, outwardly appearing defeated, while inwardly I smiled. I turned the doomed application in and made my way back to the parking lot.
A lean man in a gray suit and a military-style buzz cut was leaning on the Mustang by the driver’s side door. His arms were crossed.
“Hello, Chase,” he said as I approached.
I looked him over, and there was a vague familiarity. “I know I’ve seen you somewhere, but I can’t place you.”
“How about a night on a beach, next to a fading bonfire, as one of your classmates lay dying from two kicks to the head. Does that ring
a bell?”
Loudly, so fucking loudly, it rang that bell.
“You were the detective who questioned me. I apologize, but I’ve forgotten your name.”
“Jay Reigart.”
“What can I do for you, detective?”
“Just stopping by to say hello.”
“I get it. You’re upset I’ve been released. I can understand that, but I want you to know, you’ll have no trouble with me.”
“That’s a good attitude to have, Mr. Hampton. There are people in this town, some on the force, who would like nothing more than to see you sent back to prison on a parole violation.”
“Would you be one of them?”
“As long as you follow the law, I have no quarrel with you.” He moved off the car.
“Thank you for the heads up. Feels like I’ve got a big, fluorescent-orange crosshair on my back.”
It was time for my last stop of the afternoon.
Chapter 22
“Ms. Masters, a gentleman named Hamp is here to see you,” the Lonnie Anderson look-alike said uncomfortably into the headset’s small microphone. She listened intently to what was being said on the other end.
“He, ah, claims to be the father of a . . . child, you, um, abandoned,” She listened intently.
“Yes, I understand. I’ll tell him.”
“Sir, please have a seat; she’ll be down momentarily.”
“Thanks. Quite a building,” I said, as I did a complete three-sixty. “Must be some deep pockets walking around here. Can’t believe my baby’s mama landed a gig at a fancy place like this.” I let out a long whistle, and the receptionist wasn’t sure how to respond to my antics, so she just acted busy by shuffling papers and doodling intently on a notepad. I started humming the WKRP in Cincinnati theme song.
The building was impressive. The exterior was five stories of green glass, the interior an open-space concept with a marble-floored lobby and offices that ringed the building. Just past the receptionist’s desk, two elevators faced each other in a mechanical staring contest. Deeper into the building’s center, sunlight filtered in through a large, circular atrium and bathed the centerpiece of the lower level, a massive stone fountain. Deep pockets indeed.
