Death and Dark Money

by Seeley James

“Marthe, that’s not the case. I simply—”

  “You know you deserve this. The Three Blondes know it too. They’re waiting for you to become the man I know you are.”

  “Later, darling, later. This is all wrong. Gottleib was murdered two days ago. We are Duncan’s hosts—we’ll be the first suspects.”

  “What kind of man are you?” She glared at him. “We’re entitled to the same respect as these sound-bite-singing robots you toss into office like a mailman delivering letters. These CEOs should be begging to come to my table, pleading for a few minutes with you, the king of kingmakers. But if Duncan keeps the Sabels to himself, you’re nothing.”

  He pulled his hands back and stepped away. “But Marthe, he’s the senior—”

  “Duncan flies on private jets. The Sabels fly on private jets. The Bennings fly on private jets. Why do I fly Air France?” She fisted her hips, pushed her chin out. “You promised me success when we married. Where is it?”

  Koven felt his guts constrict in pangs as if she had tightened a belt around them with several sharp tugs. He checked around them to make sure they were still alone. He lowered his voice to a tense whisper. “Murder is not that easy. It takes something away from you. It makes you less human, not more.”

  “How did you survive the war then? You killed men, didn’t you?”

  “That was different. The government sanctioned it. Besides, my men did the killing.”

  “You and I sanctioned this. Be strong enough to live up to your side of the bargain for once.”

  “But think about the risks—”

  “If you find the courage you claim in your war stories, there is no risk.” She pushed her face up to his. “I have every step of this planned. Do you trust me?”

  Koven opened the tower door and found the battlement covered in a dusting of snow, a pale glow in the waning moonlight. A lone figure stood halfway across, barely visible. “Who’s there?”

  The figure gestured and said something softly, then turned. “Sorry sir, I can’t get a signal in my room so I came out here to call Flip.”

  “Zola, you startled me.” Koven crossed to him.

  Zola stuffed the phone in his pocket. “Big ass time difference from home, so after midnight here is good.”

  They faced each other then turned to the view. Zola said, “The Three Blondes are hanging in the village tonight. Is that a good thing?”

  “Until we met them, you hardly mentioned your son.”

  “His mother and I were teenagers. Things got gnarly and I ran off to join the Marines. Different paths, right? But they gave me a reason to rethink my relationship with him. I’m hoping to chill with him again.”

  Koven nodded.

  “Oh, I almost forgot. Mr. Duncan was looking for your wife a while ago. He heard she went to the village so he went to bed, but he told me to give you this.” Zola extended a hand with a Tiffany blue box. “It’s a token of how awesome Mrs. Koven is.”

  Koven eyed him carefully and took the box. When he opened it, sparkles of moonlight popped out. A pendant with a diamond the size of a pencil eraser reflected the lunar glow.

  He looked up at Zola. “It’s a shame we weren’t able to entertain him better.”

  They forced a laugh.

  Koven breathed in the cold air and relaxed just a little.

  “Let’s set a meeting when this is over and map out our futures.” He pointed a fatherly finger at Zola. “You’ve been a good ally, Brent. I’ve made good on my promise. Stick by me when the time comes and they’ll make statues in our honor.”

  “As long as we don’t get smoked busting campaign rules, I’ll always have your six, sir.”

  Koven patted Zola’s shoulder and made his way toward the far tower. Zola went the opposite direction.

  Marthe stood just inside the door. “They’re passed out.”

  “Who?” Koven whispered.

  “The Velox guards.”

  “How did you do that so quickly?”

  “A little feminine charm—and two bottles of recapped beer stuffed with roofies.” She held out a Ruger with a sound suppressor attached.

  “What is this? Where did you—”

  “Don’t forget these.” She held out two devices the size of a key fob, each with a thick rubber ball on one end.

  He took the gear and walked quietly down the spiral stairs.

  Inside Duncan’s suite, two guards were sprawled out, one in a chair, the other on the floor. The man in the chair had a holster with a pistol in it. The other guard’s was empty. Koven’s mind swam with fears and doubts that would quickly turn to panic if he let it. Pushing one man aside, he opened the chamber door and paced quickly to the head of the bed.

  In the gray moonlight, Duncan’s eyes fluttered open. The two men stared at each other for a moment. Koven’s heart pounded hard enough to burst through his rib cage, his panic went wild. Kill the man who started him in business or explain his presence, those were his options. His breathing came fast and shallow. Duncan squinted, about to ask the question.

  It was now or never. Koven pulled the trigger three times.

  Bits of blood and brains and skull spattered the headboard and Koven’s shirt.

  The blast reverberated in the small stone space. Koven held his hands over his ears, gasped, and ran out.

  The two Velox guards hadn’t flinched. The suppressor twisted off easily. He dropped the gun by the guard with the empty holster and ran upstairs.

  Marthe stopped him at the landing.

  Koven grabbed her. “Did you hear it?”

  “Nothing more than a distant door slam.”

  “God, I have blood on me.” Koven gasped as if he were drowning. “I stood too close. His brains splattered…”

  “Pull yourself together.” She grabbed his hands and pulled him to the window where moonlight spilled in. “You’ll give us away talking like that.”

  “There was so much blood.”

  She slapped him. “Now there’s as much blood on me. We’re in this together. Man up.”

  “The noise. It was deafening.”

  “The walls are twelve feet thick and the doors were closed. All the noise bounced around inside. Nothing escaped.” She looked at his bulging pockets. “Did you put those remotes where I told you?”

  He pulled them out of his pocket and stared at them. “I can’t go back. I can’t even think about … this. I can’t stand to look at him again.”

  “You coward.” She ripped the devices from his hand and disappeared down the steps, only to return seconds later.

  Marthe grabbed her husband’s hand. “Quick, let’s shower.”

  “No, we’ll stain the stall.” His face bunched up like a man about to cry. “What have we done?”

  She stroked his cheek. “You stepped up, the way true leaders do in difficult times. You did what needed to be done, without hesitation. You didn’t let synthetic morals hold you back. I’m proud of you, Daryl.” She wrapped her arms around his bloody chest. “Let’s wash everything down the drain.”

  CHAPTER 8

  I stared at the detective and the detective stared at me and I counted to three because that’s what my attorney, the fat guy on my left, told me to do before answering each question. He wanted time to shout an objection or advise me on an answer. We sat across from the detective, a cheap laminate table between us in a cinderblock room painted in a hundred layers of godawful-green enamel paint. The fluorescent tubes overhead cast a dull yellow light that sucked the will from your bones and buzzed loud enough to make you contemplate suicide.

  My attorney leaned forward and rapped his knuckle on the table. He said, “Asked and answered.”

  “I want to hear it again,” the detective said.

  “Rewind your tape.”

  “OK, let’s try it this way.” The detective leaned back. “Mr. Stearne, have you ever spoken to Mr. Gottleib, at all, about anything before he died in your driveway?”

  I counted to three. “As I’ve said several time
s, if I ever met the man he didn’t leave an impression.”

  “Is it possible that you served with the Marines and forgot?”

  I stood up, pulled my belt from my waist, checked my boxers, then looked up. “They’re still there, so—no.”

  “Not funny.” The detective tugged his sleeve over the Semper Fidelis tattoo on his wrist.

  “Neither was your question, detective,” my attorney said. “Do you have anything serious to ask my client? This is your third interrogation and I’m not hearing anything new here. Mr. Stearne is cooperating as any good citizen would, but you’re pushing our patience.”

  “Take it easy, counselor.” The detective leaned forward, pulled up his notepad, and flipped another page. The overhead light buzzed while he took a look at his notes. “Mr. Stearne, do you own a pair of rubber gloves?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Asked and answered,” the attorney said. “Detective, if you can’t pay attention—”

  “Allow me to clarify,” the detective said after scowling at my man. “If we found a pair of rubber gloves near the crime scene, with GSR on them, would we find your DNA inside them?”

  “Only if you put it there.”

  Silence stretched, the fluorescents buzzed, and the detective scribbled some notes without looking at me. “And the serial number of the missing pistol?”

  “I don’t have it memorized.” I pulled my phone out and fiddled with my cloud app until I found it. “I do have my insurance inventory with the serial numbers of all my weapons. I’ll forward it to you, what’s your email address?”

  He gave me his email address and insisted the spelling of Czajkowski was a simple matter of phonetics.

  His better half, Senior Detective Lovett, kicked at the door until it separated from where it was stuck to the jamb at the bottom. Freed up, it smacked my attorney’s chair, which earned a searing glare from him as Lovett tried to enter the cramped space. The equally obese detective glared back and squeezed between the wall and the table, then around the end, trying to reach his chair on the other side of Czajkowski. The younger fit and trim detective rose, scooted his chair in, and made himself as thin as possible. Lovett pushed between the wall and his fellow officer without any lubrication, which became a predictably painful exercise for both men.

  After turning beet red, Czajkowski picked up his notepad and exchanged it for Lovett’s stack of papers. “I’ll just sit over here, Larry.”

  My eyes floated to the ceiling where Mercury lay upside down, as if the ceiling were a floor, in his toga, eating an apple.

  I gagged.

  Mercury said, I like the lawyer. Good thing Pia-Caesar-Sabel thinks you’re worth a thousand an hour. But watch out for Lovett. He’s a hater, bro.

  I closed my eyes and pretended my freeloading god wasn’t there.

  Lovett settled in with exaggerated movements before he spoke. “So you’re sticking with your story that an unknown party broke into your house, left the rifles, the Glock, the Astra, and the rest of your arsenal in plain sight, crowbarred open a locked drawer, stole a rare gun plus the ammo, a few replicas, then ran back outside and shot Mr. Gottleib?”

  “I did not state,” I said, “because I do not know who shot Mr. Gottleib.”

  “Nice try, detective.” My attorney gave me an atta-boy grin.

  Lovett reached up and smacked the fluorescent fixture. The buzzing stopped. He picked up his papers and butted them on the table, then shuffled a couple items until he found the folder he’d brought in with him. “Your service record is missing a few critical pieces, Mr. Stearne. Where are the four psychiatric evaluations?”

  “Classified.”

  The buzzing started up again. Lovett and Czajkowski looked at the fixture in unison, then back at me.

  Lovett said, “It’s personal, I get that. But sometimes it feels good to get things off your chest, isn’t that right?” When I didn’t answer, he plowed on. “Did you have any outbursts of violence during your tours of duty?”

  “I had extremely violent outbursts on all my tours, detective. I was a soldier in a war zone.”

  Czajkowski stifled a smirk.

  “Fair enough. Did you have any violent outbursts off the battlefield, when you were home or off duty?”

  “One time, on leave, I discovered a guy raping a woman at the Iowa State Fair. That turned violent.”

  “Were the police involved?”

  “They arrived after I broke the guy’s right femur and crushed—”

  My attorney pushed his forearm across my chest. “I think what the detective means is, did you initiate any violent outbursts without provocation. Is that correct, gentlemen?”

  Lovett pursed his lips. “No. I want to know about the psychiatric evaluations. Why are they classified?”

  “Because I was a Ranger and some big general somewhere doesn’t want people like you to know what Rangers do. I’m not allowed to discuss my missions until 2058.”

  “That’s not what I mean.” He hesitated and drew a breath. “Why four? Why so close together? What happened?”

  My attorney said, “Until you get a letter from the Secretary of Defense or the President authorizing my client to breach—”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Lovett waved off the rest of the objection.

  He took a deep breath and looked at me with a heartfelt sadness in his eyes. “Mr. Stearne, I know what therapy’s like. I’ve been through some tough times on the force. My therapists always helped me through those times by encouraging me to talk about what bothered me. Even the little things, like how my wife leaves the toothpaste on the counter and how the neighbor’s dog always craps under my boxwoods. Talking things through helps. Maybe it will help you. Let’s try it: does it bother you that Mr. Gottleib is dead?”

  I counted to three. “Yes and no. Someone murdered him in cold blood, that bothers me. He died while I tried to stop the bleeding, that bothers me. He was desperately trying to tell me something that came out as babble, and that bothers me. But, Mr. Lovett, I didn’t know the guy. Other than the proximity to his death, I don’t feel any better or worse about it than you.”

  Lovett was no poker player. His face turned red, both his chins and all his jowls began trembling. “Listen up, Stearne. When some guy gets four psych evals in two weeks, I know damn well there’s something wrong with him. And when that guy comes to me with a story about killer-shadows running in the trees, I’m thinking I have someone who’s about to lose it and go on a rampage. And I worry because that guy has a gun cabinet filled with weapons, mostly AR15s made by arms makers I’ve never heard of. Hell, you have enough firepower to start a fucking revolution. And you’re nuts. I can see it in your eyes. I’m not going to turn you loose so you can mow down the citizens of Montgomery County, Maryland.”

  “We’ve heard enough of this ridiculous crap,” my attorney said. “You’ve ignored the eyewitness statement who said she was having dinner—”

  “Girls never lie to protect their murdering boyfriends.” Lovett was about to have a stroke. “And the Easter Bunny is real.”

  Lightning bolts of tension sizzled between the two.

  Lovett sat with his fists clenched on the table, making up his mind about something. Then he said, “Screw it. I’m going to keep Montgomery County safe. You’re under arrest for the murder—”

  A kick opened the door and the crewcut head of a square-jawed older guy pushed in. “Lovett, CJ, out here now.”

  The head disappeared and a split second later, so did Lovett and Czajkowski. My attorney and I shrugged at each other.

  Mercury said, Jupiter is pulling some strings for you, dude. He’d appreciate an honorable mention. You feel me?

  I said, Not happening.

  Mercury said, Homie! We’re busting you out of here. You could show a little gratitude. Some people give thanks and praise when a god saves them from a rush to judgement, you know what I’m saying? Bro, ya feel me? Hey, look at me. Oh, you’re gonna igno
re me. Well. Two can play that game. Whatever.

  Voices in the hall rose in volume and filtered through the door. One voice said, “Because you don’t have a shred of evidence that ties him to the murder weapon, nor do you have a murder weapon. And the only witness—”

  Their voices dropped a notch below eavesdropping range. The distinct tone of resignation followed and we heard dejected feet shuffling away.

  The gray crewcut stuck his head in the door and glanced around before stepping in. He’d once been fit and proud but his athleticism was diminishing with every passing year, evidenced by two center buttons on his shirt stretched enough to expose the white t-shirt underneath. He was on the backside of middle age and the chances for promotion were waning. He wanted a big arrest, but he was a professional who wanted it clean.

  “I’m Captain Cates,” he said. “You’re free to go.”

  Mercury said, Still don’t believe me, scumbag?

  My attorney glanced at me with a whaddaya-know shrug. He pushed his chair back and struggled to his feet. I waited until he cleared the area.

  “If you don’t mind, counselor,” Cates said, “I’d like to have an informal word with your client, veteran to veteran.”

  “I don’t mind at all,” my attorney said. “As long as you don’t mind my remaining here to ensure you don’t stick a gun in his hand and claim you found his fingerprints on the murder weapon.”

  Cates’s fists tightened and his square jaw flexed until he worked through his reaction. He responded through clenched teeth. “Understood.”

  Cates faced me and pulled something out of his pocket but kept it in his closed fist. “I never had the opportunity to thank you for Nasiriyah, Stearne. What you did was nothing short of miraculous. If I had been a decent officer back then, I would have commended you for a Silver Star, but that was the day CENTCOM decided to make a beeline for Baghdad and we were flying as fast as the Humvees could carry us.” He extended his hand. “I know this means a lot to you as a reminder of that day, so I’m returning it to you.”

  He opened his palm as if he were giving me the Cullinan Diamond. It held a .50 BMG cartridge, clean and shiny.