The Chemtrail Conspiracy Set (Lady Justice Book 22)

by Robert Thornhill

  “So you think Marchetti is responsible for Carson’s disappearance?”

  “That’s the theory, unless you have something better.”

  “I might,” I replied. “How much time do you have?”

  “As much time as you need, my friend. Let’s hear it.”

  I started at the beginning and told him everything I knew about the story Jack was working on and the three previous deaths we believed were connected to the plot.

  When I was finished, he leaned back in his chair. “Walt, have you ever heard of Occam’s Razor?”

  I nodded knowing what was coming next. “Yes, of course I have. It sayswhen you have two competing theories that make exactly the same predictions, the simpler one is the better.”

  “Very good. Now look at the situation from my point of view. The prediction is Jack Carson is dead. On the one hand, we have a mafia don who’s really pissed because the guy has tried to out him and now he’s doing the nasty with his daughter. On the other hand, we have a theory there is a clandestine government conspiracy involving the Navy, Air Force, the CIA, the NSA and God knows how many other alphabet organizations, who are intent on spraying poison into our atmosphere to control the weather, prevent the Russians from pelting us with ICBM’s and allowing Monsanto to take control of the world’s food supply. Is that about right?”

  He was right. My story sounded ridiculous compared to his.

  I just nodded.

  “Good. Glad you understand. Dollars to donuts, poor old Jack is at the bottom of the Missouri River wearing concrete sneakers. We’ll probably never know for sure, and Carmine Marchetti, if he’s really involved, will get away scot free. That’s just the way it works sometimes. Sorry, Walt.”

  “Yeah, me too. Any idea where I can find Marchetti?”

  “Jesus, Walt! Surely you’re not going to ---?”

  “I’ve got to know for sure. I owe it to Jack. So are you going to tell me where Marchetti hangs out or do I have to dig it up myself?”

  Blaylock just shook his head. “Okay, but don’t say I didn’t warn you. Most days he has lunch at Antonelli’s on Baltimore.”

  “Thanks, I owe you.”

  “Walt, be careful. Marchetti doesn’t mess around. I’d hate like hell to be dragging the river for your body, too.”

  I assumed Antonelli’s was typical of the Italian restaurants in Kansas City. I didn’t have much to compare to because I wasn’t a big fan of Italian food.

  The maître d' met me at the door. “One for lunch today, Sir?”

  “Actually, no. I was supposed to meet Carmine Marchetti for lunch,” I lied. “Has he arrived yet?”

  He looked at me suspiciously. “No, Mr. Marchetti hasn’t reserved a table today. Possibly you have the wrong day on your calendar.”

  “That must be it,” I replied. “Thanks for your time.”

  It was almost noon and I was getting the munchies, so I headed to Mel’s for a chicken fried steak.

  I had just parked and was headed to the diner when a black van pulled up beside me and two men who looked like movie extras from On the Waterfront, hopped out. They came up beside me and one whispered in my ear, “Mr. Marchetti would like a word with you.”

  “Uhh, I was just going to have a bite of lunch, can I --- ?”

  He leaned in again and patted the bulge under his coat. “Mr. Marchetti wasn’t asking.”

  “Got it,” I replied.

  He directed me to the van and I climbed inside.

  The one driving turned and gave me a look. “Please buckle your seat belt.”

  I took his suggestion as a good sign. If I was on the way to the Missouri River, it probably wouldn’t have mattered if I was buckled or not.

  We headed downtown and pulled into an alley behind one of the multi-storied office buildings on Grand Avenue. The two goons escorted me to a freight elevator and punched the button for the penthouse.

  As we headed to Marchetti’s office, I was expecting to see a guy who looked like Marlon Brando’s Vito Corleone character in the Godfather movie. Quite to the contrary, the man sitting behind the huge desk looked more like Frankie Laine, the old crooner from the 1950’s.

  I had expected a scowl, but he gave me a congenial smile and pointed to a chair directly in front of his desk. I sat, and the two goons, one on each side of me, took a step back.

  “Mr. Williams, is it? So sorry I missed our luncheon date at Antonelli’s. That’s not like me.”

  Obviously news on the Italian grapevine travelled fast.

  “About that,” I stammered.

  He held up his hand. “No need to make excuses. You wanted to talk to Carmine Marchetti, so here we are. Talk!”

  I figured, What the hell. I’m here. I might as well jump in with both feet. “Thank you for seeing me. I’d like to talk to you about Jack Carson. He was a friend of mine and he seems to be missing. With all your connections, I just thought you might have some idea where he might be.”

  I wasn’t sure what his response would be, but I was certainly unprepared for what followed. He looked at me for a moment like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing, then burst into uncontrollable laughter.

  When he finally composed himself, he gave me a sympathetic look.

  “Very well said, Mr. Williams. Your friend is missing and you’ve come into my office to accuse me, in a very nice way, of course. What could possibly make you believe I had anything to do with his disappearance?”

  I saw no reason to beat around the bush. “Rumor has it Carson was trying to get a story about your organization and in the course of his investigation, he met your daughter, Calinda, and there was, shall we say, a mutual attraction. I can’t imagine you were pleased about such a turn of events.”

  This time his look was less amiable. “Mr. Williams, may I call you Walt?”

  I nodded. What else could I do?

  “Walt, this is not the roaring twenties and I’m not Al Capone in spite of what your friends at the precinct may have told you. I’m a businessman and I keep my nose clean. You probably already know there’s not a single conviction on my record.”

  Obviously, Marchetti had done his homework and knew of my five years on the force. He undoubtedly knew way more about me than I knew about him.

  I started to respond, but he raised his hand again.

  “Walt, do you have children?”

  I shook my head.

  “Then it would be difficult for you to understand today’s young people. They’re so independent and they have so much technology at their fingertips. In answer to your question, yes, I knew about Carson and my daughter, and no, I was not pleased, but I was smart enough to know if I forbade her to see the man, it would only drive her away from me and into his arms. They would have found a way to communicate in spite of my wishes, so, as a father, I was hoping her infatuation would run its course. You came here wondering if I was responsible for your friend’s disappearance, and here is my answer. I was not. My daughter is devastated and grieving horribly at this very moment. How do think she would feel about her father if she learned I had taken the life of the man she thought she loved?”

  Marchetti was either a sincere father or the best liar I had ever seen, and given the circumstances, I wasn’t about to question his veracity.

  “Mr. Marchetti, thank you for seeing me and for your candor. Given what you’ve told me, I can now concentrate the search for my friend elsewhere.”

  “I’m so happy to hear that, Walt, and please give my regards to Detective Blaylock.”

  With that parting shot, he gestured to his henchmen who escorted me out of the room.

  The black van returned me to Mel’s parking lot, but somehow I no longer had the munchies. Being at the mercy of a mafia don can have an effect on one’s appetite.

  On the trip back to my car, I was thinking about what Marchetti had said, and if it was true, then I was back to the alternative theory of Jack’s disappearance: a government assassin had taken him out so his story would
never see the light of day. Blaylock could quote Occam’s Razor all day long, but it didn’t make the possibility less true.

  As I headed back to my apartment, I racked my brain trying to figure out where to turn next. Jack Carson, along with the computer which held the story of the conspiracy, were both missing. With four people dead, all of whom were connected to the story, my better judgement told me to drop the case while I was still breathing, but I just couldn’t let it go.

  My cell phone buzzed, but knowing the accident statistics associated with talking or texting while driving, I ignored it until I pulled up in front of my building.

  I reached for the phone and the message that flashed across the screen sent a chill up my spine. There was a picture of Maggie in front of the City Wide Realty office, and only two words, “STOP DIGGING!”

  I was in shock, staring at my wife’s photo, when the phone buzzed again. The next message had a picture of Maggie in front of our apartment, with the words, “BACK OFF!”

  There was no question someone was sending me an ultimatum: forget about Jack Carson and forget about this stupid conspiracy theory or suffer the consequences. The consequences involved the person I loved more than anyone in the world. Whoever had sent the messages knew where Maggie worked and where she lived, and the implication was that I should drop the whole thing or Maggie, like the four others, could disappear at any time.

  My breathing was labored and I had broken into a cold sweat. It took a good fifteen minutes for my heart to stop racing.

  As soon as I had my emotions under control, I pulled back onto the street and headed to Arnie and Nick’s place on Warwick.

  I barged in and handed my phone to Nick. “I need to know who sent these. Can you help?”

  He looked at the photos. “Jesus, Walt! This is serious stuff. Are you still working on the conspiracy thing?”

  I nodded.

  “Then if it’s who I think it is, we’re probably not going to find what you’re looking for, but I’ll try.”

  He examined my phone again, then punched some keys on his computer. A few minutes later, he looked up and shook his head. “Sorry, Walt. Burner phone. No way to trace it.”

  I had suspected that. “What if I hit ‘reply’ and sent a message back to them. Would they get it?”

  “Maybe, maybe not. What usually happens is they’ll use the phone once to deliver a message, then dump it so it can’t be traced, but you can certainly try.”

  I grabbed the phone, hit ‘reply’ and typed the message, “I’m done! I’m out of it. Please don’t hurt my wife.”

  I just hoped someone would see it.

  On the way home, I had to consider two possibilities, neither of which gave me much comfort. If Carmine Marchetti was just feeding me a line of bullshit, and he had actually whacked Jack, the message could have come from him, or, it could have come from a black ops assassin who would have no problem adding one more body to keep the story buried.

  Either way, I had already made up my mind I was through with the whole thing. I hadn’t asked for this case and in fact, I had promised Maggie I wouldn’t get involved, but then I did and she was the one whose life was in danger.

  I vowed that as soon as she came home, I would tell her the whole story. Maybe we would even get out of town --- take a vacation --- until this whole ugly thing blew over.

  That was my plan and I felt good about it.

  CHAPTER 17

  I was pleased with my plan and couldn’t wait for Maggie to get home so we could plan our impromptu getaway. Maybe we would go to Branson and take in some shows, or even better, she had been bugging me about going on another cruise.

  I wanted the evening to be perfect, so I chilled a bottle of Arbor Mist and whipped up my signature dish, tuna casserole. As soon as she got home, I would slip off her shoes, rub her feet and tell her how special she was to me.

  I put some soft music on the CD player and waited for my sweetie to arrive.

  Normally, unless she had a late showing, she was home by five, and like many old codgers our age, we had our supper between five-thirty and six. If she was going to be late, she would always call and let me know so I wouldn’t worry.

  At five-thirty, I was beginning to get a bit concerned and when I hadn’t heard from her by six, I was in full blown worry mode.

  I had the cell phone number of Doris, the receptionist at City Wide.

  “Doris, Walt Williams here. I was just wondering if you’d seen Maggie this afternoon.”

  “Sure did. She got back from a showing about four-thirty and left right after that. Must have been just before five.”

  My next thought was she might have been in an accident, so I called dispatch at the precinct and asked about any accidents in Midtown between five and six. There had been none.

  I was starting to panic, then it occurred to me, Dumbass! Why don’t you just call her cell phone?

  I dialled her number and it went straight to voice mail.

  By this time it was six-thirty, and my worst fears were realized. Maggie wasn’t coming home.

  My mind began racing. I had sent the message saying I was out of the conspiracy business, but what if no one got it?

  It was beginning to look like either Carmine Marchetti or some government assassin had taken Maggie and I had to consider both possibilities.

  I thought about calling Ox, then I thought about calling Kevin, but the more I thought about it, it didn’t make sense to get my best friend or my brother-in-law involved in something which might get both of them killed. I had gotten us into this mess, and it was up to me to get us out, or die trying.

  Based on my visit earlier in the day, I figured my best bet was the government assassin.

  Several times during our investigation, I had considered calling my half-brother, Mark Davenport. I didn’t even know I had a half-brother until about five years ago when he arrived at our door unannounced. It turned out that he was the product of one of my father’s dalliances in his younger days as an over-the-road trucker.

  Back then, he was working with the FBI, but had since transferred to Homeland Security. We had worked on several cases together including the All Star game in 2012 when terrorists attempted to blow the place up.

  I had his cell phone as well, so I made the call.

  Looking back, my greeting probably wasn’t the most pleasant, but I was beside myself with worry.

  “Mark, this is Walt Williams and some of your goons have kidnapped Maggie and I want to know what the hell’s going on!”

  “Walt! Calm down. What in the world are you talking about?”

  I hadn’t called him before because the story sounded so far-fetched. I didn’t want him to think I was a complete idiot.

  I figured at this point it didn’t really matter, so I laid out the whole story.

  “Then this afternoon, I get these texts with Maggie’s photo telling me to back off, and now she’s gone. Level with me, Mark. You’re in Homeland Security, for chrissake! Is there really any truth to these chemtrail theories?”

  “I understand why you’re so upset. I would be too if it were my wife. Let me make some calls and I’ll get right back to you.”

  I hung up and paced the floor waiting for his call. A half hour later, the phone rang.

  “Walt, Mark here. The stuff you’re talking about is way above my pay grade, but I pulled some strings and called in some favours. The bottom line is that no one in the U.S. government is involved in Maggie’s disappearance.”

  “You’re absolutely sure?”

  “Absolutely. I have it from the highest authority.”

  I couldn’t help wondering exactly how high that was, and then remembered the B-613 group from the TV show Scandal, which operated independently, without government oversight.

  “Thanks, Mark. I appreciate your help.”

  “Listen, Walt. If Maggie doesn’t turn up, don’t hesitate to give me a call. I’ll do anything I can to help on this end.”

  After hanging up
, it occurred to me Mark had never answered my question as to whether there was any truth to the chemtrail theories.

  If Mark was to be believed, it must be Carmine Marchetti.

  I loaded my revolver, stuck it in my belt and headed to Antonelli’s restaurant.

  I wasn’t really sure what I was going to do when I got there, but I had to do something. I had no doubt that Carmine could have me squashed like a bug before I could get to him, but I really didn’t care. If I couldn’t find Maggie and get her back, it really didn’t matter what happened to me.

  I parked and barged into the restaurant. Themaître d' tried to slow me down, but I pushed him aside and looked around the dining room.

  I spotted Marchetti at a table in the back, a pretty girl on each arm, and the two goons I’d seen earlier were keeping an eye on the other customers.

  I charged toward the table and was nabbed immediately by the two guards.

  Marchetti waved his hand and I was brought to his table.

  “Walt! Twice in one day. To what do I owe this rather rude intrusion?”

  For the second time that day, I saw no point in beating around the bush.

  “My wife, Maggie, is missing and I think you have something to with it.”

  I saw the confused look on his face. He motioned to the guards who pulled out a chair and shoved me onto the seat.

  “Under normal circumstances,” he said, wiping his mouth with a napkin, “I would be upset by what you have just done, but you’ve peaked my curiosity. Tell me more about this ridiculous accusation.”

  I told him everything that had occurred since I left his office and reached for my phone to show him the photos. The goons had me pinned to the chair immediately.

  “Uhhh, just the phone,” I stammered.

  Carmine nodded and the goons released their grip which I suspected would leave bruises.

  I handed Carmine the phone and he studied both photos.