Private Detective: BENNINGTON P.I.: A thrilling four-novel political murder mystery private detective series...

by D. W. Ulsterman

  He was the same man with the unnaturally dark eyes who had waved to Frank outside the entrance of the Off the Record.

  “Who is this guy?”

  The female limo driver never took her eyes off the man who had followed them.

  “Someone very dangerous, Mr. Bennington.”

  The man continued to walk slowly toward them, his black eyes peering out from beneath a slightly lowered brow as a hint of a smile crept across his youthful, unlined face.

  “No need for problems between us, Stasia. Simply hand him over, and the world goes on spinning as it always has, and as it always will. Your life continues, your troubles diminish. Unburden yourself, Stasia. Give that task to me and embrace the freedom of indifference. How easy it would be for you…”

  Frank Bennington found himself nodding his own approval at the man’s words, his subconscious indicating they made perfect sense.

  Maybe I should go with him. It’s not fair to be causing all this trouble, right?

  The sound of Stasia’s handgun being fired into the air blasted apart the fog that had descended upon Frank’s mind, causing him to stumble backwards as his hands clamped over his ears.

  Stasia then pointed her gun directly at the other man, causing him to halt his slow and deliberate approach toward them.

  “Stop talking, Malthus. Turn around and leave. Mr. Bennington is with me, and I will kill you to protect him.”

  Frank watched as Malthus’s mouth opened into an abnormally wide smile, exposing a row of impossibly white teeth that appeared to somehow glow from within themselves.

  The high pitched voice transformed into a low, growling laughter.

  “Oh, Stasia, it’s so nice to see you haven’t lost your sense of humor!”

  With his manic smile still fixed upon his face, Malthus cocked his head to the right and then pointed at Bennington.

  “I can hear your pace-maker, Mr. Bennington. Tippity-tap, tippity tap, keeping you alive and well. It would be a shame to see you over-exert yourself tonight. Such a condition could prove…fatal. Like what happened to your friend the priest.”

  Frank turned his head slightly to see Stasia looking back at him intently.

  “Yes, Stasia, Mr. Bennington here was likely the last to see your former instructor alive. Father Barnes died working with the man you have now been ordered to protect. For all we know, Frank Bennington caused the priest’s death. Certainly the T3 Group played some part in his demise. Why do their bidding anymore? Why not simply walk away, Stasia? I won’t judge you like they would. We would never judge you.”

  Malthus’s voice had returned to its high pitched hiss. Bennington recognized something in the pattern of how Malthus spoke – a certain cadence familiar to the very best politicians who enjoyed the ability to push and pull upon the emotions of almost any audience great or small.

  “Malthus, I’ll tell you just one more time, you need to leave - NOW.”

  Stasia pointed her weapon directly at Malthus’s head where it remained, her eyes simmering with deadly intent. Malthus frowned and then shook his head.

  “Very well, Stasia, you’ve made your choice. We’ll meet again soon enough. As for you, Mr. Bennington, enjoy what little time you have left in this world. That diseased heart of yours is all but finished, and I will enjoy being there to witness its inevitable betrayal.”

  Both Stasia and Bennington watched as Malthus straightened his blood red tie while sneering back at them. He then gave a quick grin before beginning to whistle the same tune he had arrived with as he turned back toward the SUV and then drove away. The large black vehicle disappeared into the darkness, its taillights two glowing red eyes that soon merged with the night.

  Frank finally recognized the song Malthus had been whistling.

  Sympathy for the Devil.

  4.

  “What the hell is that?”

  After closing and securing the entrance door behind her, Stasia strode toward what at first glance appeared to be a rather squat, black clad helicopter that sat in the middle of the airline hangar. Unlike other choppers though, this one had a set of short wings that extended outward from either side of the vehicle, each wing equipped with its own five-bladed rotor. The tail was similar to an abbreviated wing as well, but unlike conventional helicopters, had no prop.

  “That, Mr. Bennington, might very well be the most advanced helicopter in the world today. It’s also just one example of the privileges afforded full members of the T3 Group. Now if you don’t mind, we need to get moving.”

  Stasia slid the chopper’s access door open and motioned for Frank to climb in. Bennington grunted at the effort, but managed to slide into the tight confines of the passenger seat quickly. Stasia positioned herself behind the pilot panel and fired the twin turbine engines to life, the sound filling the hangar interior with an increasingly loud and urgent whine.

  “You know how to fly this, right?”

  A brief grin cut across Stasia’s face as she continued to do a pre-flight check of the chopper’s systems.

  “I sure hope so, Mr. Bennington, for both our sakes.”

  The joke did little to calm Frank’s nerves. He was a reluctant flyer at best, and now sitting inside of a helicopter that appeared torn from the pages of a science fiction magazine did nothing to lessen that reluctance.

  The wall at the other end of the hangar began to move upward, revealing itself to actually be a wide door. Stasia’s hand nudged the primary control forward, causing the chopper to begin rolling slowly across the floor as it made its way toward the opening.

  Frank peered through the windshield toward the inky darkness outside, a twinge of apprehension gripping him as he considered the possibility Malthus was still out there watching and waiting.

  As for you, Mr. Bennington, enjoy what little time you have left in this world. That diseased heart of yours is all but finished, and I will enjoy being there to witness its inevitable betrayal.

  Bennington didn’t know how Malthus already knew of his heart troubles, the recently installed pacemaker, but then again, the world of the T3 Group seemed to provide a regular dose of oddities and surprises. Plus, since his heart surgery, giving up drugs, and losing a considerable amount of weight, Frank had not felt this healthy and physically capable in years. He certainly had no intention of dying any time soon, Malthus’s words be damned.

  Minutes later took Frank Bennington into the D.C. night sky as Stasia expertly flew the helicopter some three hundred yards above the ground. The craft’s interior was surprisingly quiet and the ride comfortably smooth.

  “How fast does this thing go?”

  Stasia’s initial answer was a half smile as she pushed the chopper higher and then accelerated, the twin turbine engines growing slightly louder.

  “Fast enough to have us to New York in just over forty minutes, Mr. Bennington.”

  “Just call me Frank, Stasia. No need for formalities when you’re around me.”

  Stasia nodded but said nothing, her eyes fixed on the path ahead as the lights of Washington D.C. disappeared below them.

  Soon the former political operative turned private detective was learning more of the beautiful and mysterious Stasia Wellington. She was an operative with the Vatican Intelligence Service who was now also coordinating assignments with the T3 Group. Her initial training had come from the formidable Jesuit Priest, Father Victor Barnes, the very man Frank Bennington had worked with, and watched die, just days earlier.

  Our shared connection to the priest can’t be coincidence. Someone wants us working together.

  “Did Victor die well, Frank?”

  Bennington closed his eyes briefly and nodded.

  “He died as he lived – tough, and on his own terms. I didn’t have an opportunity to know him long, but the time we did spend together left no doubt he was clearly somebody you wanted around when things got ugly.”

  Stasia’s eyes gleamed with a mixture of pride and sadness for the passing of her former teacher. She was also
aware of Bennington’s loss of Dedra Donnigan during the same assignment that had so recently taken the priest’s life, having thoroughly read the T3 Group’s operations report.

  “I’m sorry for your own loss too, Frank. Everything I’ve reviewed indicated Dedra was a very capable and dedicated individual.”

  A stab of pained regret moved through Bennington. Dedra’s death was still a shock. The last case was taking an emotional toll upon him that would likely extend well beyond the present. That had partly been his motivation for taking the call that brought him to this moment – the opportunity to keep working and hopefully avoid dwelling upon the memory of Dedra.

  “Can you tell me anything about Gabriel?”

  Bennington’s question remained unanswered for several seconds as Stasia silently considered a response. Gabriel had been a person of interest for the T3 Group for a number of years, the last few of which were spent working with Father Barnes trying to develop a cure for cancer.

  Stasia also suspected Alexander David Meyer knew far more about Gabriel than the billionaire was so far willing to share with her or likely anyone else within the T3 Group, which in turn made Gabriel that much more fascinating.

  “I probably don’t know much more than you, Frank. We were aware of Gabriel’s work with Father Barnes, but where he has gone now, nobody seems to know, or if they do, they’re keeping it to themselves.”

  “Gabriel spoke with me in person right before you drove up in that limo outside the Off the Record. He knew the exact moment I would be getting that call from the man I assume is your boss, which leads me to believe the two are working together. Speaking of which, who are you taking me to see, Stasia?”

  Stasia Wellington’s head turned to the right to allow her to hold Frank’s gaze with her own deep, blue-eyed stare. Bennington was once again struck by her well balanced mix of strength and beauty.

  “He is a very powerful man, Frank. More importantly though, he’s also a very good man who has devoted his life to keeping others free. The fact he personally chose to meet with you is a great honor.”

  Bennington looked ahead through the helicopter’s windshield as the unmistakable New York skyline loomed ahead, a massive, glowing mountain range of concrete and steel.

  It was at that moment Frank Bennington experienced a feeling he thought long ago lost to him by way of so many years swimming within the often brutal and bloody waters of the D.C. elite.

  He was nervous.

  5.

  Stasia landed the chopper gently down onto the roof of one of the taller buildings overlooking New York’s Liberty Street. The location was less than a block from where the former Twin Towers stood, and among the most expensive stretches of real estate in the entire world.

  “Ok, Frank, here we are.”

  Bennington saw a narrow illuminated pathway leading to a single dark blue metallic door that stood just forty feet to the north of the rooftop landing area.

  “It’s late. Are we ok to let ourselves in?”

  Stasia gave a short laugh and then motioned for Frank to follow her toward the door.

  “C’mon, just follow me. Mr. Meyer is waiting to meet you. This is his building – his home, one of them anyways.”

  As he exited the chopper with far less easy athleticism than had Stasia, Bennington tried to recall any New Yorkers he knew named Meyer. There was a familiarity to the name, but the source of that familiarity must have been separated by a great deal of time because he was unable come up with an answer.

  Seconds later Frank stood next to Stasia outside the dark blue door as a cool gust of wind awakened his senses. Stasia placed her thumb against a small scanner to the right of the door and then waited, seeming bored by the security protocols that protected access to the building.

  “Look up and smile, Mr. Bennington. Visual confirmation is also required.”

  Frank glanced upward and saw the soft red illumination of a camera lens encased in a steel enclosure staring back at him.

  “It appears your Mr. Meyer takes his security seriously.”

  Stasia nodded once while continuing to look into the camera.

  “These days require nearly everything to be taken seriously, Mr. Bennington.”

  The door’s locking mechanism sounded with a slight tick after which Stasia pushed it open and stepped into a well lit hallway while again motioning for Frank to follow her as the door closed and locked behind them.

  The hallway was narrow, its walls and low ceiling made of polished grey steel, reminding Bennington of the medical tables used for autopsies. Another dark blue metallic door was located twenty feet at the opposite end. The hallway left Frank feeling increasingly claustrophobic, and he was anxious to be free of it.

  The interior door had a numbered panel to its right which Stasia quickly input an access code, the fingers of her right hand moving too quickly for Bennington to follow.

  Frank was startled at the sight of someone waiting for them on the other side of the door. Stasia noted his reaction with a slight smile as she extended her left hand toward the other man.

  “Frank Bennington, this is Peter Berg. He handles most of Mr. Meyer’s New York office affairs.”

  Frank instantly recognized he was being sized up by Berg, the man’s narrow grey eyes looking him up and down. The private detective took an immediate dislike to Alexander Meyer’s longtime assistant.

  “Nice to see you again, Ms. Wellington. Mr. Meyer is prepared to see the both of you in thirty minutes. There is a fresh change of clothes in your respective rooms. Please don’t keep him waiting.”

  Both Frank and Stasia watched Berg’s swift departure down the long hallway where he soon disappeared around a corner. Unlike the outer hallway, this one was much warmer, the walls covered in light purple wallpaper and complimented by polished dark brown wood trim. Several pieces of ornately framed art adorned the walls as well. Having moved among the rich and powerful of Washington D.C., Bennington quickly recognized he was in a place of considerable wealth.

  “This is your room, Mr. Bennington. Mine is just down the hall. I’ll be back soon to escort you to the meeting.”

  Stasia opened a thick, wood-framed door to Frank’s right where inside he found an intimate but comfortably furnished room that offered a small sitting area, bed, fireplace, closet, and attached bathroom. The furnishings were what the interior designers of the day would classify as “French Modern”, but to Bennington, they simply indicated “expensive.”

  “You should find some clothing in the closet. Feel free to use whatever you like.”

  Stasia closed the door, leaving Bennington alone in the small room. He opened the closet and found a navy blue two-button dress suit with white shirt, red tie, hand-stitched leather shoes, and even a pair of gold cuff links awaiting him. Everything appeared to have been custom made to his exact measurements.

  Now how do you suppose they managed to pull that off?

  Inside the bathroom Frank found an electric razor, various toiletries, towels, and an assortment of high end after shaves and colognes. He took a few minutes to shave and wash his face, and then tried on the suit and shoes, marveling at how perfectly everything fit. As he adjusted the red silk tie, he found himself smiling at his own image in the mirror.

  At sixty-four years of age, Frank Bennington had continued to lose weight following the heart surgery that had no doubt extended his life. He was now lean enough that he almost appeared gaunt, something that would have seemed impossible for him mere months earlier. Deep lines ran alongside either side of his mouth, as well as splinters of lines that erupted from the corners of his eyes. Instead of making him feel old though, Frank thought those lines added a bit of dignity to a face that now threatened to be handsome.

  Hell, I almost look tough! Almost…

  A light knock on the door interrupted Bennington’s moment of self-appreciation. He gave a quick glance at the rows of colognes and then dabbed on some from a small pinkish bottle. The slightly floral scent was subtl
e, nothing like the overpowering stench so many men of today seemed inclined to bathe themselves in.

  Upon opening the door he was greeted by the welcome sight of Stasia wearing a simple, crisp white dress shirt and form fitting black slacks that nicely complimented the athletic yet ample curves of her hips.

  “Well look at you, Frank! You clean up nice!”

  Bennington responded with a grateful though slightly embarrassed grin.

  “They say you can’t polish a turd, but this suit seems to have managed to do just that.”

  Stasia’s right hand moved to cover her generous lips and stifle a laugh as her eyes twinkled in amusement back at Frank, a gesture which managed to make her appear that much more beautiful to him. The all too brief moment between them was interrupted by the approaching footsteps of Peter Berg who stopped a few paces from Stasia, choosing to ignore Frank’s presence as he addressed her.