Executive Actions

by Gary Grossman

  Roarke focused his senses. Footsteps behind him. Too short and deliberate, he thought. He was right. He stepped aside to let an elderly woman pass.

  Roarke double-backed again up Chestnut. That’s when it happened. From his blindside, behind and to the right.

  Roarke was lifted off his feet and slammed against a parked van with the full force of the Crabbe. He fell to one knee with a pain racking through his left shoulder. The assailant had emerged with a running start from between two brownstones. Seconds ago Roarke was on the offense. Now he was off balance, unable to quickly steady himself. He felt cold steel pressed into his side; a thin rod, probably a silencer in the hands of a hired killer. Roarke knew it would be a painful mortal shot, but from where it was held, not an instant death. His mind raced through purely defensive moves and then to something more practical. Get Crabbe to talk.

  “You’re not going to want to make a mess here,” Roarke said with no fear in his voice. “Witnesses are all around.”

  “Shut up!”

  Crabbe had a deep, dangerous, cold-blooded voice.

  “Let’s see,” Roarke said daring to continue his taunt. “You followed me? No. You followed the girl. Right?”

  “Shut the fuck up!” Crabbe said louder than he should have. The outburst told Roarke what he needed to know.

  “So you know she talked to me. That’s what Marcus wanted to find out. But you weren’t supposed to be noticed. So you fucked up. And now you have to do something about it.”

  Roarke struck another nerve because Crabbe bore the gun further into his side. The Secret Service agent winced at the pressure.

  “I’d say you have a problem.”

  “Get up,” Crabbe demanded. He stepped back giving Roarke room to rise, but the gun was still on him.

  “And now we’re going to go somewhere,” Roarke said as he slowly got to his feet.

  “You bet your sweet ass.”

  By rising Roarke had been able to re-position his body so the gun, in Crabbe’s right hand, was more on his back, no longer pressing into softer flesh. He could maneuver.

  In those few seconds, Roarke had enough time to size up his enemy. He sensed that Crabbe was worried. He’d blown it. He should have disappeared and he didn’t. Now he had to do something about it. Roarke assumed they’d take a walk across Storrow Drive to the Esplanade along the Charles River. In the moonless night, Crabbe would cover his tracks. But he wouldn’t get that chance. With one swift move, Roarke stepped slightly forward and to the side. He pushed his right elbow back sliding Crabbe’s gun off its mark. He swung his body around to the right, bringing his left hand down on Crabbe’s wrist.

  Roarke’s right hand also went for the gun. He could have done it blindfolded. It was a classic move. With his thumb on Crabbe’s palm and his fingers on the top of his hand, he drove the gun back towards Crabbe’s body in an unnatural and instantly crippling way. The pressure of the two hands working against Crabbe’s fragile bones, and a corresponding twisting action to the right and the weight of Roarke’s forearm coming down on his wrist, forced Crabbe to release the weapon. They both heard the bones split.

  Crabbe felt the excruciating pain pulsate through his body.

  Roarke then kicked the gun into the street, but that allowed Crabbe to get a half a step jump on him. Crabbe was in no position to fight, at least until he had the advantage again.

  Cars honked as he darted between a VW and an Explorer on Mugar. Roarke hesitated, allowing the cars to pass before he followed.

  Crabbe jumped a two-foot fence onto Storrow Drive. He raced around six or seven cars, getting side-swiped by one, but he continued with about twenty yards on Roarke.

  Roarke was in great shape. So was Crabbe. The man ran through his pain until he got about midway through an open expanse of the Esplanade in front of the Hatch Shell where the Boston Pops play during the summer. Roarke saw him stop and kneel as if trying to remove something from his pant leg.

  There were only ten yards between them now. The light from a car heading around a curve on Storrow Drive squarely hit Crabbe. For barely an instant Roarke saw the glint of metal from a snub nose gun.

  Instinctively, Roarke dove to his right, counter to where he bet Crabbe would shoot. Crabbe’s perspective was left to right and he would almost assuredly expect his adversary to move the same way. His mistake. The bullet missed him by three feet.

  Crabbe responded to the sound of Roarke rolling and immediately adjusted his aim. Another bullet struck the ground near him. Too close; only inches away. During his roll, Roarke reached for his Sig Sauer P229 under his jacket, then reconsidered. Crabbe got off another shot. Three misses, not unexpected since he was firing with his left hand.

  Roarke knew he had one chance; two at the most. But if he fired and missed in the dark, Crabbe would see the flash and know exactly where he was. With the cars speeding by in the background it was hard to sort out forms in the foreground. But Roarke calculated where Crabbe would be. He reached inside his left vest pocket and put his hands on a pen, a special order from BingShot, an Internet site. The functional blue ballpoint had dual purpose, which became obvious with the twist of the top. A two-and-a-half inch 42052 stainless steel blade extended. For $5.00 Roarke had a silent weapon which he didn’t hesitate using.

  Roarke needed one distraction, if only for a moment. He grunted, ducked and rolled to his right. Crabbe heard the sound and shot wide and behind him. Roarke rebounded with a silent back flip to a crouching position. He dove low and fast directly into Crabbe’s blind side and stuck the knife into his side, twisting as he pushed. With his other hand he applied a penetrating pinch to Crabbe’s wrist, which released the gun. Crabbe tried to reach for it, but this was his fourth mistake of the night. It only drove the knife deeper, severing vital arteries. The assailant crumbled to his knees, looking at nothing in particular. Then he slumped to the ground, dead.

  Roarke quickly searched the body for identification. He discovered a wallet. It was impossible to clearly see what was inside, but it appeared that Crabbe carried different identity cards. Roarke put it in his pocket and ran down the Esplanade toward the Longfellow Bridge.

  Roarke would have a great deal of explaining to do. But he preferred to talk to the FBI over the Boston Police.

  Roarke slowed down when he reached Cambridge Street. He caught his breath and called FBI Director Robert Mulligan’s direct line, dictating the names he found in the wallet for the bureau to run.

  A few minutes later Roarke called Katie who nervously answered the phone on the first ring. “Scott?” It had been twenty minutes since Roarke rushed her into the cab.

  “Yes,” he answered.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, yes, I’m fine. Look, I’m heading back home. I’m awfully sorry about tonight. I really wanted to spend more time with you, but I had say goodbye to our friend.”

  Katie listened carefully. He was not all right. Something was wrong, but she took his cues and waited.

  “I’ll give you a shout. Okay?”

  “Okay,” she offered tentatively. “And you’re sure you’re—”

  “I’m fine. I’ll be back in town soon, let’s play then. Let me know if anyone says anything about our friend.”

  An awful possibility abruptly struck her. Did Scott kill the man? Then she thought something more worrisome. The man could have killed Scott.

  “You be careful,” she pleaded.

  “I will. I promise. Talk to you soon. Bye.”

  He ended the call and watched her pass by her front window three stories above Grove Street. He wasn’t leaving. Not yet. He decided to watch Katie’s apartment for the night. This last episode came a little too close for comfort. He considered the possibility of pulling her into an FBI safe house, then decided against it. Crabbe had followed Katie, but he got what he wanted. He saw that she was having dinner with the Secret Service agent. That’s what he would have reported. Better she simply go back to work and not raise any suspicions
by her absence. Crabbe’s death would read like a robbery to everyone except Haywood Marcus. And Bob Mulligan would get a judge to approve a wire tape.

  Katie peered into the night sky, then slowly closed her curtains. She looked beautiful in silhouette against the backlight of her room. Roarke watched, longing to be with her as the lights went out,

  Burlington, Vermont

  “Thanks for coming by, Governor,” Lodge replied. “Burlington isn’t the easiest of commutes.”

  “No problem Teddy. I’ve been looking forward to sitting down with you.”

  “Anything to drink?”

  “A beer will do. Coors if you have it.”

  The congressman nodded to Geoff Newman who gave him a high sign that he’d be back with the beer.

  “And take your time, Geoff,” Lodge said.

  “He’s always around,” the Congressman confessed. “Sometimes it drives me crazy. I still don’t know where I’ll put him once we’re in the White House.”

  “‘Once we’re in,’ Congressman?” Governor Lamden observed. “I’ve heard that you’ve spoken to a number of potential running mates.”

  “For show, Henry. The job’s yours. Like I told you and Wendell, I know we can win together. We can beat Taylor and we can beat him good. I’m not so sure if anyone else could make it as my running mate. Maybe Reeves from Kentucky. But just between us, I doubt it. The two of us—that’s a different story. We can take the country. We can help the party and bring more Democrats into the House and Senate. And we can really change the world.”

  “Are you giving me one of your campaign speeches, Congressman?”

  Lodge didn’t like being lectured. All manner of friendliness evaporated.

  “Henry, I’m giving you the chance to get your fucking name on a political button,” he shouted. “You can be Vice President of the United States. Take it or leave it.”

  Newman entered the room. “Excuse me, gentlemen. Your drinks. Or would you prefer pistols at dawn?”

  “Oh, I see you’ve been listening. We’re fine, Newman,” Lamden declared. “The Congressman is just insistent that I become the second most powerful man on the face of the earth. I had my sights set on being number one.”

  “What do they say, Henry?” Newman said. “One heartbeat away. It’s still closer than anyone else.”

  The governor forced a smile. He glanced at Newman wondering, Who really will be number two? Then he said, “You have yourself a running mate, Congressman.”

  Lodge smiled. He’d won again.

  “Tell you what. Let me propose a toast,” Newman added as he passed the drinks around. “To the next President and Vice President of the United States. Lodge and Lamden.”

  Lamden faced both Newman and Lodge. There was awkward silence, then the governor lifted his glass. “It does have a nice ring to it.”

  Boston, Massachusetts

  Wednesday 23 July

  The bell chimed as the elevator door opened to the main reception area for Freelander, Collins, Wrather & Marcus. Katie Kessler stepped off with three other people. She breezed passed the reception desk and walked down the hall toward her office.

  “Good morning, Miss Kessler.”

  The voice belonged to Haywood Marcus. Oh shit! He intercepted her near a conference room; an intended encounter that Katie read right through.

  “Good morning, Mr. Marcus,” she said with a grin. Katie juggled her pocket book and brief case to free up a hand for shaking.

  Marcus took it and studied her for a moment through an insincere smile. He didn’t read any nervousness in his associate. She was calm, friendly, and perfectly relaxed. Apparently she had a quiet evening. But he’d wait for the report from his man to find out more. Odd though, he hasn’t called yet.

  It would be another day before the news of Back Bay killing made the City & Region section of The Boston Globe or The Boston Herald. That’s when Haywood Marcus would really began to worry.

  Thursday 24 July

  The man logged onto his computer. He’d been working harder in the last two months than he had in years. Business was good. His various bank accounts, divvied up in four countries, had swollen by millions. And now there was another message embedded in some e-Bay ads for first edition Frederick Forysthe novels.

  He’d have to think about this offer and how he wanted to handle it.

  As the antiques dealer he used hair dye, glasses, clothing, and dialect to effectively change his identity. As the Connecticut commuter, theatrical pigmentation makeup and appropriate business attire did the trick. And as the old lawyer casting for steelhead, the wrinkling cream proved positively amazing. It slowed the blood flow to his face, helping his facial muscles sag. He added decades to his features. His character came together with more hair dye, a loose fitting wardrobe, and great acting.

  Every disguise began organically. He created full biographies for his roles, understanding who they were, where they grew up and where they live and work. He gave them personal idiosyncrasies, particular tastes in food, and how they satisfied themselves sexually. Some of his characters were good family men, one was gay. He could pass as an Arab, however he admitted to himself that he had difficulty perfecting a credible Asian identity. Curiously, he did play a woman once with deadly success. His victim’s last realization was how wrong he’d been about the woman he took to a hotel room.

  He enjoyed everything about his job; so much more than his teachers could have imagined. Amazing, too, that it had been his goal since losing a leading role in his high school play. Of course, he had directed the very real death scene of his old drama teacher and by last count, forty-three other men and women since.

  Forty-four would be a Boston lawyer. He’d have to give some real consideration to how he’d do it.

  CHAPTER

  26

  Hudson, New York

  Friday 25 July

  “Chief, Anne Fornado wants to see you at the St. Charles right away.”

  “Did she say why?”

  “Thought you be interested in something.”

  Chief Carl Marelli was hot and annoyed. This mid-summer Hudson Valley humidity was brutal. Not as bad as what Manhattan and DC were getting. Still they sure could use a little break. As a matter of fact, so could his investigation. He wiped the sweat off his forehead with his sleeve, drove his squad car up Warren Street but didn’t even bother with the AC for the short drive.

  The reporters were all gone. No more satellite vans; no more visits from first tier and wannabe anchors. The story started in Hudson and that’s where the trail also got cold.

  Marelli and Bessolo talked every day or so. If the FBI had anything in Washington, they weren’t telling the Hudson police. And Marelli had nothing that would merit calling the bureau back.

  The last field agent left a week earlier. And he was having more luck scoring antiques on Warren Street than any more leads around town.

  “So whatcha got, Anne?” Marelli asked as soon as he pushed open the side door.

  “Come on back,” the hotel clerk said. She’d been two years behind Marelli at Hudson High and still tried to catch his eye.

  Anne Fornado opened the door to her office. Thankfully the air conditioning was blasting refreshingly cool air.

  “Remember a few days after the shooting you came by to ask about McAlister’s reservation? You really were disappointed with what I gave you.”

  “Yeah, nothing,” he remembered.

  “But Carl, there was something. I just hadn’t found it yet.”

  “Go on,” the Police Chief implored, now thoroughly engrossed.

  “I needed to dig a little deeper. And there it was.”

  “There was what?”

  “In the record. The reservation, the booking and the notations. Here.”

  Marelli was feeling more comfortable and it wasn’t the air conditioning. He circled around Anne’s computer screen. She smelled nice. Funny, he hadn’t noticed that in years.

  “Let’s go to McAlister’
s reservation on the 13th. The night he called it in.” She typed the words “McAlister” and “check-in” and pressed enter. A two-page list of hotel guests named McAlister came up. She moved her mouse down to “Sidney McAlister,” highlighted the item and hit enter again with her right pinky.

  The full registration immediately appeared showing McAlister’s name and his credit card number, since found by the FBI to be a pre-paid Visa credit card covered by cash. A few lines down was the hotel short hand: Ckn tm, rmchrg, rm#.

  “What am I looking for?” Marelli asked. Fornado helped him by moving the cursor to the last line and highlighting “Room #207.”

  Marelli straightened up but never took his eyes off the screen. Anne looked over her shoulder and smiled. “Interesting.”

  “207, on the side, second floor,” she said unnecessarily.

  “207? But he was checked into 301.”

  “Not right away. Someone else was in 301. And look at this.”

  Anne scrolled down to a further notation on McAlister’s record. “Request frt rm, 3rd, 301, when avail.”

  “That was added by Sam Martell, who was on the night desk on the 15th. McAlister must have called it in. See, it’s all right here.”

  Marelli read it all.

  “I talked to Sam. He remembers it. McAlister even offered to buy him a drink, which Sam turned down.”

  “And when did the room open up?”

  “Three days later. The 18th. That’s when McAlister got his room.”

  “And if the guy in 301 didn’t leave, then McAlister would have been up shit creek.”

  “Guess so. But the odd thing is,” she said as she typed in another few words, “the guest in 301 left early. He wasn’t supposed to leave until June 25th.”

  “The FBI never ran any of this down?”

  “Not a bit. I wouldn’t have either, but I wanted to help you.” She flashed a warm smile. “Somehow.”