Frankie Aguirre and Art Jefferson - 03 - Simple Simon

by Ryne Douglas Pearson

  SIMPLE SIMON

  An Art Jefferson Thriller

  eBook Edition Copyright © 2011 Ryne Douglas Pearson

  First Edition Copyright © 1996 Ryne Douglas Pearson

  Published By Schmuck & Underwood

  “Wander Boy” Copyright © 1995 by Thad McCormack

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission from the author, except for brief passages used for review purposes.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Visit the author’s website:

  http://www.rynedouglaspearson.com

  Follow the author on Twitter:

  twitter.com/rynedp

  The Art Jefferson Thriller Series

  Cloudburst

  October’s Ghost

  Capitol Punishment

  Simple Simon

  Table Of Contents

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty One

  Twenty Two

  Twenty Three

  Twenty Four

  Twenty Five

  Twenty Six

  Epilogue

  About

  Prologue

  Rising Son

  Keiko Kimura stood near the foot of the bed, a sheer white peignoir hanging from wispy straps to veil her still enticing form, thinking both that the American’s fledgling erection was unimpressive and that his blood was going to be the devil to get out of fine silk.

  But she could not deny the rapture of that warm, red wetness rolling over her, nor the heights to which a scream could take her, and looking upon the pale body that was willingly four-pointed to the bedposts, she knew that ruined lingerie was an acceptable trade.

  “Do me, mama-san,” the American beckoned with eyes hungry and limbs tugging joyously at the bindings he had insisted upon in pursuit of some masochistic fantasy. “Hurt me.”

  “You want Keiko to spank you?” She skated one foot across the wood floor, then the other, until she stood bedside, black hair draped over either shoulder and dark eyes sweeping his body. As she sat upon the mattress her tongue slid into view and slowly wet her lips.

  He smiled, teeth bared, chest heaving. His erection began to improve. “I want you to punish me.”

  Primal forces boiled within her as he spoke that word. Punish, she thought. So perfect did he speak it, so clear and pure was his desire for it, that Keiko replayed the intonation over and over in her mind. After a very few repetitions she felt herself getting wet.

  “Come on, mama-san, I’m needin’ this bad and I’m needin’ it soon…”

  Keiko rolled her head once and then looked square at the American. His face was dotted with glistening beads of sweat. She imagined each tiny drop as a pearl of redness—blood tears that he was crying…crying for her.

  Ooh, sweet one, she thought, the warmth rising within, lifting her almost to the precipice before she called retreat. Too much. Too much so soon. There would be time enough for pleasure, but, as was necessary, business had to come at some point before her plaything was dead.

  “Come on…” the American demanded now, with gritted teeth.

  “You gotta do something for Keiko first,” she said, and slid a hand through the black curls on his chest. She found his nipple and squeezed it between thumb and forefinger.

  “Unnhhh,” he groaned, his face contorted in the beginnings of an ecstatic agony. Or so he believed.

  On the end of each finger was a perfectly filed natural nail, and with these Keiko now pinched. Hard, very hard, so much so that the American was drawn from his burgeoning erotic state to recoil from this real pain.

  “HEY! Easy!”

  With a force less impressive than might seem necessary, Keiko dug deep into the nipple and jerked her hand away, tearing it from his body, flinging the bit of soft, pink flesh aside. It hit the off-white wall, leaving a bright red starburst on the slick surface before falling to the floor.

  “You crazy fucking bitch!”

  He pulled and bucked and twisted and fought. Blood sprayed from his wound, flecks dotting Keiko’s face and the peignoir she had briefly fretted over. Her tongue appeared again and licked spots of blood from above her lip. Its taste, its simply being on her, made staying focused on the business end of things very difficult. Almost impossible. “You gotta talk to me, Joe.”

  “Joe?” the American asked through the pain. He didn’t know that all American men were Joes in his tormentor’s mind.

  “You not the only one paying Keiko tonight, Joe.” Her mouth tingled with the salty, coppery taste of his essence. To bathe in it, she thought. Soon, though never soon enough. “Someone wants to know what you know.”

  His brow wrinkled at her words. A warm trickle ran down his ribs. “You’re a crazy fucking psycho! What the fuck do I know?!”

  Keiko’s face expressed something—not a smile, nor a scowl. Nothing easily identified. A beastly look upon the human form, the American thought. Then he saw a knife come up from the side of the bed in her bloody hand.

  “You know,” she said, holding the knife delicately by its shank, drawing slow figure eights in the air above his face.

  “Know what?!” he shouted, nearly pleading now.

  Now she smiled, lowering the knife to begin a hard night’s work. “It don’t matter, Joe. You gonna tell me everything about everything, and I’ll sort it out.” She pricked the tip of his nose and drew the blade slowly across her tongue, savoring the taste. His being was so fleeting, as would be her own ecstasy. In the morning, with this job behind her and with this plaything cast aside, the cravings would begin anew. With the cravings there would come a need. And for that need there would be someone, somewhere, who would provide satisfaction. Until then… “Just enjoy it, Joe. We got all night.”

  * * *

  Art Jefferson had been back in Chicago less than two months when he made an enemy of United States Attorney Angelo Breem.

  “What in God’s name was that, Jefferson?” Breem demanded after catching up to the FBI’s number two man in Chicago on the courthouse steps and grabbing him by the elbow.

  Art looked seriously at Breem’s spindly hand, and the U.S. Attorney wisely withdrew it. “What was what?”

  Breem, still exasperated by his sprint to find Art after court adjourned, pointed a shaky finger at the man he considered a turncoat. “You know exactly what I’m talking about. What you testified to on that stand is going to let Kermit Fiorello walk!”

  Art turned and took a step up so that he stood on equal footing with Breem. He towered over the zealous prosecutor by six inches. “I told the truth.”

  “Christ, Jefferson! You know Fiorello’s guilty! Guilty as sin! He’s responsible for at least six contract murders, two of which we could have nailed on him, plus the racketeering charges, if YOU hadn’t gone soft!”

  “Soft?” Art asked, his head cocking. A vein rose beneath his left temple. “Listen to me, Mr. U.S. Attorney, if you had had your P’s and Q’s str
aight there would have been no need for me to testify at all. Your case was weak from the get-go. And so you decide to call me in to dredge up some ancient history on Fiorello? That was fifteen years ago, Breem. It had nothing to do with the paper-thin case you had until ten minutes ago. I didn’t kill your case; it committed suicide.”

  Breem seethed, his fists balling at his side. He would have loved to swing at the cocky black agent. Mr. Big Shot coming back from his time on the coast. “He is guilty, Jefferson.”

  “You think I don’t know that?” Art asked, leaning to get in Breem’s face. His features were pale and abrupt. “I was chasing Fiorello when you were at the prom.”

  “Then why did you say he had nothing to do with the Carerra murder?”

  “Because he didn’t!” Art backed off and shook his head. “If you’d bothered to check with me before calling me to the stand I could have set you straight on that. But, no, you base your whole case on that one crime. If Fiorello had Carerra whacked, then he had to do the same ten years later to Tangini, and then to Picone, etcetera. He did Tangini and Picone, but not Louie Carerra. Any agent who was around back then could tell you that.” He stabbed a solid finger at Breem’s red tie. “You didn’t do your homework, and because of that Kermit Fiorello is a free man once again. Thank yourself, Breem, before you blame someone else.”

  With that Art showed the U.S. Attorney his back and trotted easily down the steps, ignoring the visual daggers being thrown his way. He cared little for people like Breem. All high profile talk, all grand drama in the courtroom, and no real smarts to carry the basics of a case from start to finish. Breem wanted to go places as fast as possible, and in this case he’d gone a damn sight too fast. It seemed that every damned U.S. Attorney wanted to get to D.C. and a nice office in the Department of Justice as quick as they could. Well, Angelo Breem’s path to the top had just been detoured, and Art had no illusions that the pipsqueak would blame him for it until the day he died.

  So what? Art asked himself as he reached the bottom of the steps and headed down Dearborn to grab a bite at Nico’s. He’d made worse enemies in a long career with the Bureau. What could one measly U.S. Attorney do to him?

  * * *

  Number 6601 needed surgery.

  Circling the earth at 150 fifty nautical miles in a ninety-eight-degree sun-synchronous orbit, the two-billion dollar piece of electronic and imaging wizardry known as the KH-14 was just a year into its planned ten-year lifespan when the same shuttle that had placed it into orbit, Atlantis, blasted off from Florida’s Cape Canaveral an hour before dawn. On the fourth revolution Atlantis rendezvoused with the reconnaissance satellite and precisely matched its course and speed. They were man-made moons in tandem orbit of Mother Earth.

  As the sun set on the East Coast, two men from the planet earth exited Atlantis and moved via MMUs (manned maneuvering units) the ten yards to number 6601. One astronaut carried tools. The other carried a small case the size of a shoebox. It shone silver in the clear sunlight of space.

  The astronaut with the tools opened an access panel on the huge satellite’s side, below and aft of its number two solar panel. He worked carefully and removed four bolts that held a red box in place. One cable went in the red box, and another came out. He disconnected these and pulled the red box free.

  It took him twenty more minutes to put the silver box in and reconnect the cables.

  After finishing the surgery, the astronauts took the red box with them and reentered Atlantis. They would continue with the “scientific” activities of mission 98-A for another eight days, then land back at Cape Canaveral, weather permitting.

  Number 6601 required only five minutes to recover from surgery, just long enough to recalibrate itself with controllers on the ground at several secret installations across the United States. The first thing it did was spit a stream of electronic gibberish toward the earthbound receiving stations. All of them answered back with the same gibberish. They understood each other. But no one else did.

  Number 6601 had just been taught a new language.

  * * *

  It was very late when the father sat in the rocker in the corner of his child’s room and helped his son onto his lap. The son wore white flannel pajamas highlighted with tiny blue snowflakes, and when he curled up in the strong arms his nose pressed into the crook of his father’s neck. The son detected the faint scent of motor oil, and this comforted him. He slid his thumb into his mouth and closed his lips around it.

  “Wander boy, wander far, wander to the farthest star,” the father began to softly sing. His pitch was off, his rhythm tortured. The son found assurance in the song sung his father’s way; it was the only way he knew. “Wander boy, wander far, dreams are what you’re made of.”

  Eyes closed, and the son began to suck his thumb. The father stared blankly at a bare wall and continued the melody. He had long ago stopped asking God to heal his son. He accepted him now. “Under a tree by a house, by a field washed with rain, lies a boy all alone with his thoughts and his dreams.”

  The father loved his son. He had sung to him every night of his life but one. It was their special time. “Wander boy, wander far...” At this point he continued only in a hum. “Hmmm-hm-hm-hmm hmmm-hmmm-hm-hm-hmmm.”

  The son fell asleep in the safety of his father’s arms.

  Half a world away there was no safety for the son of another father. His body was already cold.

  But in the quiet of this Midwest home, there was only peace as the father hummed the lullaby, his son resting serenely as the night marched on. The ritual was unchanging.

  For now.

  One

  The Sky is Falling

  Simon Lynch sat alone in the small room at a square table, chair back from its edge, hands folded on his lap, his upper body swaying forward and back in a precise, measured motion, the equal of any metronome. His eyes, green and cautious, darted about the bare tabletop, focusing on no one spot for more than a second. A few blonde hairs hung loose over his forehead. His lips moved quickly, incrementally, in some silent recitation.

  The four walls of the room were off-white. Except for a door they seemed bare. One wasn’t.

  “How old is he?” Dr. Anne Jefferson asked as she watched the image on the large television monitor. The subject was fifteen feet distant in a soundproof observation room. A perfectly hidden camera was bringing the pictures to them.

  “He turned sixteen two weeks ago,” Dr. Chas Ohlmeyer answered. A clipboard rested on his knee. A notebook computer glowed on Anne’s lap. “How can you do observations on that thing?”

  “This?” Her head shook with a smile. Her smile was her most striking feature, or so her new husband had told her. When she wasn’t smiling she was merely a classic beauty, skin the color of light chocolate and smooth as a newborn’s, eyes translucent in the right light, black hair pulled into a loose ponytail because of the storm blowing in off Lake Michigan. “You still have a couch in your office, don’t you?”

  Ohlmeyer accepted the friendly jab. “And Freud is my idol.”

  Anne chuckled, then gave her attention back to the monitor. “So, Simon Lynch. You think he’s a Kanner?”

  Ohlmeyer’s face did the equivalent of a shrug. “I’m hoping you can help in that determination. He’s only been coming to Thayer for a couple months. It’s taken about that long to acclimate him so he’d open up a bit. Then last week…well, you’ll see.”

  She studied the young man on the screen. At first blush an untrained eye might see a case of nerves. The scene did, she had to admit, look like something out of a police drama; the interrogation room, a bland cube with one door and a light fixture in the ceiling’s center, suspect at the table, waiting for the good guy-bad guy team of cops to come in. It was not that, though, and the behavior was not a case of nerves. The reason was far more profound.

  From the left of the screen the door opened. Anne noted immediately that the pace of Simon’s rocking picked up a bit. A young woman entered, spoke a few
comforting words to the subject, and set a box on the table before retreating. The door closed with a soft click.

  “What is that?”

  “A puzzle,” Ohlmeyer answered. His lined face bore a subtle grin. “We’ve discovered that Simon likes puzzles.”

  Anne’s fingers tapped at the condensed keyboard, recording the beginnings of her observation. Thirty seconds into the session the pace of her typing slowed, then stopped, and she leaned in close to the monitor, her eyes wide. “Oh my.”