by Gary Starta
Bleary-eyed and hours into the dead of night, she hunkered down and started again. Several cups of coffee later, she was losing heart. There were no photos of Meese employees in the business or society sections of the local papers.
Maybe he’s dead and we’ve been talkin’ to a corpse.
Her eyes opened wide in a sudden flash of genius.
Obituaries! Why didn’t Ah think of that before? Maybe he went missin’ and was presumed dead. He could have faked his own death and left the state. Or maybe he assumed the identity of someone who really is dead.
The truth was even stranger than she supposed. It took only twenty minutes to find her answer. There, on the very last page of hits for death notices printed in all the local Virginia papers over the last twenty years connected to the keywords “Meese Corporation”, was the face of Arthur Moreland, staring right at her.
Except his name is listed as Clayton Artemus Montgomery. He’s younger, thinner, and has different color hair in this photo, but there’s no mistakin’ it. Mr. Montgomery and Mr. Moreland are the same man.
Deeprose read further along and clamped a hand over her mouth, horrified. His wife, Arleen, had been brutally murdered in Queens, New York. Shortly after, he left Meese. According to the article, a few years later he suffered a fatal heart attack. That was where the public trail went cold.
He mighta been involved in an accident, lost his memory and simply been presumed dead. No. Too soap opera.
He mighta deliberately faked his own death, changed his name, and moved. Again, too soap opera.
Ah wonder if anyone at Meese knows he’s alive. What if that death notice is a fake? One thing is sure, anyway; Montgomery, a.k.a. Moreland IS alive, and Ah won’t find out what’s goin’ on or where he’s hidin’ himself unless I do a little fishin’ in Meese waters.
Deeprose slammed the laptop shut and let loose a rebel yell. Her head barely touched the pillow before she fell into a deep and very satisfying sleep.
Chapter Twenty
Three Years Earlier…
Arleen Montgomery loved her occasional shopping trips to Manhattan. Of course, living in Langley, Virginia didn’t mean she didn’t have access to the very best, but New York was New York! It was like nowhere else in the world, and she loved it.
She wrapped the scarf tighter around her neck and leaned into the wind sweeping down Fifth Avenue, pushing and shoving her way down the street like a Sherman tank. By the end of the day, Arleen was dead on her feet but still set on having dinner at Morton’s, on 5th Avenue and 45th Street. Settling herself in a cushy curved booth, she surrounded herself with bags of the spoils of war and promptly ordered a large glass of sherry.
She’d been looking forward to this sinful encounter for months. Tonight she would toss caution to the wind and eat all her favorite comfort foods as only Morton’s could prepare them. She devoured her filet mignon with her eyes closed in ecstasy before turning ravenous eyes towards a sea of creamy twice-baked potatoes au gratin daring her to take the plunge, and that she did.
The heavy meal combined with several glasses of fine sherry produced a quality of warmth and deep satisfaction that flooded her mind and body like the afterglow of great sex. Arleen sat back and allowed her mind to wander where it would. When dessert arrived, she took her time polishing off a mountain of chocolate cheese cake and a cappuccino.
Full and sleepy, she no longer felt like going out to Forest Hills Gardens to visit her old college roommate.
But I can’t cancel now; that would be unforgivable. I’ll feel better when I get outside.
She gathered her bags of loot and left the restaurant. A welcome blast of air hit her square in the face. The Weather Channel had predicted an uncharacteristically cold storm this evening and, for once, they were right. She hurried to the corner where a black limousine was waiting. The driver watched in admiration as bags and boxes, expertly aimed and launched, flew from the street to the inner reaches of the back seat. That done, she propelled herself inside the cozy cave and yanked the door shut before the driver had a chance to do it for her.
Arleen was headed to a wealthy neighborhood in Queens this evening, bordered on all sides by dirty red brick apartment buildings, all of which were lined with fish, meat, and fresh vegetable shops along the street level. Arleen dozed while the driver battled evening traffic.
An hour later and close to their destination, Arleen suddenly remembered she hadn’t bought a hostess gift, but she knew that old neighborhood like the back of her hand. Spotting a florist shop and knowing her girlfriend lived just two blocks from Queens Boulevard, she asked the driver to park at the next corner and dismissed him.
The wind turned to sleet, plastering Arleen’s hair against her red face. The last of the commuters, looking beaten and resigned, exited the F train and hurried past her with coat collars up and heads down. Arleen remembered how it felt to be steadily ground down into nothing, day after day, year after year. She gave silent thanks that life had treated her well.
As the last straggler rushed by, the usually bustling area became eerily silent. Very few cars passed by, and those that did went steadfastly on their way, the drivers refusing to see anything but the road ahead. Without another thought, she headed towards the florist shop.
At this hour some businesses were still open. Their shop doors threw squares of light on the sidewalk here and there, but most were already closed, leaving the normally bustling area dark and deserted. The black recesses of doorways were considered a no-man’s land, being the favored hiding spot of muggers. All native New Yorkers were well aware that you never walked close to the buildings after dark, something Arleen had forgotten about.
Absorbed in thought and hurrying along, she was an easy target for the man wrapped in a hooded winter parka. As she walked past, a hand shot out from the void, grabbed her by the arm and jerked her off balance. Gasping, she dropped everything and fell to the ground. He grabbed a fistful of her hair and bashed her head hard against the cement. Something wet and sticky oozed into her hair; she supposed it was blood. The whole thing happened so fast, and yet, for Arleen, it lasted an eternity.
Without a word, her attacker dragged her deeper into the recess where no one would see him finish the job. He drew a ferocious looking knife from his belt and with his hands still buried in her hair, pulled her head sharply backwards. In one motion, he slit her throat from left to right. Arleen died horribly but quickly in a hot pool of her own blood. The man disappeared with her jewelry and money.
***
A teenage boy opened the door of the florist shop and took a cautious look around. He had been about to make his last delivery of the day when he saw the woman outside brutally assaulted. Scared stiff, he turned out the lights and hid under the counter until the man was gone.
He saw now that there was nothing he could do to help; it was over. He made the call to 911 but declined to provide his own name, locked the door of the shop and ran home as fast as he could, hoping the man hadn’t hung around to see if there were any witnesses.
***
Arleen’s attacker was a professional and never looked back, knowing he had nothing to fear. The knife, minus his finger prints, would be tossed into the East River where nobody would ever find it. His coat, pants and shoes would be burned up in one of the many trash can fires that dotted the streets of the South Bronx. Jumping into a stolen car, he turned the key a full three times and almost flooded the engine before the engine stopped coughing and grudgingly began to move.
Thanks for the nice getaway car, you fuckers.
***
F.B.I. Special Agent Frederic Dawkins had been slugging back bourbon after bourbon in a dingy and dilapidated bar not far from where Arleen was attacked. As he began to feel the rush of liquid courage, he became increasingly abusive to the small, slender bartender.
“What do you mean I’ve had enough? I’m paying and you’re serving.”
She shook her head and looked at him without blinking. “The bar i
s closed, Agent Dawkins. I can’t afford to lose my license. It’s time to go home. If you can’t drive, I’ll call you a cab. The drinks are on the house.”
Dawkins gave her dirty look, but kept his mouth shut. She reminded him of his superior officer, Natalie Rodgers. There were certain women who could wither his balls with one glance, and did, in public. The kinder ones avoided him. Dawkins was a democrat; he hated them all equally.
He kicked over a tableful of empty glasses on his way out the door. “Oops. Looks like I made a mess.”
His car, conveniently parked in a handicapped space, took a minute or two to warm up. He turned on the police radio even though he was not on duty and not on the police force. Dawkins just liked to keep his finger on the pulse of things.
Then his eyes lit up. There was a homicide on Queens Boulevard near Austin Street. That was only ten blocks away. “Yeah, baby!” He put the pedal to the metal and squealed out of the lot.
“Hot pursuit!” He swerved in and out of traffic at dangerous speeds, slicing the side view mirrors off several parked cars. Dawkins had been planning to transfer to the N.Y.P.D. for anyway, so he thought he might as well leave the Bureau with a bang.
The police radio described the victim as a middle-aged woman. Her skull had been crushed and her throat slit. He set his mouth in a grim line, ready for a final showdown.
Suddenly, he slammed the breaks, as did every car behind him. A steady stream of re-directed drivers cursed at him and gave him the finger. Oblivious to it all, Agent Dawkins leaned his head out the window and cocking his head, he listened. A siren about three blocks ahead convinced him he was on the trail of the suspect.
Dawkins saw a blue sedan in the left lane blow right through the next red light, and thought he was on to something, so he threw the car into 5th gear and got into the middle lane. When he got right up alongside the car, he yanked the steering wheel hard to the left, broadsiding it. Both cars skated onto the raised median dividing the six-lane boulevard, taking sizable chunks out of the old trees planted there a hundred years ago.
When the noise and chaos finally died down. Dawkins scrabbled out of his car without his badge or gun. “Hold it, shitbag! Don’t move! Put your hands on the steering wheel. NOW!!”
The driver jerked open his door and tried to run. Dawkins launched himself into midair and completed a spectacular tackle, but he was out of shape and breathing hard when he landed.
He regained his wind and then head-butted the man he was sitting on. “I told you to stay in the car! Now look what you made me do!”
The man on the ground was masked. He grabbed Dawkins by the forearms and threw him over his head. Dawkins landed hard on his back. The man got up and spat on him. “This just isn’t your day, Clint.”
The suspect turned to run, but Dawkins was still able to grab him by the forearm, Twist him around and throw a roundhouse punch at his temple. He hit the man so hard that he hit the ground unconscious.
***
The sudden short burst of a siren brought Dawkins back to reality. He stood motionless, trying to remember who, exactly, the one in the suit was. Then it came back to him. He imagined shaking hands with the mayor and receiving the key to the city, if they still did those kind of things.
Dawkins shouted to the two men in blue, “Gentlemen, look what the cat dragged in…”
Both officers trained their guns on him. Dawkins’ triumphant smile disappeared. He looked confused.
“Get down on your knees and lace your hands together behind your head!”
“Listen, you knuckleheads, I’m an F.B.I. agent, and I just did your job for you. Your suspect is over there, unconscious.”
The two men traded uneasy glances. One of them spoke again. “Remain where you are. We repeat, get down on your knees, lace your hands behind your head, and don’t move. We won’t say it again.”
Dawkins sighed and got down on his knees. He looked up and muttered, “Don’t bother thanking me guys. You’re entirely welcome.” He swayed back on his heels and then pitched forward. Locomotion brought him to rest at the feet of the men in blue. Dawkins turned his eyes up at them with an expression that said ‘Oh well’. He shrugged and then lost his dinner all over their shoes before passing out.
***
One Year Later…
The dull light of late afternoon blurred the line between sea and sky. Montgomery was at Virginia Beach, grieving. He turned in his chair to retrieve his sunglasses from the table and took a sip of his sherry and thought about Arleen and how they used to have a glass of the sweet wine after a long day. It was a daily custom, one they never broke. It didn’t feel right, him drinking alone in what was always their special place.
His mind drifted to the elements. Arleen was a fiery little imp. She was the sun. Raising a glass to his lips, he toasted her. Then he began ruminating on other aspects of his life. When Arleen passed away last year, Monty took on the role of a senior consultant and stepped down as project manager.
Let someone else do it now, someone anxious to make his mark on the world. I’m tired of fighting. Nothing I say makes a difference, anyway. Kate’s career was finished after the board turned it down. No pharmaceutical company or organization would ever consider funding it after that. She killed herself after that, at least, according to the papers.
Monty fantasized about walking back into Meese and doing something about it.
I’d love to get my hands on those rotten bastards.
Montgomery picked up his glass and knocked back its contents in one huge swallow. He shouted as loudly as he could, “Take that, you sons of bitches!”
Monty sat back, remembering that after Pressman defeated Dr. Blake’s research project, Monty started scheduling proposals which even he found ludicrous. He went home every day laughing his head off.
I wonder if they ever caught on to that. Ah, well, screw it; they’re lucky that’s all I did.
After he resigned and moved to Virginia Beach, he heard the JASONS had been disbanded. The rumor was that the D.O.D. wanted to take control of the appointee process.
Gee, what a shame. I guess the animals are no longer in charge of the zoo.
As sunset began, Monty’s thoughts drifted. It was time to make a change and get on with life, but he couldn’t go back to the old routine. That was out. Thanks to the money left to him from his late uncle’s art collection, Montgomery was a wealthy man.
Maybe I should go back to my first love – Art History.
Armed with a Master’s Degree from 30 years ago, a wealth of knowledge, and an incredible amount of pull in all the right places, he thought working in a museum might be just the thing he needed to pull him out of the dumps.
The sun, almost gone, flooded his eyes with a burst of burnt orange. Monty felt it was a sign from Arleen to move on. The iron band constricting his chest eased up a little at the thought. He’d been so angry for so long. A botched investigation forced the District Attorney to throw out the case against Miguel Ramirez, the man arrested for allegedly murdering his wife. He had Agent Dawkins of the F.B.I. to thank for that. Besides failing to read the suspect his rights, Dawkins also beat him half to death, costing the city an estimated one million dollars in compensation when a high-priced attorney sprang up out of nowhere to represent him.
He couldn’t afford that kind of help. Someone else was paying.
Day settled into dusk, and Monty decided it was time for a stronger cocktail and some dinner. He was about to raise his hand to summon the waiter when he noticed the young man was already standing at his side. He had a message for Mr. Montgomery.
“Who gave it to you? Can you describe him to me?” But the waiter said the note had been left on the bar with written instructions. No one saw who left it there.
Monty thanked the young man and ordered a whiskey sour and the New York Strip Steak. He waited until his drink arrived before opening the note. As he read, he moved from disbelief, to rage, to fear. The note slipped through his shaking fingers and rest
ed on the table. He reached for his drink and tossed it back in one gulp.
When he knew he wasn’t going to upchuck, he picked up the note again. Still unable to believe what it said, he forced himself to read it again, slowly and carefully. If this wasn’t a sick joke, he was finished.
My Dear Mr. Montgomery,
Your wife’s death was an intentional warning to stay out of Meese’s business decisions. It satisfied your enemies before, but it won’t save you now. The stakes have been raised, necessitating the elimination of various individuals. In case you don’t fully comprehend or appreciate the gravity of your situation, let me make it perfectly clear - you are a dead man, so be smart for once in your life. Make a change of name, location, and line of work. Disappear into a big city somewhere, anywhere.
I am not the enemy, but I am vengeance. Do not discuss your association with The Meese Corporation with anyone. I will be watching. Leave now, Mr. Montgomery, while you still can.
- Mr. X
All the half-formed thoughts that had been dogging Monty’s nightmares suddenly screamed one word.
Conspiracy!
The word tore through his body.
Arleen was murdered as a warning to me! What would make me such a threat that they’d kill Arleen to keep me quiet? Why not just kill me?
Monty tossed a handful of bills on the table to cover his drinks and uneaten dinner and raced to his hotel room to pack.
I can’t take my car or use any credit cards or my phone. What’s the best way to get out of town without creating a fuss or any notice? The bus. Yes, I’ll take a bus into Manhattan, buy a burner phone and arrange to have the bank bring my safety deposit box to me at the Radisson Martinique Hotel on 32nd and Broadway. Refurbished or not, no one’s going to look for me in an ancient building that was used as a welfare hotel until the 80s.
Monty dumped everything he could into a suit case as quickly as possible, and never once questioned the authenticity of the note. It was real. His wife’s death made no sense to him before, but it did now. She was deliberately hunted down and slaughtered because of something he did, knew, saw, or even possibly possessed. He had no way of knowing.
