by Tim Kizer
“Because you’re the only person known to have Marshall Dillon’s DNA. Besides, by killing you, Marshall’s only close relative, they eliminate any possibility of a legal battle for your father’s inheritance.”
“All this sounds so... bizarre.”
“Did you know that Dillon got into a car accident while he was in Italy? I believe they staged the accident so they could use the injuries as an explanation for the differences between the Dillon that left America and the one that came back. The car crash also gave the fake Dillon a reason to stop writing with his right hand.”
Hackett lowered his eyes to the floor. “Is there a chance that Dad is still alive?” he finally asked.
“Slim to none. It would have been very risky for Monica and her friend to leave your father alive.”
“Honestly, this story is kind of hard to believe.”
What a polite man. This story was not kind of hard to believe. It was really hard to believe.
“I understand. This theory does sound a bit implausible, but it ties everything together and makes sense under the circumstances.”
“What do I do now?”
“First of all, you need to be as careful and vigilant as possible. There’s a lot of money at stake, and those people won’t quit trying to kill you. As for the long term plan—I fully intend to put them both in jail.”
“How are you going to do it? They have huge resources. Do you have any hard proof that they killed my father?”
“No. Not yet. It’s going to be tough for sure. We have no body, no witnesses, no evidence—nothing. So I suggest we first prove that this Marshal Dillon is a fake. The problem is it’s not as simple as you might think.”
“Why? Can’t we just compare my DNA to his?”
“It could work if they had no imagination. Unfortunately, they seem to be inventive enough to come up with a credible defense. Nothing prevents their lawyers from saying that you are not Marshall’s biological son, that your mother got pregnant from some other guy. They could claim that Marshall recognized you as his son out of love for your mother.”
Jeff knitted his eyebrows and nodded.
“How do you prove that Marshall Dillon is your biological father?” Miranda went on. “It’s going to be his word against yours.”
“So what’s your plan?”
“We need to find at least two or three more solid pieces of evidence that this man is an impostor. I’m working on one lead that could blow them out of the water, but it’s still up in the air. So right now let’s focus on confirming that we’re actually dealing with a fake.”
8.
“How is your investigation coming along?” Dillon asked.
They were sitting in Luigi’s Trattoria, an Italian restaurant four blocks from the police station. It was Miranda’s idea to talk about the Hackett case at lunch. He had given Dillon a choice of three locations: Luigi’s Trattoria, O’Shea’s Restaurant and Pub, and Golden Dragon Chinese Cuisine. Dillon was in the mood for Italian. Unlike a week ago, he had not complained about being pressed for time.
“There is some progress,” Miranda replied.
“Do you have any questions for me?”
“I sure do. Just a couple of them.” Miranda took out her notepad from her jacket pocket and opened it. “Here’s what I’ve been thinking: what if the ultimate target was not your son, but you?”
“What do you mean? They want to kill me?”
“I think someone might be trying to get even with you by murdering your only son.”
"Dillon" immersed himself in thought. “Now that you said it, I suddenly realized it’s quite possible,” he finally said. “Many people will do anything to have their revenge. A wise man said that money can’t buy you friends, but it can get you a better class of enemy” Dillon laughed. “So what’s your plan of action?”
“I’d like you to make me a list of people with a grudge against you. Do you think such people exist?”
"Dillon" nodded. “Of course.” He began to drum his fingers on the table. “I’ll give you the list tomorrow or the day after tomorrow.”
“Excellent. Hopefully, we’re headed in the right direction with this.”
Fifteen minutes later, they were finished with their meals, and “Dillon” offered to pay for both of them. Miranda didn’t object. As soon as they reached the door, a pair of plainclothes cops collected the glasses and the utensils “Dillon” had used during lunch. They weren’t looking to score some cool tableware; they were after “Dillon’s” saliva—a great source of DNA—which they expected to find on those objects. Miranda had elected to take an unorthodox route since asking “Dillon” for a DNA sample was a sure way to make the millionaire suspicious and put him on the alert. She had thought of pulling a few hairs from “Dillon’s” head, but figured this task would be too tricky to accomplish.
9.
The DNA test results didn't surprise Miranda: the person that was calling himself Marshall Dillon was not related to Jeff Hackett.
“Now we know for sure that my father has been replaced,” Hackett said after reading the DNA lab report. “Did you figure out how to prove it?”
Miranda shook her head. She had yet to find a weakness in Monica Staggs and her partner’s plan. Marshall Dillon had no other known relatives; the voice change could be explained by the car accident. Handwriting? Yes, forensic experts could authenticate the handwriting no matter which hand the person used to write the document in question, but no DA in the country would bring charges against a multimillionaire with a boatload of connections based on the discrepancies in the handwriting. Besides, how much genuine handwritten material was left there undestroyed? Perhaps not much. Realistically, signatures on business contracts were all they could count on. It would take an insane amount of luck to get Staggs and the fake Dillon convicted on evidence like that.
“I’m still hopeful that we’ll find a way,” Miranda said. “And while we look for it, we need to make sure that Staggs and her friend don’t steal your father’s fortune. They might have already started liquidating his property and moving the cash to offshore accounts. Right now I see only one effective way to stop them from taking it all—freeze your father’s property. It’s a stopgap measure, but it will buy us some time.”
“How are you going to do it?”
“Tax evasion. Even big shots like Dillon are no match for the IRS.”
“I see.”
“A good buddy of mine works for the IRS. He’s a trigger-happy guy. I’m sure he won’t mind helping us.”
Chapter 7.
1.
Five days later, just half an hour after she came home from work, “Dillon’s” bodyguard rang the doorbell at Miranda’s house.
“Mister Dillon would like to talk to you,” the bodyguard said. “He’s waiting for you in his car.”
“Okay. I’ll be out in a second.”
The meeting seemed to be unavoidable. Miranda went to the study to get her gun. A minute later she left the house and, accompanied by the bodyguard, headed for "Dillon’s" car. The impostor arrived in a black Mercedes G-Wagen with heavily tinted windows. The bodyguard opened the left rear door and gestured Miranda to take a seat next to “Dillon,” who was observing them with a solemn look on his face. Also in the car was Monica Staggs, who sat on the front passenger seat. The bodyguard shut the rear door and then climbed behind the steering wheel.
“Good evening, Detective Murphy.” “Dillon" shook Miranda’s hand.
“Good evening,” Miranda replied. She glanced at the watch. It was a quarter past nine.
“Would you like to go for a ride?” "Dillon" asked. “We’ll be back in less than an hour, I promise.”
“Sure.”
When the Mercedes was two blocks away from Miranda’s place, "Dillon" pulled an oblong device the size and shape of a regular TV remote out of his jacket pocket and waved it twice along the detective’s legs and torso.
“What is it?” Miranda asked, not hoping for an answer.
“A metal detector?”
“She’s clean,” "Dillon" said. “Don’t worry, Miranda, everything’s cool. It’s a scanner.” "Dillon" shook the device in the air. “I checked if you had any tracking devices or microphones on you.”
Miranda laughed. “Why would I wear those?”
“I just wanted to make sure, that’s all. Be calm, honey. There’s nothing to worry about.”
“I’m absolutely calm, sweetie.”
2.
It was forty minutes before the Mercedes stopped. When Miranda got out of the car, she found that they were in the driveway of a massive three-story mansion, which sat on an expansive plot of land surrounded by trees. "Dillon" motioned her to go towards the front door.
“You should have told me we were going to your place, Marshall. I would have dressed up,” Miranda said.
When they entered inside, Monica told the bodyguard to stay in the entry hall. Half a minute later the three of them—Monica, Miranda, and “Marshall”—reached the end destination, the study on the second floor. As “Dillon” shut the door, Murphy asked herself if she was being secretly videotaped. She wouldn’t be surprised if “Dillon” and Staggs were planning to put her in a compromising situation so they could blackmail her later, just like in the spy movies. Had they hired an Adonis-looking hunk to seduce her? She hoped so.
“Looks like we need to have an honest talk, my dear Miranda,” “Dillon” said.
“Ready when you are.”
“I want to know why the hell you’re poking your nose in my business.”
“When did I do that?”
"Dillon" patted Murphy down, found the pistol, and handed it to Monica. Then he drew out his own Beretta. “That’s better,” he said with a smile. “So… I treated you with respect, Miranda. I didn't do any harm to you, did I? The question is: why are you getting on my nerves? Why the hell are you trying to freeze my bank accounts? People don't do that to their friends.”
“I don't understand what you’re talking about.”
“You understand everything. You set the IRS on me and thought I wouldn’t find out. Thank God, there are kind people willing to help me. They tipped me off about your shenanigans just in time. So I’m asking you, Miranda: why the fuck are you messing with me?”
“Whatever you heard about me, Marshall, I should tell you it’s a lie.”
“Besides, why are you hiding my son from me? What bullshit are you selling to Jeff?” "Dillon” narrowed his eyes.
“Tell us all you know about this case,” Monica joined the conversation. “If you play your cards right, you can make a lot of money, Miranda.”
“You’re speaking too soon,” "Dillon" interrupted her. “Let me finish first.”
“You’re beating around the bush, honey. We’re going to sit here till dawn if you don’t hurry up.”
“We’ve got plenty of time.” "Dillon" paused. “I have nothing against you personally, Miranda. It’s all about money, the root of all evil. If you want, we could cut you in. All you have to do is help us a little. Tell us what your guys are up to. Tell us what you know. I’d especially like to find out where my son is hiding. Talk to us, Miranda, and you’ll get rich.”
“And if I don't talk, you’ll kill me, right?”
“I think you’re going to make the right choice.”
“I guess you’re aware that what you’re doing right now is a federal crime? I’m talking about kidnapping.”
“My God, he’s such an idiot,” Monica chortled.
“All right, let’s cut the bullshit,” "Dillon" said. “Seems like you’ve figured this thing out. I’m not sure where we fucked up, though. But to be honest with you, Miranda, all that shit is not important anymore. In the next few days, we’ll finish turning all of Marshall’s assets into cash. And then we’ll move the cash to our offshore accounts. When that happens, Monica and I can finally stop this charade and disappear into the sunset.”
“As far as I know, the IRS has frozen all of Marshall Dillon’s accounts. I guess you’ll have to adjust your plans.”
“Bullshit. I’ll make one call, and the IRS will get off my back. Just one call. Marshall Dillon has much more pull with the federal government than you think, Miranda.”
“You’ve told me so much interesting stuff. Looks like I’m not getting out of here alive.” Murphy let out a deep sigh. “Who killed Noah Burton? You or Monica?”
“Burton? The surgeon?” “Dillon” exchanged glances with Monica. Monica rolled her eyes as if she were annoyed by Miranda’s question. “Why does it matter? The guy was an idiot. His curiosity killed him. A wise man said, ‘The less you know, the better you sleep.’ We didn’t make him poke his fucking nose in our business. The world’s not going to miss him, I’ll tell you that, Miranda. The world doesn’t need more fake boobs, okay?” He laughed at his own joke.
“Can you at least tell me your real name?” Miranda asked. “I’m not wearing a wire, you know that.”
“Okay. It’s Michael. Michael Bolander.”
“It’s a nice name.”
“You’re so polite, Miranda. So what’s it going to be? Are you with us or against us?”
“One more question. Is Jeff’s father dead?”
“He’s dead,” Monica said. “He lived a very good life, Miranda, so don’t be sorry for him. This is our version of redistribution of wealth.”
Michael burst out laughing. “That’s a good one, honey. Redistribution of wealth.”
“I was wondering, Michael,” said Miranda, “Why don’t you just marry Monica, transfer all of Dillon’s assets to her, and then make Marshall Dillon disappear? It could save you so much time and headache.”
“Why do you care what we do and don’t do?” Monica asked.
“Is it because you don’t trust Monica?” said Miranda. “Are you afraid she’ll get rid of you once she has the money?”
“You are so mean, Ms Murphy,” Michael said with a smirk. “I’m smelling a catfight.”
“What else do you know, Miranda?” Monica asked. “Honestly, I’m surprised you’ve gotten that far in your investigation.”
“I know that you need me,” Miranda replied. “I could make your life miserable tomorrow. Or I could stall the investigation until you moved to the Bahamas.”
“Bullshit,” Monica said. “You have nothing on us.”
“I have Jeff Hackett and his DNA, which doesn’t match your partner’s DNA.”
“How do you know that?” Michael asked in a concerned voice. “Did you snoop around my house without my permission?”
“That only proves that Jeff’s mother slept around,” Monica said. “At any rate, it will take you months to get anywhere with this. What else do you have?”
“Fingerprints. I have Marshall Dillon’s fingerprints.”
“You have my fingerprints?” Michael asked. “Big deal.”
“No, I have the real Marshall Dillon’s fingerprints.”
Monica breathed an irritated sigh. “Miranda, at this point in time Michael’s fingerprints are Marshall’s fingerprints. Whatever you have there will not hold in the court of law.”
“Oh yes it will. I received those fingerprints from the Monte Carlo police earlier this week. As you might remember, Marshall trashed a bar in Monte Carlo seven years ago. He was arrested and fingerprinted. Thankfully, they still have his fingerprints, which they graciously agreed to send to me.”
There was a long silence, which was broken by Miranda. “Jeff Hackett’s DNA may not be enough, but you add these fingerprints—now you’re cooking. It’s all about the preponderance of evidence, Monica.”
“Well, looks like you have a choice to make, don’t you?” Michael said. “Are you in?”
“It all depends on you, Miranda,” Monica said.
“Yes.” Miranda nodded. “On me.”
She clenched her right hand into a fist and struck the Beretta from Michael’s hand. The pistol flew across the room and landed in the corner. Miranda flung her fist towards M
ichael’s face and noted with satisfaction that she hit the double in the right eye. She thought she’d heard the man’s nose bridge crackle when it had come into contact with the knuckle of her little finger. Michael growled. The skin under his right eye split, and the blood quickly filled the tear. Miranda slugged Michael in the solar plexus area, but the man managed to break the blow, which, however, was a short-lived relief as Miranda used the other hand to hit him in the left temple, leaving a bleeding laceration on the edge of the double’s forehead. Michael began to move backwards clumsily, flailing his arms, and then fell down to the floor. Miranda sprang towards the Beretta.
“Shoot him!” Michael shouted to Monica. He ran after Miranda, his arms outstretched in front of him.
Monica pulled the trigger, a shot rang out. Seeing that Miranda was still on her feet and had not slowed down one bit, Monica fired the gun two more times. Michael grabbed Miranda by the belt and fell to his knees, having failed to keep balance after the detective hurled herself forward.
“Give me the gun!” Michael let go of Miranda’s belt, jumped to his feet, and leapt towards Monica. By the time he reached the woman, Miranda had already gotten up and was facing them with the Beretta in her hand.
“Are you blind?” Michael growled, taking the pistol from Monica. When he got hold of the gun, he immediately aimed it at Miranda and fired twice.
How easy do you think it is to miss, shooting at a grown woman from fifteen feet away? Probably not that easy. Nevertheless, Michael did. Miranda was still standing, alive and unscathed.
Then the door swung open, and the bodyguard appeared in the doorway. Miranda put a bullet into each of his legs, dashed to the doorway, and picked up the gun the bodyguard had dropped on the floor.
“What the hell!” Michael snarled, staring at the pistol in his hand.
“Surprise!” Miranda said with a smile. “Those are blanks, in case you haven’t figured it out yet. I believe there’s been a change in the situation.”
Yes, she had put blanks into her pistol while she was in the study; when chances are that your opponent will take your gun, it’s always a good idea to render the weapon harmless because then you get the advantage of knowing something your opponent doesn’t.
