Burke's War: Bob Burke Action Thriller 1 (Bob Burke Action Thrillers)

by William F. Brown

  “Here,” she reached into her purse and pulled out her cell phone. “Use mine.”

  “No, no,” he smiled. “By now they’ll be looking for you too, and a cell phone is too easy to track. It would leave an electronic trail from me right back to you.”

  “They?” she asked.

  “At a minimum, the Feds; and I don’t want you any more involved than you already are.”

  “Somehow I don’t think that matters anymore,” she smiled sadly.

  “Scalese and his pals are probably looking for you now too, but I doubt they have the in-house technology. My guess is they pay off some people at the phone company or even the FBI to get whatever they want. In any event, don’t use the cell phone and we should pull the battery,” he told her as he held out his hand for her phone. “They can track you through the GPS.”

  “I can do it!” she said, beginning to show her irritation and frustration. “If you have a six-year-old daughter, you learn how to take apart a cell phone, put in a Walmart battery, pull the SIM card, or disable it when the kids decide they don’t like your rules.”

  “A six-year-old with a cell phone?”

  “Hey, don’t give me any of that. Do you have any kids?” she turned and glared at him. “No, I didn’t think so. With a six-year-old, some days, you just do what you gotta do to get by,” she said as she opened the back of the phone, pulled out the battery, and snapped the case shut.

  “Point taken, and you’re right; I apologize. It really is none of my business,” he said as he looked over and saw her staring at him with a strange expression on her face. “What?” he asked getting confused trying to keep up with her.

  “Well, for a Neanderthal, you’re a very polite one.”

  “A Neanderthal?”

  “The term covers a lot of territory, but it’s what I’d call any guy who obviously spent most of his developing years running around the woods with a bunch of other guys shooting things and blowing stuff up, without a gentle female touch to grind down the sharp edges.”

  “Grind down?”

  “Don’t get smart! That’s pretty much you, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, I think I’m a bit more complicated than that,” he answered sheepishly.

  “I’m sure you are, but now my daughter and I are very much your business, Robert Burke, whether you want us or not. After all, you’re the one who gave me the courage to stand up to them, and I owe you big time.”

  “Oh, I think you had the courage all along,” he said as he pulled into the parking lot of a Sheraton Inn, drove around to the back door, and parked her Toyota behind the hotel dumpster.

  “I didn’t think I’d have to make it up to you this quick, but behind the dumpster? Classy guys go in and get a room,” she said with a droll expression.

  He turned and looked at her, equally droll. “As truly enjoyable as I’m sure that prospect would be, I only stopped here to make a phone call.”

  “So a room’s out of the question?” He gave her a look, so she added, “Just kidding.”

  “I’m sure you are, but rolling stones gather no bullets. Wait here, and behave. I’ll only be a couple of minutes,” he said as he got out of the car and looked around the parking lot.

  “Do you want me to hit the horn if I see anything?”

  “No, get down on the seat or on the floor and stay there. I’ll take care of the rest.”

  “You’ll take care of the rest? Why does that not surprise me,” she muttered, but he was already gone.

  He entered the motel through its rear service door and walked down the corridor toward the lobby. Near the swimming pool he saw a pay phone. He tried Charlie’s cell phone number. The call immediately rolled to his voicemail, so Burke hung up. That was odd he thought. The fat accountant never went anywhere without his cell phone. It was never out of his reach. He called Charlie’s direct-dial office number, but got the same result — no Charlie, only a recording. Finally, reluctantly, Bob tried Toler TeleCom’s main number. He did not really want to talk to Margie or any of the staff, but there was no choice. To his surprise, a new receptionist answered. She sounded young and overly confident, like a certain almost ex-wife he knew. When he asked her to connect him to Charlie Newcomb, all the woman would say was, “I’m sorry, but Mr. Newcomb is no longer with the company.”

  “Then, can you connect me to Maryanne’s extension,” he asked.

  “I’m sorry, but Maryanne is tied up in meetings with the President.”

  “The President?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Burke,” she gushed.

  “What about Margie, is she there?”

  “She’s been reassigned to purchasing. Would you like to leave her or Maryanne a message?”

  “No, thanks, I’ll call back,” he said and quickly hung up. Bob was surprised, but with a clearer idea what was going on back there. He turned and walked down the hallway toward the rear door, head bowed, deep in thought. He expected Angie to do something like this, but the speed of her attack was a surprise. While he might be an expert in military tactics and strategy, he felt like a novice in these business battles. Angie “stole a march on him,” as one of his West Point professors described it, much as Albert Sidney Johnston did to Ulysses Grant at Shiloh. Grant ended up winning the battle and the war, but it became a bloody affair. Angie swung into action while he was eating biscuits and gravy at a Bob Evans. It was time he got his head out of his ass and caught up.

  Lawrence Greenway spent the past half hour in the rest room applying cold water and a pile of paper towels to the side of his face to get the gouges in his cheek to stop bleeding, and to wash the worst of the stains from his suit jacket. Fortunately, the suit was dark, and the spots barely visible. He wished he could say the same about the side of his face. It was red and burning hot, with deep, suppurating wounds. Finally, he returned to the relative safety of his office, threw his suit coat over a side chair to dry, and collapsed in his desk chair when Tony Scalese burst in on him. Greenway looked up and shook his head. “Anthony, I am not a ‘morning person.’ And this morning? Well, it hasn’t been much fun, so leave me alone.”

  Scalese ignored the complaints. “Shut up, Doc, and listen to this,” the big Italian said as walked up to Greenway’s desk, pulled out a hand-held voice recorder, and turned it on. “One of Mr. D’s lawyers has an FBI lab guy on the pad. I recorded this as he played it to me over the phone. The sound ain’t very good, but you’ll get the drift.”

  As soon as the recording started, Greenway recognized Burke’s voice as he talked to his friend Charlie about grabbing the CHC books and records. “That stupid Bentley!” Greenway flared. “I thought you said he was taking care of this fellow Burke.”

  Scalese snorted. “Our turn. Looks like you and me gotta take care of this crap ourselves.”

  Greenway sat back in his chair and thought about it for a moment. “I have an idea, Anthony. Let's split up. I'll go visit that receptionist, Sylvester, and find out what she knows, while you track down his accountant friend. How does that sound?”

  Scalese leaned forward and put both of his meaty fists on the doctor’s desk as his eyes grew dark and angry. Greenway quickly backed away.

  “All right, all right, Anthony. I suppose we should both visit Mr. Newcomb. Perhaps with the proper motivation, we can persuade him to tell us where we can find his meddlesome friend.”

  “That’s better, Larry. Meet me downstairs in my car in two minutes, and bring that little medical bag of yours. No tellin’ when somebody might need a doctor.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  It was late morning. Angie continued to plow through the Toler TeleCom books, financial statements, and official filings, trying to make some sense out of them. On paper, she had majored in business at Northern Illinois, but that was to placate her father. Her interests ran more to fraternity parties, beer, spring break in Cancun, and the football team. When it came to a serious financial statement, a tax or SEC filing, cost accounting, or extended depreciation schedules, her fath
er could pound it into her head as long as he wanted, but it remained Greek to her. Besides, what difference did it make? If she had an accounting question, she’d call one of the goddamned accountants! Unfortunately, she never expected to fire the lot of them in a fit of spite, and have to figure it out for herself. Oops!

  She stared at the stack of books and papers strewn about the desk and lying in a half-dozen piles at her feet, frustrated, and certain that Charlie Newcomb did this to her intentionally. That fat bastard. He knew their days were numbered and that she’d be taking over, so he made everything twice as complicated, to make her feel stupid. She turned and looked at the clock on the credenza. It was 11:21 a.m. Before Bob came around, she was “lending a hand” in the PR department, as her father called it. She would usually roll into the office around 9:30 and be gone by 11:00 for a tennis lesson or a quick nine holes of golf. After a massage and a late lunch at the club, she’d return to the building around 3:00 for an hour or so. Try as she might, it was hard to get too serious about anything after a couple of spectacular martinis. Yeah, she thought, Charlie did this to her intentionally.

  Sitting in Bob’s big desk chair, she looked down at her legs. She hitched up her skirt and studied her thighs. She slapped them a couple of times, stood up, and squeezed her buns, hard. God, it was worse than she thought. The ten pounds were heading toward fifteen, not down to five. She could feel them hanging on her like giant globs of cellulite, while she sat here and looked at… numbers! Instead of beating a tennis ball around the court or working it off in the gym and getting her fat ass back to her wedding day weight, here she sat in this office behind a desk pretending to understand accounting, sales, and corporate finance reports. For how long? A week? A month? A year! How could she be this stupid!

  Fortunately, there was a knock on her office door to snap her out of her temporary depression. Maryanne stuck her head inside and said, “There’s a Mr. O’Malley out here to see you. He doesn’t have an appointment but…”

  “I know who he is,” Angie answered glumly. “Send him in.”

  US Attorney Peter O’Malley entered, briefcase in hand, and took one of the two chairs opposite her desk without waiting for an invitation. “How nice to see you again, Mrs. Burke.”

  “Nice, but not nearly as exciting a view, is it Peter?”

  “No, but your circumstances seem to have dramatically improved since yesterday, haven’t they? You looked very good relaxing at the pool, but you look even better here behind your husband’s desk. Imagine! And here I heard you didn’t care much for business.”

  “Oh, I don’t,” she laughed. “In fact, I can’t stand it. Accounting puts me to sleep. I tried sales, but I can’t lie well enough to be good at that. All the technical telecommunications stuff? It gives me a head-splitting migraine. Let’s face it, I’m not cut out for business; but I know it. If I could, I’d sell this place today, take the money, and sip martinis on the beach; but now I can’t even do that. Losing that DOD contract destroyed our valuation multiples, and I might actually have to start working.”

  “So, that’s all it would take to make you happy? Getting the DOD contract back?”

  “Well, that’s not the only thing, Peter,” she answered with a sexy smile. “But it might be a good start.”

  “You know, that contract is a lot like your Court Order, Angie. Neither of them is worth the paper it’s written on, and I should know. I write them. I can make them appear or disappear as fast as you can snap your fingers; and I can do the same for your husband’s murder charges, if I want to.”

  “Imagine that?” she replied. “The local TV news channel says that half the cops in northeast Illinois are after him for murder.”

  “Murder is a very serious offense.”

  “Oh, very serious, Peter,” she murmured as she leaned closer. “Now, I’m not a lawyer, but I was under the impression that murder was a state offense, not a Federal one?”

  “Oh, maybe yes, maybe no. It all depends how motivated I am.”

  “Wow! You mean a US Attorney can actually make a state murder charge go away?” she asked as she snapped her fingers, “like that?”

  “I can make a lot of things happen, Mrs. Burke. I can make your husband’s problems go away, or I can drop him in a deep dark hole that he’ll never climb back out of.”

  “And all you need is the proper motivation? How delicious.”

  O’Malley smiled back at her. “A woman after my own heart.”

  “Me? Oh, I’m not after anyone’s heart, Peter. I want that damned DOD contract and I want Bob Burke in jail and out of my hair long enough for me to unload this place.”

  O’Malley rested his chin on his fingertips and looked perplexed. “But if I lock him up, what incentive would he have to testify against Greenway for me?”

  “I can usually get Bobby to do a lot of things he’d rather not do. All I have to do is call on his sense of morality and civic duty. Trust me; I can get him to testify. Once he does, all you have to do is find some reason to void your little agreement with him and lock him up again.”

  “And I would want to do that, because…”

  “Because you’d have Greenway and that guy DiGrigoria you’re salivating over, you’d have a new multiple-murder conviction on Bobby that you can hold press conferences over and brag about to the voters, and — dare I say it — you’d have little old me. I assure you I can be very motivating and very, very appreciative.”

  “Very, very?” O’Malley smiled. “And you’re really worth all that trouble?”

  “Oh you have no idea! I know ways to appreciate a man you’ve never even dreamed of.”

  “As lovely as that sounds, and so that there is no misunderstanding here; when I convene that Grand Jury, I must have your husband in there testifying against Greenway, giving the jurors a lurid, bloodcurdling image of what he saw take place on that rooftop. And if you can arrange for his pal Charlie to provide supporting testimony, that would be even better.”

  “I think I can do that, Peter, because I have some unique ‘leverage’ of my own, and I can be very persuasive. But remember what the deal is — Bobby and Charlie testify, I get the DOD contract, and Bobby goes away for a long, long time.”

  “And I get?”

  “Why, little old me, of course, and won’t that be fun,” she said with a wicked smile.

  Bob Burke came out through the rear door of the motel and hurried back to Linda’s Toyota. From the expression on his face, she could see there were problems.

  “All right, what’s wrong?” she asked.

  “Well, tracking down Charlie might take a tad more time than I expected, and things have gotten more complicated back in the office, too,” he said as he put the car in gear and drove back to Route 83, turned north, and headed for the Toll Road.

  “More complicated? For you? That’s hard to imagine.”

  “You’d think so, but my darling soon-to-be ex-wife Angie got a court order giving her custody of my company. I expected that, but not this quickly. Apparently, she blew in this morning, took over, and fired Charlie and a whole lot of the others.”

  “Uh, ‘your darling soon-to-be-ex-wife?’ ” she turned and asked. “I see you’re wearing a ring and I hate to be nosy, but what’s that supposed to mean? Yes, no, maybe?”

  “It means exactly what I said. Our marriage was on life support, then it cratered when her father left me in charge of the company instead of her. She took it very personally. She refused to give me a divorce, and now it’s turned into a major business brawl over who’s going to run Toler TeleCom. If you add that to my other ‘legal difficulties,’ she’s kicking my butt; hopefully not for much longer, but whenever it does end, it’s not going to end pretty.”

  “But it’s over now, I mean between the two of you?”

  “Oh, yeah, it’s been over. Sooner or later, she’ll get bored sticking pins in me and she’ll calm down. We’ll set the business battle aside and get the divorce papers signed, and she’ll take a bunch o
f money and go off and pout with her tennis pro for a while.”

  “Her tennis pro?”

  “Or her golf pro, one of her lawyers, or anyone else she thinks might hurt me. Angie believes in thermonuclear war, fighting ’til the death, and taking no prisoners.”

  “What a cupcake! And it really is finished, between the two of you? Because I don’t…”

  “Relax. It was over a long time ago.”

  “I shouldn’t have asked,” she turned away, suddenly embarrassed. “It’s none of my business.”

  “Like your daughter is none of mine? I think we’re both well past that now, aren’t we? Or, at least I hope we are.”

  She stared at him for a moment and nodded. “I hope so too, but I guess we’ll have to see, won’t we?” she added. “So what’s the plan? Where are we going?”

  “We still need a computer, but that’s gonna have to wait. We need to get rid of this car.”

  “My car? I beg your pardon,” she said. “I kind of like it, and it’s mine.”

  “It would only be temporary. The car and those license plates are too hot. That’s why we need to get a new one.”

  “You mean rent one or something?” she asked.

  “No, that would create a new paper trail. Besides, all the rental car companies require credit cards, and I don’t have any of mine or my IDs. They’re in my wallet, sitting on the end table back in my apartment. I suppose I could go back there and try to grab them after it gets dark, but the cops probably bagged and tagged all my stuff a long time ago.”

  “No, no, my nerves couldn’t take you breaking in somewhere again. I have a couple of credit cards. Can’t you use one of them?”

  “They’ll have a security block on mine and probably on yours too, by now. Besides, I wasn’t thinking of ‘renting’ a car, Linda, I was thinking of ‘borrowing’ one, maybe from the long-term lot out at O’Hare. The odds are that no one would even miss it for a few days, maybe more.”

  “Borrow? How quaint. You mean steal one, don’t you?”