Chasing the Son

by Bob Mayer

  “If it does, it does,” Mrs. Jenrette said.

  Rigney looked less than pleased.

  “And Bloody Point?” she asked, tapping her desktop, indicating the third golf course on Daufuskie; the one not under her or Fabrou’s control.

  “I’ve peeled away another layer of a shell company,” Rigney said. “It’s pointing to the New Jersey mafia.”

  “Farrelli,” Mrs. Jenrette said.

  “Yes. And that’s a problem.”

  “Why?”

  “Mister Farrelli suffered a heart attack just a couple of hours ago. He’s dead.”

  Mrs. Jenrette absorbed that information as she opened a drawer and took out a pack of cigarettes. She lit one and inhaled deeply. She immediately began coughing, but didn’t put the cigarette out. “I quit like the doctor suggested over twenty years ago,” she said. “Doesn’t matter now.”

  Rigney didn’t say anything.

  “So whoever killed Farrelli now owns Bloody Point,” Mrs. Jenrette said.

  “My contact in the Beaufort Sheriff’s office told me it looks like a heart attack. Farrelli’s two guards said he just keeled over at the bar in his restaurant.”

  Mrs. Jenrette inhaled once more. This time she didn’t cough. “If you believe it was a heart attack, Charles, darling, then my husband had a stupider man that I thought at his side all these years.”

  A muscle rippled on the side of the lawyer’s face, but he didn’t respond directly. “I don’t understand why someone would hide the fact they own the course so deeply. It’s been out of business for over two years now and not worth much.”

  “Apparently not worth much,” Mrs. Jenrette amended. “If someone knows of the appropriation Senator Gregory is sitting on, they know the land is worth much, much more. Enough to kill Farrelli. Someone is playing their own hand in this business,” Mrs. Jenrette said. “I want that course. I want to own it by the closing. Before Fabrou gets to it. It will give me more leverage with him.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Find out who took it from Farrelli. His guards are lying.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And the easement for the causeway?”

  “The Mongin family is willing to sell, but they want to see what Fabrou offers. I’ve given them a deadline.”

  “It’s stupid for us to be bidding against Fabrou,” Mrs. Jenrette said.

  “I’ve talked to the head of the Mongin family,” Rigney said. “He understands your concern.”

  “Very well. You may go.”

  After he departed, Mrs. Jenrette turned and looked at Thomas. “The Institute has always been a pain. It believes it owes its allegiance to no higher power than itself. The Superintendent often forgets that the Institute requires funding. From the State and from people like me. If I find out he’s been lying to me—“ she left her threat unsaid. “Sea Drift is important, Thomas.”

  “I know, ma’am.”

  She finished the cigarette, then took another out. She offered the pack to Thomas. He accepted one. He lit his, then hers.

  “There’s another player on the table,” Mrs. Jenrette said. “A serious player willing to kill.” She shook her head. “It grows dark for me, Thomas.”

  “You’re still-“ he began, but she hushed him.

  “You’ve never bullshitted me before, Thomas. Don’t start at this late stage, please. You are the only person I can be around and be me.” She closed her eyes for several moments. “I might be wrong, Thomas.”

  “About what?”

  “It is the bane of old age to question one’s life,” Mrs. Jenrette said. “Especially when one’s child dies before one and then a grandchild. That is a burden that can never be gotten rid of. That can never be answered. It is a wound that burns every moment. I know my last thought will be of Greer. Of how I failed him in some way.”

  “You were a wonderful mother and grandmother,” Thomas said. He held up a hand as she started to respond. “As you said, I will not bullshit you. You were a wonderful grandmother to Greer. But—“ he waved that hand, indicating the house and all that went with it. “But this life was not for him. He was too gentle a soul for it. Your husband, may he rest in peace, had a hard heart. He was able to live this life. And you have hardened your heart for your family. But now it’s broken and the pain seeps in. You have done the best you can.”

  “But is it enough?” Mrs. Jenrette said. “Will it be enough?”

  And to that, Thomas had no answer.

  * * *

  Sarah Briggs was on her hands and knees, her pants and panties pulled down to her ankles. Fortunately, she’d been able to grab two cushions off nearby chairs before being shoved into this position. One was under her knees, and now she lowered her head to the second one, turning her face to the side as Preston Gregory fucked her from behind.

  “Oh yes, Preston, baby, oh yes,” she murmured as she checked her watch. “Do Mommy. Do Mommy right. Make her your bitch.”

  Preston was in his own world (not a good one) eyes closed. He too was mostly clothed, his trousers and underwear (boxers not briefs) around his knees. His hands were on her hips and he was gripping her too hard (he was going to leave marks, she knew, but now was not the time to complain). They were in the Charleston field office for his father, the great Senator Thaddeus Gregory. It was deserted since the Senator wasn’t in town and it was after five. She’d entered by the back door, which Preston had left cracked open.

  That pissed her off.

  Sarah Briggs (not her real name) was getting tired of coming and going from back doors.

  That forced her to stifle a laugh as she realized the irony of that thought given her current position (literally).

  Which reminded her. “Oh yes, baby. Do me. Do me. Do me.”

  She sometimes wondered if men really got off on that porno stuff, but had enough experience to know that, sadly, many did. As if she could be getting some enjoyment off of this guy’s sick fantasy? At least he was in better shape than Charles Rigney. She wondered how Preston would feel if he knew she’d been with Rigney just hours ago. Would he care? That would be an interesting scenario, one which would tell her much about Preston. How much did he really want power?

  Those men who really wanted it could not afford the luxury of jealousy.

  “You bitch,” Preston said, teeth tight together. “Bitch. Bitch. I’ll show you. I’ll show all of you.”

  His pace was picking up so she put some animation into her rear, gyrating slightly, but not enough that he’d pop out (that was always awkward) since he wasn’t that endowed. From experience she knew there was a definite correlation between that lack and the desire for power, although her sample pool wasn’t big enough to be statistically significant to publish a paper on it. Still. It was a pretty decent-sized pool.

  She was getting real tired of this too.

  So she reached back between her legs, between his legs, and fondled his balls. “Yes, yes, yes. You’re the best. The best, Preston. Make Mommy proud. Make Mommy proud.”

  And, as always with him, that worked.

  He slammed into her so hard, her head slipped off the pillow onto the wood floor. She bit back a curse. This guy had some serious Oedipal issues.

  Which had been working quite well to her advantage.

  Satisfied, Preston pulled out of her. Sarah stood, pulling up her panties and pants. She felt her forehead and worried the floor might have left a mark. Preston pulled off the condom (he wasn’t stupid, nor she) and walked to the bathroom.

  She heard the toilet flush.

  The person who came back in was completely different.

  “You have Bloody Point?” Preston asked as if meeting her just now.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m surprised Farrelli signed it over,” he said, as he sat behind one of the desks, putting it between them, a subconscious move that Sarah consciously noted.

  “He took some convincing,” Sarah said.

  “How much convincing?”

&nbs
p; “Terminal convincing.”

  Preston laughed. “Good riddance.”

  Sarah walked out of the office and down the short corridor for her turn in the bathroom. As soon as she was out of sigh, a side door opened and a man hustled in. Preston said nothing as the man grabbed her back, took her phone out, pulled the back off and pressed a small device into it. He put the phone together, into the bag and everything back in place and then was gone.

  It took 14 seconds.

  Sarah was back 30 seconds later. She paused, almost sniffing, sensing something was off, but not able to pinpoint it.

  “Tell me more about this Dillon fellow,” Sarah said.

  “We took care of him,” Preston said.

  “Do you really believe that?”

  He smiled. “No. It was worth a try, but he’ll be back. Mrs. Jenrette is like an old dog with its teeth stuck in something. She just won’t let go.”

  “It’s personal for her,” Sarah said.

  “That old hag has run Charleston for far too long,” Preston said. “A change is long overdue.”

  “You’ll be sharing ownership of Sea Drift,” Sarah said. “What change are you talking about?”

  “Don’t worry your pretty little head,” Preston said.

  “I need to know what’s going on.”

  “Do you?” Preston asked. “You know enough.” Preston looked at a clock on the wall. “I’m meeting Jerrod and Chad later this evening at the High Cotton.”

  “How are they bearing up?”

  “Well enough,” Preston said.

  “Dillon will go after Jerrod,” Sarah said.

  “That would be a mistake,” Preston said.

  And that was why she had allied with him years ago. Sarah nodded. “He should go after Chad. But Jerrod’s the obvious one.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” Preston said, as he got up.

  “Get Chad to do his part,” Sarah said.

  “I will.”

  “And your father?” she asked.

  He stared at her. “What about him?”

  “Everything is on track there?”

  “In terms of what?”

  And Sarah Briggs knew she’d misstepped slightly. She waved a dismissive hand. “As long as you’re in charge, we’re good to go, right?”

  “Right.” Preston’s voice was cold.

  Sarah Briggs stared at him, realizing that perhaps Preston was a step past a sociopath and dabbling in psychopath; that was a significant step and one that she would have to monitor carefully. There were born psychopaths and then there were those who were made. She had a feeling Preston was the former. She knew she was the latter, which had always given her an advantage.

  “Do you have what you promised?” he asked.

  “Yes.” She pulled a small vial out of her bag of many tricks. “Be very, very careful with it. Rubber gloves will protect you, but any of it on your skin could be fatal, even for someone like you, who is healthy. For someone who is in poor health it will definitely be deadly.”

  “It looks like a heart attack?” Preston said as he walked over then took the vial.

  “Yes. Unless a pathologist knows exactly what to look for, it’s undetectable. And my understanding is that the homicide investigator and the coroner down here are less than average. They once listed someone who drowned as dying of natural causes.”

  Preston laughed. “It will never get to that. I can squash any investigation in the Beaufort Sheriff’s department. I assume this is what caused Farrelli’s heart attack.” He went back to his seat behind what would be his father’s desk when he deigned to hold court in this part of his home state. He put the vial on the top of the desk.

  He looked at her, as if seeing her for the first time, and not like someone he’d just had sex with. “How do you know all this stuff?” Preston asked.

  “A woman has to have her secrets,” Sarah said, and knew right away that was the wrong answer.

  “You’re not an ordinary woman,” Preston said. He pointed at the vial. “I assume what’s in there is not found in the drug store. How did you get it?”

  “I made it.”

  “How did you know how to make it?”

  “Someone taught me.”

  Preston laughed once again. “You like your secrets, don’t you? And Briggs isn’t your real name. No doubt about that. And Sarah? Is that your real first name?”

  She didn’t respond.

  “Ah, yes, keep your secrets,” he said.

  “Can I ask you something?” Sarah said as she sat down at another desk, putting it between her and his desk and him. “Since we’re discussing secrets.”

  “What?”

  “What really happened with Greer Jenrette that night at the Institute?”

  Preston’s face was a blank slate. “We were hazing Greer and some half-chink, half-black named Wing and another rat, Brannigan, came in, waving a bayonet. Greer ended up with it in his chest. A tragic accident.”

  “But a convenient one for you,” she said. Her hand was in her purse, her fingers curled around the handle of a 9mm pistol, another ‘toy’ she carried .

  “Greer was my friend,” Preston said, with about as much emotion as discussing the weather on a nice day.

  “But he was also your rival,” Sarah said.

  Preston raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

  “You, and him, were the next generation. Of power brokers in this town. And you would have been partners in Sea Drift. Eventually.”

  Preston folded his hands together, fingers interlaced and leaned back in the chair. He regarded her with his head slightly cocked to the side. “Why do you care? Doesn’t it make things better for you that Greer Jenrette is dead?”

  “’Better’? It almost destroyed the deal. I’m surprised Mrs. Jenrette is still pursuing it, given her motivation was to give it to her grandson.” Sarah waited a moment. “There’s an aspect to this you are unaware of.”

  “And that is?”

  “Harry Brannigan.”

  “What about him?”

  “His father is looking for him.”

  Preston steepled his fingers. “That’s curious. How do you know this?”

  “Hard as it is for you to believe,” Sarah said, “I have access to information you don’t have.”

  “This have anything to do with you suddenly disappearing a few months back?” Preston asked.

  Sarah ignored the question. “His father is a dangerous man.”

  “My father is a powerful man,” Preston said. “Very powerful, which makes him very dangerous.”

  “There are different types of power,” she said. “And his father, named Horace Chase, is being helped by some other men, all formidable in their own fashion. Dave Riley is retired Special Forces, as is Chase. They also have a couple of local hoodlums named Gator and Kono helping them.”

  “So? Are they any closer to finding Harry than Mrs. Jenrette?”

  “No,” Sarah said.

  “So why are you telling me this?”

  “I’m keeping you informed,” Sarah said. “It’s what partners do.”

  “So what should we do about Mister Chase and Mister Riley?” Preston asked.

  Sarah smiled. “I’ve had a few run-ins with them. And once I found out about Harry Brannigan, I put out some feelers.”

  That got his attention. “And?”

  “I don’t think he’s as far away as people think.”

  “Do you know where he is?”

  “Not yet, but I’m working on it.”

  “Brannigan would be excellent leverage with Mrs. Jenrette,” Preston said.

  “I imagine he would. But also for Chase.”

  “Let me know if anything develops there,” Preston said. He stood up to leave.

  “Are we on the same page?” she asked.

  “’Page’?” Preston seemed amused. “It’s my script.”

  Sarah Briggs blinked in surprise. “And what script is that?”

  Preston smiled. “T
he one where you’re a subplot.”

  One more day, Sarah thought. One more day until the funds were released for the causeway by this nut-job’s father. One more day until she sold her slice of Daufuskie and got the money.

  “Perhaps you should give me a copy of the whole script,” Sarah said. “So I can make sure I’m up to speed.”

  The change in Preston was as abrupt as the one where he re-entered the room. “Who the fuck do you think you are, bitch?” He stood up, shoving his chair back against the wall. “We finish this tomorrow. You get paid. Then I never want to fucking see you again.”

  He walked out, leaving her alone in the Senator’s field office.

  * * *

  Dave Riley noted the rental car parked in front of Chase’s house as he drove his motorcycle down the long gravel driveway. He had the covert ops instinctual initial response that whoever had come in the car was bad news. Everything and everyone was bad news until proven otherwise. He stopped short of the car and dismounted. He checked his pistol in its holster, making sure the draw was clear. Then he circled around, disdaining the front door and walked to the back. Someone was seated out on the dock.

  A woman.

  Which could only mean trouble. Even from this distance Riley knew it wasn’t Sarah Briggs, which was a slight source of comfort. He walked across the dying lawn onto the wooden walkway. As he closed the distance he could make out more detail.

  She had silver hair that glinted in the waning sunlight, which pretty much silhouetted her and made it impossible for him to perceive more. She was faced away from the setting sun and toward him. As he approached within twenty meters she got to her feet. She was slightly taller than Riley’s height. Her shoulders were broad on an otherwise slender body and something about that triggered a memory deep in the recesses of Riley’s brain, but he couldn’t access it clearly.

  He knew he’d met her before.

  He kept walking. Her skin was as dark as Riley’s. She wore a sleeveless white blouse and tan pants. She had a purse in her hand, and the way she kept the other hand in it told Riley she was armed.

  He drew his pistol, action being the smarter part of discretion.

  Riley halted ten feet from her, squinting to see her with the setting sun in his eyes.