“This is your shot, kid. Your chance to be—”
“I’m not a kid. Stop calling me a kid.” Hensal uncrossed his arms. Both of his hands went to the edge of the sofa cushion and picked at the cording.
Clinton waved a hand of apology. Anything to sway this kid to speak.
Hensal’s eyes flitted to the sofa, back up to meet Clinton’s. “A guy approached me.”
Wingham took a seat beside Clinton who moved over to allow her room. Couches weren’t built like they used to be, or people weren’t; somehow they seemed shorter in length.
Hensal’s attention dodged to Wingham.
Clinton forced eye contact back on him. “Someone approached you?”
“I don’t want to go to jail.”
Clinton let out a loud exhale and rose from the couch. It was time for his partner to take over—the one with the more delicate touch.
Hensal watched Clinton get up and pace around the room. There were seconds of silence as he seemed to debate whether to proceed.
Wingham leaned forward, her elbows on her knees and clasped her hands. “Paul, we really could use your help. You would be bringing justice to the man who shot the Governor. You would be in newspapers and headlines around the world—”
“This kid doesn’t want to be famous,” Clinton interceded.
Hensal’s eyes iced over as he cast a glare at Clinton.
“All he wants is to get back to his simple life. No responsibilities.”
“Listen, so what, you don’t want to be famous. I’m not so sure I would want to be either. But I’d want to do the right thing.” Wingham gestured toward Hensal. “And I know you’re that type of person too.”
His face relaxed and he nodded.
Clinton respected his partner’s means of delivery. She held the soft touch while he didn’t possess that trait. Maybe for a brief stint as a child before the world impressed upon him its cruelties and how no amount of whining or heartbreak would make an ounce of difference.
“Can you tell us exactly what happened?” Wingham sat perched mid-cushion and stretched out her back for a few seconds.
“I was told to deliver food to room—” He seemed nervous that somehow he’d get the facts wrong and looked to Clinton. “Room 836. The guy in the room—”
“This guy? Can you describe him, Paul?” Wingham asked.
His eyes danced around her face. Clinton surmised he knew what the kid was thinking. She wasn’t hard to look at.
Hensal rubbed at his arms as if he caught a chill.
“He threatened you?” Wingham asked.
This was taking too much time. Clinton came around to the front of the couch and took a seat again. He leaned back into the sofa, crossed a leg and his arms. Wingham and he shared a look. She would continue with the questioning.
“What did he say to you? Did he have a gun?”
The rubbing of his arms intensified as if Hensal was trying to create a spark to start a fire with two sticks. He nodded.
“He threatened to shoot you if you didn’t cooperate?”
“Yes.”
“Had you seen this man before last night?”
“Never.”
“How long were you in room 836?” Wingham asked the question aware of the answer.
“Five minutes or so.”
“What did he want from you?”
“Just said to come back and deliver a food order to room 838 in about an hour. He said he would be calling it from room 836.”
“Did he tell you why he was doing this?”
Hensal cocked his head to the side. “I just figured it was some rich guy goofing around. He said there would be a big tip in it for me if I just did as he said.”
“Rich man?”
He pinched the tip of his nose, released it. “He wore a gold watch. I think it might have been a Rolex. I never did get my tip either.”
“So you never saw this man again?”
“When I came to deliver the food he was nowhere around so I let myself in.”
Wingham and Clinton shared another look.
“Do you remember anything else specific about him? A tattoo, a scar, the way he talked?” Wingham asked.
Hensal sat quietly for a few seconds. Clinton could almost hear his brain grinding away and picture smoke coming from his ears.
“He had an Italian accent.” He seemed proud with his second offering.
Enough of wasting time. “Lots of people have accents. What stood out about him?” Clinton asked.
Wingham sat back with a deep exhale and a flash of evil intent in her hazel eyes. Clinton didn’t care.
“You need to think of something that will help us.”
“Go do your job then! Stop looking at me to do it for you!” Hensal closed up; his arms crossed tightly.
Wingham flashed a look to her a partner as if to say, are you happy now? She stood up and took a seat beside Hensal. “Sometimes, he gets a little moody.”
“A little?” He gave her a sideways glance.
“He’s just a driven guy. He wants the answers; he wants the guilty to pay for their crimes.” Wingham softened her approach even further. “Governor Behler could die, Paul. Now we know that’s not your fault.” They matched eyes. “But you’re the only one, besides her, that might have had direct contact with her killer.”
His cheeks flushed as if he was suddenly aware of how close he sat to the female detective. With Wingham leaning forward, their knees were less than a foot apart. Clinton fought a smile. The kid was attracted to his partner.
“The fact you told us he had an Italian accent and a Rolex, those are great leads but do you have something else to give us?”
“Sorry, no.”
Wingham placed a hand on Hensal’s shoulder and rose. She thanked him for his help and insisted that he stay in the city in case they had any further questions. Clinton and she went into an adjoining room. She spoke first. “How does a bodyguard afford a Rolex?”
“I think I chose the wrong profession.”
“I ditto that. I wonder if Behler’s regular has one.” Wingham paused, tucked a strand of her red hair behind an ear. “Do you find it strange the guy had an Italian accent?”
“Why would I?”
“Mafia?”
Clinton laughed hard but stopped when he noticed her expression. She took her statement seriously. “Why would they concern themselves with a Governor? And because the guy has an Italian accent, it must be the mob?”
Wingham attempted to cover up the seriousness of her comment with a weak smile and a slap on his arm. “I wasn’t being serious. Dave, you didn’t think I meant that?”
Clinton knew her. Wingham only verbalized her theories when she felt they had merit.
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Chapter 25
NIAGARA FALLS, NEW YORK
SUNDAY, JUNE 13TH, 11:45 AM
JUST OVER 17 HOURS UNTIL THE DEADLINE
I HAD THE PERFECT PLACE PICKED OUT. It was a modest apartment building a few blocks away. It had an unobstructed line of sight which would afford me distance from the dead Governor and secure my getaway. I had moved quickly through the streets to make it to this point, metaphorically one eye ahead and one behind.
The energy that came from the government agent at the hospital didn’t give me any sort of warm reassurance. He suspected the hint of a threat with my approach yet not enough to warrant subjecting me to hours of interrogation.
Thank God for that.
However, I still didn’t trust that he wouldn’t relocate the Governor based on a gut instinct. I needed to act quickly. My heart wrenched as if my voodoo replica had been stabbed by a sword.
Yvonne.
I stood outside the apartment building looking up. Based on distance, trajectory, and the velocity of the bullet, I needed to be o
n at least the fifth floor. I had estimated the distance from here to the hospital based on the length of my stride, which I knew was approximately three feet. And accounting for the fact there was little to no breeze today it would make the shot an easy one.
The front door opened and a woman wearing a gray-pleated skirt and a black blouse came out. She held a Bible clutched in her hands as if relying on it to provide meaning and direction to her life. I remembered holding onto my cell phone in the same manner—as if it would somehow subdue the reality of my living nightmare.
She scanned me from my shoes to my head, back to the briefcase. Her foot stayed braced in the door as she held it open. “Jehovah’s Witness?”
Her comment made me speechless. My mission was hardly one of preaching and teaching, it was one of reconciliation on man’s terms.
“You guys always find your way into locked buildings.” She nudged her foot causing the door to open wider. She nodded me inside the building and smiled. “God’s way is the only way. Good day to you.”
“Good day.” The words came out in an automatic reply. I was still in shock. There were always ways into a secured building, but this had been a stroke of luck.
By the time I recovered from the ease of access to the building, the woman had made her way down the street a good fifty feet. A smile formed on my lips. Now it was time to do what I had come for. And I doubted God would be happy about it.
CLINTON CALLED OUT HIS PARTNER. “You were serious when you said the Mafia.”
Her lips contorted. “Kind of.” She revised her answer to insert more conviction. “Yeah, I was. I mean, why not? They’re still around.”
Clinton refused to let his amusement show.
“I know it sounds crazy.” A hand went to her hip. “It sounds crazy to me.”
“And it’s quite the leap.”
“And it’s quite the leap.” She reiterated his words. “But, it is a possibility. Most bodyguards don’t make enough money to afford Rolexes. And they most certainly don’t run away when their detail has been shot.”
“Unless they’re the one who did it.”
“Exactly. And it seems he wanted Paul to discover the Governor.”
“Only thing is, though, the Mafia doesn’t make mistakes. And normally the body’s never found,” Clinton said.
Her head cocked to the side. “They’re still people. There are still too many questions and not enough answers.”
With her statement, Clinton was renewed with zealous determination to get the score settled—one answer to every question.
“And we still don’t know anything about Tux.”
Clinton heard her words, but his mind was elsewhere. They needed to find out why the Governor was here in the first place. If they could get the answer to that, they’d be on their way to solving this thing.
-
Chapter 26
UNKNOWN LOCATION
SUNDAY, JUNE 13TH, 11:45 AM
THE TEARS HAD DRIED UP HOURS AGO. Brenda’s eyes were now itchy and sore, the back of them tender as if they were bruised. Light was seeping through the cloth they had covering her eyes. The sun must have been up and illuminating this darkened hell hole she had been stashed in.
She hadn’t heard Yvonne for a while and feared for her daughter’s safety. Her heart burned with maternal anxiety wondering if both of her children were alive. Instinct told her they were. They had to be.
She could hear men walking. She knew from the heavy stride and the impact on the concrete as they moved, the one man possibly wore a pair of safety boots. The other man’s footfalls made relatively little noise so he either wore loafers or running shoes.
She had counted a total of three men. The one who also whistled wore the boots. Based on the projection of his voice as he’d approached her, he was of average height and build. One man had a larger build and exuded a presence that could be felt from a distance. And the third man hadn’t come to see her since she had been here but she heard his voice in the hallway. He held a thick Italian accent and, by the way, his energy read she took it that he was in charge. She also pegged him as the man who had been in her bedroom.
His steps made a soft tap-tap noise. It was hard to pinpoint the type of footwear, but it sounded like a thin leather sole.
Over the last few hours, she replayed all that she could remember and fought for some sort of normality in all of it. She had long ago let go of the premise it was her imagination and a bad dream. A shiver ran through her. In dreams, you never felt cold. No, this was one hell of a reality.
She wanted to wrap her arms around herself, but both wrists were bound to the arms of the wooden chair she sat in. Her legs ached from being stationary and had long ago recovered from the pins and needles sensation. Her rear end was numb.
She didn’t remember much before waking up here. Her head hurt from the crying, and from the intense stress and pressure she put upon herself to piece it all together. And all she could remember was the ringing of a distant phone and the presence of a man who smelled of expensive cologne—the same man from her room with the tap-tap shoes.
She’d listen when the men talked and walked. In her mental picture, she was in a room with some sort of opening to the outside. Based on the increase of light, it wasn’t a four walled room without an aperture.
The men’s voices dulled, yet she didn’t feel they were far away, maybe even just outside the area where they kept her. She knew there was a door to the room as it would creak lightly when it was opened.
But it didn’t seem like a normal hallway. It seemed cavernous as their voices were mostly absorbed. For this reason, she had concluded the building they were in was large. She also surmised they were somewhere in the country as the smell of manure would periodically creep into her sinus cavities.
She found it fascinating how with her vision taken away, her other senses were piqued and more attuned. She would have preferred not to ever experience their full capability. All she wanted more than anything was to be home again with her family, for all of them to be safe and secure. Where was Ray? Had they killed him?
She didn’t care if he cheated on her anymore. They would work their way through this. There were worse things in life, and she was afraid they might face the reality of that before they had a chance at reconciliation.
The straps on her wrists bit into her flesh as she attempted yet again to waggle free of her constraints. She thought of her little boy and could picture him huddled and afraid, scared and alone. But her worst fears came out of concern for her daughter. Yvonne portrayed herself as tough and indestructible, yet Brenda knew her daughter wasn’t. It was simply a front she would erect. Her daughter was fragile and vulnerable.
More chills went through Brenda’s body. She needed to get her family out of here. She see-sawed her arms back and forth and howled like a wounded animal when she felt them slice through her flesh. She stopped moving and sat there crying without tears.
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Chapter 27
NIAGARA FALLS, NEW YORK
SUNDAY, JUNE 13TH, 12 NOON
17 HOURS UNTIL THE DEADLINE
APARTMENT 516 WOULD MAKE THE perfect location for setting up, but when I approached the door, I heard a screaming baby. I would have to settle for a less than ideal place—the neighboring apartment, 514. It was silent, but it could simply mean the occupants were sleeping.
The knocks were heavy, but after three of them, there was no answer. I proceeded with caution, standing tight to the door as I pulled out my pick, which worked flawlessly for unlocking dead bolts. When I heard a door close down the hallway, I stopped moving and stepped back, pretending I had knocked and waited for an answer. I couldn’t see anyone; it sounded like they headed the opposite way. I moved back in close to the door. I felt the tumblers give way with a definitive click and slowly turned the handle.
One benefit to the mo
dern age and of sticking to one’s own personal matters, with little or no regard for your neighbor, was actually an advantage in some instances. People were less likely to pry their nose into what didn’t directly relate to or concern them. If someone had noticed me picking the lock, through a peephole from the other side of the hallway, it was unlikely they’d even call the police. Of course, I hated the uncertainty of not knowing.
I opened the door with purpose as if I was an invited guest who had a copy of the key. Once inside I moved slowly; my ears strained for any indication the tenant was sleeping. I heard nothing. The place was empty.
Whoever did live here, though, placed no importance on keeping the place up. The kitchen was to the immediate right and dirty dishes lined the counters along with takeout containers and pizza boxes. A couple of empty beer boxes sat on the linoleum floor while the drained bottles were scattered randomly around the apartment.
The place definitely belonged to a guy. No woman would ever live like this no matter how creative a mind she had. At a point long before now necessity would have forced her hand to tidy and clean. I inhaled with disgust as the mingled smells, similar to a gym locker and days-old pizza, hit my nose.
All these assessments were computed in fractions of time. My goal was to get this assassination over with. The window I would set up in was in the living area straight across from the apartment’s main door. I relocked the door and slid the chain across and made my way to the window.
Clothes were strewn on the couch and coffee table. I propped open the window, first flicking beer bottle caps out of the sill and moving a coffee mug which had some sort of science project brewing in the bottom of it. This place was a hazardous material den.
I kicked a pile of magazines that were stacked on the floor and pushed the television stand to the right to make more room. I stood in the window and took a deep breath. I could see the hospital with a clear, unrestricted view without the scope.
I moved quickly to assemble the rifle. For the final touch, I attached the suppressor to the barrel and readied myself. Looking through the scope, I could see her clearly. The Governor’s head was wrapped in white bandages. A government agent stood beside her, but I still had a clear shot. It seemed crazy to me that for a woman of her station, who had just faced the bullet of an assassination attempt, had open curtains.
Assassination of a Dignitary Page 12
