I dropped my bags on the sofa on the way through to the office and keyed in the name Governor Talbot into a search engine on the Internet.
I knew I shouldn’t care about why the Governor had to die, but if I was going to gain any insight into my next mark, I had to start with a connection to his last. And with father and son pitted against each other and me playing monkey-in-the-middle, I needed to know the rules.
After clicking on numerous sites and reading about the man, I knew that Talbot had an honorable service record—possibly too clean for a man of politics. His official site boasted of his success against street gangs and how the level of violence against innocents had taken a nose dive. It also bragged of cleaning up the streets by coming down hard on the drug trade, prostitutes, and the weapons trade.
It may not happen in our lifetime, but the impact it will have on future generations will be immeasurable.
This man had high ambitions, even for a politician. No one, let alone a man of office, was this righteous. Maybe the Russos had found the chink in his armor and threatened to expose it.
I kept reading and the image gained shape.
Organized crime must be severed one limb at a time until rendered a defenseless torso at which time the perfect opportunity to strike the heart will be exposed.
I opened another browser page and confirmed my suspicions. The amount of time I had spent with the Russos, I knew the Italian Mafia spread across borders. Families dictated local Dons, but collectively the Italians were more powerful than people realized. They weren’t the spotlight in a Hollywood movie. They were real people who got themselves involved with unsavory things. Yet at the same time, they held dignity among themselves. Their actions were justified and measured. They weren’t compulsive and guided by emotion. As a group they were referred to as The Commission. If need be, they will help each other, involving themselves in a brother’s affairs.
Flipping back to Talbot’s website, my stomach sank as I looked at the picture of the man who had also shared Behler’s table. He stood behind a podium, his one hand braced on the edge, the other raised in the air as the American flag rippled in a breeze behind him—the typical backdrop for an eager politician.
The mission Pietro had placed upon Behler was for the brotherhood. With its failure, Pietro risked exposure as a traitor, punishable by death. And if The Commission knew about him, it wouldn’t take them long and they’d know about me too.
NIAGARA FALLS, NEW YORK
“I CAME HOME AND THE CHAIN WAS ACROSS. How the hell does that happen when I’m not inside? That’s how I knew someone was here.” The tenant, Dean Holmstead, was in his early twenties. His hair was a dark brown and greased back. His eyes were large in proportion to the rest of his face.
Clinton left him standing there and went around the apartment sniffing in to find the source of a moldy cheese smell, even though he wasn’t quite sure if he wanted to.
“Whatcha doing there?” Holmstead followed Clinton. He carried a laptop tucked under his arm. “Careful what you touch.”
How could someone live like this? For a moment, Clinton experienced empathy for an assassin who had to resign himself to this dump.
“Did you see this person?” Clinton asked.
“No, like I said, he was inside, I was out.” The other hand went over to touch the laptop then dropped back to his side.
Clinton shared a look with his partner. She took over.
“Once you got inside did you see anything?”
“I was yelling for them to get out.” He turned to Wingham. “I didn’t even know it was a guy. I’d just assumed.”
You assumed correctly.
Clinton walked toward the window and noticed the third floor of County General in plain view. He counted across windows to what would have been the Governor’s room. The curtains were now closed. If one could see that clearly with the natural eye, it would be in complete focus with a scope.
Clinton put a hand to his jaw. His face was no longer smooth but could use a shave. The stubble made a noise against his rough hand as he rubbed over it. He turned toward the tenant. “You sure you never saw anything?”
“No, I swear to you.” An arm jolted out straight and pointed toward the hallway. “He went down the fire escape before I could get to him.”
“Huh.” Clinton faced back to the window, but he took in more than the view. His attention was on the window sill. He thought of fingerprints, but a man of the killer’s caliber wouldn’t make that mistake. Although, he did miss killing her the first time.
“Why do you say that like you don’t believe me?” Holmstead asked.
“Was anything stolen?”
The amped up tenant stepped toward Clinton. Wingham put a hand on his shoulder and pulled him back.
The apartment door opened and Agent Leone came through. “What’s going on in here?”
Apparently a party.
Leone came toward Clinton with large strides and little attention to the apartment as if attempting to win a speed walking competition.
“Oh shit,” Holmstead said. Everyone’s eyes went to him. He set his laptop down on a coffee table and looked at them as if to say, touch it and I’ll take on your guns.
“He moved my stuff.” He bounced in front of his media area, which consisted of a modest stand about two-feet high and a flat screen of about thirty-two inches. “Now it’s not center in the room.” He went to move it back and six hands went to him.
“Don’t touch anything,” Leone said. He addressed Wingham. “Get him out of here.”
Clinton watched as his partner first looked to him. The diplomatic side in her eyes said, I don’t report to you. Yet the fire in them said, Fuck you. To keep the peace, she moved toward the kid.
“Come on Gamer.” Wingham put a hand on his shoulder and directed him to the apartment hallway. Holmstead pulled out from under her hold and scooped his laptop on the way by.
With the door closed behind them, Leone and Clinton stared at each other.
A finger stabbed downward, accompanying Leone’s words, “You are to keep me informed.”
Clinton never said anything. He didn’t need to justify his stand. He never called Leone to advise they found the apartment, but that didn’t prove he wasn’t going to. Sometimes silence was more powerful than a raised voice.
“This case should belong to the FBI in the first damn place. A Governor of State is assassinated and you city apes are put in charge because of some connection.”
“City apes? You come down here in your pressed suit thinking everyone should bend at the knees with respect. Me, well, I don’t have the best knees. And I’m not wasting them on you.”
Leone cocked his head to the side; his eyes narrowed.
“Now a beautiful woman, that’s a different story.” Clinton looked back to the window sill. Most times he was eager for the next confrontation. Right now, he didn’t report to this man. In fact, he was given the lead by the Governor of New York.
“You know who the killer is,” Leone said.
“We have the leads we shared with you.”
“Bullshit! You know who did this followed the Governor from Michigan. Your friend might be friends with the Director, but you know what, he also has a boss.”
Clinton found it interesting that he referred to the New York Governor as a friend. Why would he make that assumption? Just because the case was assigned to local PD?
“You start sharing this case with me, or I’ll blow it wide open. Maybe even lock you up as an accessory after the fact.” Leone glared at Clinton, driving home the intent of his words. “We know about the meeting between the Governors. We know that they were together the night before the first assassination attempt. We also know they weren’t together for business reasons.”
“How do you—”
“See, we Special Agents, we know more
than we’re given credit for.” Leone pulled out on the lapels of his suit jacket.
“So you followed us.”
Leone laughed. “You have an answer for everything.”
Clinton didn’t say a word. His anger would only have jumbled the words that would spew from his mouth. As for Mr. Special Agent, there were things he didn’t know. Knowing about the dinner between the Governors could be explained by tailing him and Wingham, or tipping off the concierge at The Grandeur. And it probably wouldn’t even have taken that.
“You know who the killer is,” Leone repeated his earlier words still hoping for a bite.
“We need to get Crime Scene down here.” Clinton heard the agent exhale loudly and his footsteps move toward the door. It had opened before he reached it.
“What’s going on?” It was the junior agent. Leone never answered him but kept walking.
Clinton looked out the window, Leone’s question repeating in his mind, do you know who the killer is?
Clinton was pretty certain he did. The lady in the apartment had described Tux perfectly—attractive and filling out a jacket nicely. Coincidence? Possibly. But when they all started stacking up, it crossed from coincidence to evidence. Now he just had to find him before time ran out and Mr. Special Agent went running up the power ladder.
-
Chapter 45
OUTSKIRTS OF DETROIT, MICHIGAN
SUNDAY, JUNE 13TH, 5:45 PM
YVONNE TUCKED FURTHER INTO THE corner of the room. Her hands had been removed from her constraints, but she was too afraid to move. She felt so cold; she was aware of her bone structure. She rubbed at her arms to get the blood flowing. But the sinew-tearing screams continued to slice through her. They had stopped a while ago now, but they replayed in her mind as if still taking place.
Canary Man hadn’t been back, and she had the feeling he never would be. Just the way fear for his life had flashed through his eyes when he left her. He knew he wouldn’t be returning.
The handsome Italian was the one in charge—and deadly. That only meant one thing. They needed to get out of here before his anger turned on them. She had given a lot of thought to the entire situation in the hours that had passed. They weren’t told why they were kidnaped and held hostage, and it wasn’t like her dad was a wealthy man who could compensate with a ransom. What did these men want?
Tremors from being chilled ran through her again. She was so hungry; she found her eyes heavy with fatigue. At least, the pains in her stomach had stopped a while back.
She willed herself to move and felt faint as she rose to her feet. There was a window that ran the length of the room and was about two feet high. It had been painted black to keep out the light. But the problem was its location. It was at the top of the wall—a good five feet above her extended reach from the floor. The bed only provided a few feet of elevation. Even on it tiptoed she couldn’t reach the sill—she had tried. She even jumped to get a grip on it.
She scanned the room. There was nothing else that could lift her higher.
The door opened; the distinctive click as the seal gave way.
“Well, looky here.” A large man stood in her doorway for only an instant before lunging toward her.
Yvonne screamed, but he had his hand over her mouth before it became satisfied. The flat of his hand exposed her only means of possible escape. She shook her head. His hand moved with her and secured in place. But his hand slid down—just enough. She sunk her teeth into his flesh. She tasted the metallic flavor of blood. It didn’t stop her. She bit down harder until it filled her mouth.
The large man released her and threw her to the ground. He cradled his hand, swearing in another language. When he finished, he came to her. “You little bitch!”
The last thing she remembered after that was her eyes closing.
DETROIT, MICHIGAN
JUST OVER 11 HOURS UNTIL THE DEADLINE
I WAS IN MY HOME OFFICE. My hand rested on the mouse, and my attention was on the screen in front of me and the numerous browser windows. For once, I wasn’t really certain what my next step would be. All I knew was I wanted my family back, and if that meant going after them, freeing them, and running to the other end of the earth to hide, so be it.
While I wanted to kill Christian for personal reasons, I really didn’t owe anything to Pietro. I knew the thought process was harmful. I would be a targeted and sought after man for the rest of my life. This would also include my family.
With Max being at the hangar, I felt that’s definitely where Christian had all of them locked up. If freeing them resulted in a gun fight, so be it. I would make it look like Christian’s men had turned on him. It would appear as nothing more than a shift in the heads of the Russo Family. But I knew I couldn’t have it carried out that way. Pietro specified it was to look like an accident. If a firefight went down, it would reflect back on him as if he had cleaned house. He wanted this fight far from his front door.
First, I had some preparation to do. I brought up Google Earth and went to the area of the hangar. I hoped to study the structure and determine the best angles in and out. I would utilize my memories of the layout and go from there. A hand went to the .44 still in my holster. I wished I could shut off the other part of my mind that wanted to know what was in that file on Behler’s phone. Yet I had convinced myself that if I got the answer to that, I might be better able to know exactly what was going on here. Why had Christian wanted her dead? Was it simply a power move?
I knew who could help me.
-
Chapter 46
DETROIT, MICHIGAN
SUNDAY, JUNE 13TH, 7:00 PM
10 HOURS UNTIL THE DEADLINE
KEITH BUXTON WORKED OUT OF HIS TOWNHOUSE. He had security cameras and motion sensors rigged around the perimeter of his home. He once told me when people stepped within a thousand feet of his property, he knew about it.
I waved to the camera and kept moving to his back door. I didn’t even need to knock. The door slid open.
“Ray?” Keith Buxton was about four inches shy of six feet. He was the smartest person I knew and had the IQ of a genius. The only reason he was shut up in a suburban townhouse was because of poor life decisions. His inventions and advancements in technology were made while he was employed for a salaried wage. The patents for everything belonged to the companies he worked for. From what I knew he had retired early and was in his mid-fifties. He carried extra weight on his frame and was soft from inactivity. His hair had turned a dark gray, but his eyes sparkled with life. He wore small round glasses with silver frames. They were perched on the end of his nose; he looked over them.
“Keith.” I held up the chip I had replicated from Behler’s cell phone. “I need your help.”
A large grin filled his face. The expression balled his cheeks and had me thinking of Santa Claus. “Well, come on in then.” He went to take the chip from my fingers, but I pulled my hand back.
“It doesn’t leave my sight.”
Keith extended his hand for the chip again. This time I let him take it.
“It must be real important stuff on here.”
Despite Keith’s intelligence, he spoke like an average person making it hard for anyone to suspect what he housed in that skull of his.
“You keeping out of trouble these days?” Keith spoke as he led me through the tight confines of his home. Computers and monitors were everywhere, chirping and humming. It was surprising that he didn’t have cancer with all the invisible signals bouncing around the place.
I never answered his question, and I hoped he didn’t really want a response. But he stopped in front of a bank of computers and stared at me. He repeated his question. “You staying out of trouble?”
“You don’t want me to answer that.”
“But you have a family now, don’t you?” His eyes were no longer on me, but I sensed the
passing of judgment from his energy and the tone of his voice. He stuck the chip into the side of a laptop.
“Yeah, a girl and a boy.”
“A million dollar family.” Keith looked over his shoulder, a huge smile on his face, and he nodded for me to sit on a task chair.
Keith sat beside me in another one and pecked some keys on the keyboard. “How long has it been anyway?”
“Fifteen years.” My wavelength was on how long my affiliation with the Mafia dated back. Keith knew I was involved with them, yet he never knew to what extent. I don’t think he ever would have helped me if he knew I had been a killer.
“No, it hasn’t been that long.” He stared at me from over the rim of his glasses. “You last came to me, what ten years ago. You had an accounting business and were doing a software change. How’s that going?”
I forgot how many questions Keith asked. Maybe that was his excessive intelligence that hungered for facts. But today, he wouldn’t be getting any more than necessary. I disregarded his personal inquiry. “I need to access a locked file on there.” I nodded toward the screen. “It’s password protected.”
“And you forgot what it was?” Keith shook his head, a smile on his lips. I was starting to wonder if he had an unhappy expression.
Keith continued, “People do that all the time. That’s why I tell ’em to make notes on this sort of thing. And I’m talking about the old fashioned way—pen and paper.”
“Surprised you’d give that advice to anyone.” I returned the smile relieved he allowed me the pass.
Keith took his eyes off the monitor. “I know. Maybe my old age is changing me.”
“Ah, I doubt that.” I glanced around at all the banks of computers and monitors. The man didn’t have regular furniture save a sofa chair in the living room. Books were piled on a side table and a reading light was behind it. It looked like something you’d see in a movie. Keith had always been as much a reader as he was a computer hacker and inventor.
“Okay, here’s the coding for the file. I’m looking for—” Keith stopped talking, a finger pressed to the monitor and dragged downward. “There it is.”
Assassination of a Dignitary Page 19
