Bolt

by Bryan Cassiday

  “Are you too dense to recognize sarcasm when you hear it?”

  “Why would you advise one of your models to go to bed with someone on a date?”

  “I would never do that. I arrange meetings for my models and actresses with professionals who can boost their careers. That’s what talent managers do. If the meetings go well and they hit it off and want to go to bed with each other, that’s up to them—and it’s completely consensual.”

  “That’s not how I hear it.”

  “You hear wrong. You know what I think?”

  “No.”

  “I think you’re making this bullshit up because you can’t get a girl and you’re taking out your jealousy on me.”

  “You’re doing something under the table, and the chickens are coming home to roost. And it’s scaring the hell out of you.”

  Lyndon advanced on Brody. “I got a stone bastard for a lawyer. Don’t even think about slandering my good name. You tell anyone this bullshit you’re spouting, you’re gonna rue that day, buddy, all the way to the poorhouse.”

  “I don’t have to say a thing about you to anyone. You’re making your own bed, and you’re gonna have to lie in it. It’s only a matter of time.”

  “Watch yourself. I could hire another rent-a-cop easy as pie. They’re a dime a dozen in these parts.”

  “Deirdre hired me. You didn’t.”

  “I’ll tell her to fire you.”

  “I’m going outside to check the perimeter with Victor,” said Brody, and exited through the French window.

  Standing under the percolating moonlight in the backyard trying to ascertain where the archer had entered the property, Brody felt his smartphone vibrate in his trouser pocket. He took the call.

  “Hello,” he said.

  “Caligula,” hissed the caller.

  “What?”

  “Caligula.”

  Brody read the caller ID. It said Private.

  “Who is this?” said Brody.

  “Caligula,” whispered the caller, and hung up.

  Brody put away his cell, wondering who had just called. The only Caligula he knew was the one in the Elysian Fields chat room. And none of the members in the chat group knew each other’s name. So how could Caligula have just called him? There was no way the guy could have found out his real name. As far as the chat-room members knew, Brody’s name was Myshkin, and this wasn’t Myshkin’s phone number.

  So who had just called him? Brody wondered. And what was the point? To prove that somebody in the chat room knew Brody’s real identity? So what? It was an invasion of privacy, but other than that what was the caller trying to prove? And why didn’t he say anything other than Caligula?

  It was a message to him, decided Brody. What did the message mean? Did it mean the guy knew who Brody was and could destroy Brody’s career by publicizing Brody’s epilepsy? If prospective clients knew Brody had epilepsy, they would shy away from him.

  What did Caligula get out of issuing threats? Was the guy going to start demanding money to keep quiet about Brody’s condition? Brody’s imagination was working overtime trying to figure out Caligula’s intentions. Maybe that was exactly what Caligula wanted—to cause Brody to imagine the worst scenario, decided Brody.

  Brody would just have to wait and see what Caligula did next. Was the guy observing him even now? Brody wondered. What if Caligula was the archer? Had the guy doubled back and was preparing to mount another attack against the Foxes?

  It was downright creepy, Brody decided. He had the eerie feeling somebody was watching him and shivered.

  Chapter 88

  Deirdre entered Valerie’s bedroom to comfort her. Valerie remained unnerved about the night’s events.

  “I don’t understand why they’re trying to kill me,” said Valerie, walking over to her vanity.

  “It’s been a bad night,” said Deirdre. “That’s all, honey. Things will be better tomorrow.”

  “They didn’t get me this time so they’ll try again tomorrow. Or the next day.”

  “This isn’t about you, dear.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Don’t take this personally.”

  “How can I not take my death personally?”

  Valerie combed her hair absently in the mirror.

  “Why are you obsessed with death?” said Deirdre. “You’re only a teenager.”

  “If somebody was trying to kill you, you’d be obsessed with death, too.”

  “It’s not you they want to kill—or any of us,” she added hastily. “They just want Dad’s blue suitcase.”

  “You’re wrong. It’s all about me. They’re trying to kill me.”

  Deirdre noticed several lines of white powder on the small glass-topped table near Valerie’s headboard. She approached the table to inspect the powder close up. A small plastic straw lay near the lines.

  “What is this powder on your table?” said Deirdre.

  Valerie sneaked a glance at the reflection of the table in her mirror. “Baby powder.”

  “It doesn’t look like baby powder.”

  Deirdre pinched a smidgen of the white powder between her thumb and forefinger, rubbed it between her fingers, brought it to her face, and sniffed it.

  “I know what this is,” she said, tasting it.

  “Why do you care? Do you care about me at all?”

  “Of course, I care about you,” said Deirdre, brushing the powder off her fingers onto the tabletop.

  Valerie sniffled. “I’ve been doing that stuff for a year. If you cared what I was doing, you would’ve noticed before now.”

  Deirdre picked up on white powder under Valerie’s nose in the mirror’s reflection.

  “Snorting coke isn’t gonna relieve your stress, Val. It’s gonna make it worse.”

  “What do you care?”

  “I do care. What do you mean, I don’t care? Why do you keep saying that?”

  “Because it’s true.”

  “Nobody cares. Nobody cares about anything,” said Valerie, flinging her pink comb across the room.

  “What’s wrong with you?”

  “I got so much blow it’ll last me for the rest of my life,” said Valerie, and giggled.

  “You’re losing it, Val. Are you OD’ing? Do you want me to call paramedics?” said Deirdre, approaching her.

  Valerie spun away from her into the center of the bedroom.

  “Don’t you understand?” she said, terrified. “They’re trying to kill me.”

  “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

  “They want me dead.”

  “The drugs are screwing up your head.”

  “Just the opposite. They help me see the truth. They clarify my thoughts and perceptions. You’re all trying to kill me. You want me dead. The blow has opened my eyes to your plots against me.”

  She raced to her bed, plunked down on it, grabbed the straw, bowed over the table, and snorted a line of coke.

  “You’ve had enough of that junk,” said Deirdre.

  “What do you care?” said Valerie, sniffing the blow and raising her head, her eyes watery.

  She wiped her nostrils with the back of her hand.

  “Don’t do that anymore,” said Deirdre, her face turning red.

  “You’re jealous because I feel good now. Is that why you want to kill me? Because you’re jealous?” said Valerie, and laughed at the thought.

  “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

  “Zero. Zero. Zero,” said Valerie, continuing to laugh.

  “What? Talk sense.”

  “You don’t know anything. This is the best blow.”

  “You’ve got to clear your head out.”

  Deirdre swiped the remaining coke lines off the tabletop with the side of her arm, spreading the powder on the floor.

  “Oh, you . . . bad,” said Valerie from her bed, pulling a face and jabbing her forefinger at Deirdre. Valerie laughed. “There’s more where that came from.”

  “Get ahold of yours
elf.”

  Chapter 89

  Brody conducted a recce of the property and met Victor near the gardening shed in the backyard.

  “Did you see any feds around here?” said Brody.

  “Feds? No way,” said Victor.

  “Something’s not right,” said Brody, surveying the Foxes’ property.

  “Are there supposed to be feds here?”

  “They’re supposed to be guarding the property. What about unmarked vans? Did you notice any vans parked on the street that could contain a secret team of feds monitoring the property?”

  “I didn’t notice any vans.”

  “Then where are they hiding?”

  “Would they be hiding in neighbors’ houses?”

  “I doubt it. They’re supposed to be operating in secret. If they were hiding in neighbors’ houses, they’d have to announce their presence to the owners of the houses.”

  “You know feds. They can do whatever they want. The rest of us mere mortals—”

  “Did you do a recce of the entire property?”

  “With a fine-tooth comb. I didn’t see any trace of a fed.”

  Where were Peltz’s feds that were supposed to be guarding the house? wondered Brody angrily. This was at least the second or third time they had blown their assignment. Intruders had entered the property unchallenged over and over again.

  Champing at the bit to give Peltz a piece of his mind, Brody dug his iPhone out of his trouser pocket and punched out Peltz’s number, even though Peltz had advised him not to call him. This was an emergency, decided Brody. Somebody could’ve gotten killed tonight due to Peltz’s feds’ lapse in their duty.

  The phone rang six times.

  Nobody picked up.

  Frustrated, Brody terminated the call. The guy was in radio-silence mode again. Peltz should fire these feds he had on patrol here and assign a new team to the job. These guys were bunglers. They were lucky somebody hadn’t got killed tonight.

  Fuming, Brody put away his cell phone.

  A bloodcurdling scream issuing from the house raised the hackles on the back of his neck. He withdrew his SIG from his shoulder holster and burst into the living room.

  Gun in hand, standing in the middle of the living room, he didn’t see anyone. He stole into the hallway, listening for the sounds of voices. He wondered where Deirdre was. Unable to locate anyone downstairs, he climbed the staircase, on the alert.

  He heard sobbing in one of the bedrooms.

  Careful not to make a sound, gun raised to his waist, he crept to the doorway and peeked inside.

  Valerie was slumped on her bed sobbing. Deirdre was standing over her. She turned to the doorway to see Brody, registering surprise as she saw his gun out.

  Valerie looked up and saw him, too, terrified at his drawn pistol.

  “What happened?” said Brody. “I heard a scream.”

  Deirdre approached him, as he lowered his weapon and entered the room.

  “It was Valerie. She’s taking too much cocaine,” she said, her face creased with worry. “She’s acting paranoid. That gun isn’t helping matters.”

  Brody holstered his SIG.

  “She has reason to be scared,” he said. “Somebody just fired a crossbow at us. It’s not paranoia when you get shot at with a crossbow.”

  “She thinks she’s the target. She also accused me of trying to poison her.”

  “Why does she think she’s the target?”

  Deirdre shook her head in puzzlement. “I think she’s paranoid.”

  “Did you know she has a habit?”

  “No.”

  “Is she OD’ing?”

  “How can I tell?” said Deirdre in anguish.

  “I’m no expert on drugs.”

  “She doesn’t look good.”

  “Do you want me to call paramedics?”

  “No,” said Lyndon, entering the room. “This’ll be all over the news, if you call 911.”

  “Why are you so afraid of publicity?” said Brody.

  “Because I know what it can do to a career. I manage talent. This is my chops, so I have to know how publicity affects careers. And believe me, it affects them a lot.”

  “What do we do?” said Deirdre.

  “Don’t let her have any more of that stuff,” said Lyndon, casting around the room for cocaine. “It doesn’t stay in the system long. It’ll clear out of her soon, and she’ll be OK.”

  “Did you know she was doing this?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want paramedics?” said Brody.

  “Positive,” said Lyndon. “We’ll handle this ourselves.”

  “I want more blow,” said Valerie.

  “Look at yourself. You’re a mess. You can’t have anymore.”

  “Why not? You use it.”

  “You don’t want to end up in an emergency room, do you?”

  “Then stop trying to poison me.”

  “Nobody’s poisoning anybody. Get your head straight.”

  Brody’s smartphone vibrated in his trouser pocket. He took the call.

  It was Peltz.

  Chapter 90

  Brody retreated into the hallway, mobile in hand. He didn’t want anyone to hear his conversation.

  “Where have you been?” demanded Brody, simmering with rage.

  “Here,” said Peltz.

  “Deirdre’s house was attacked again a few moments ago, and your incompetent bottom-feeders did nothing to stop the attacker. You need to fire those bums and hire new talent.”

  “Never mind that.”

  “Never mind that? Somebody could’ve gotten killed.”

  “We intercepted chatter that the conspirators will make their move to remove the president from office any day now—maybe even today. Get those top-secret documents that will expose the cabal in the FBI. We need those docs now. We have no time to waste.”

  “Lyndon lost the suitcase that contains the docs—”

  “No excuses,” Peltz cut in.

  “Do those docs mean more to you than human life—?”

  Peltz terminated the call.

  Brody was hopping mad. There was no reasoning with the guy.

  Distraught, Deirdre wandered into the hallway.

  Brody decided now was as good a time as any to tell her what Terri had confided in him.

  “I have bad news for you,” he said.

  “It couldn’t be much worse than what’s already happened.”

  Brody motioned for her to follow him out of earshot of Lyndon. They moved away from Valerie’s bedroom.

  “An actress managed by Lyndon claims he’s running an escort service with models he manages,” he said.

  “How do you know she’s telling the truth?”

  “Why would she lie?”

  “Do you have any proof?”

  “She didn’t give me any.”

  “Bring me proof. That’s why I hired you.” She paused. “Who is this actress?”

  “I don’t want to name names until I’ve verified her accusations. Lyndon might let her go if he found out her name.”

  “You’re not painting a very pretty picture of him.”

  “You said you wanted to know the truth about him.”

  “I do, but . . .”

  “No matter how awful.”

  She nodded yes, unsmiling.

  “Do you and Lyndon do blow?” said Brody.

  Deirdre shot him a look of resentment. “What we do in our spare time is none of your business.”

  “The reason I ask is because Valerie mentioned she knew Lyndon snorted blow.”

  “Why is this your business?” She lowered her voice. “I hired you to find out if Lyndon’s cheating on me. Running an escort service isn’t the same as cheating.”

  “It would be against the law if he’s pimping the models he represents.”

  “You have no proof of any of this.”

  “If you want my opinion, I believe you should tell the cops you were attacked tonight by
that archer.”

  “You heard Lyndon. He doesn’t want publicity.”

  Brody shrugged. “It’s your life. If you want to risk your neck, it’s up to you. Luckily, Victor was here as your bodyguard. He scared the guy off with the bullet he fired at him, or things could’ve been worse.”

  “Is that psycho archer gone?”

  “Me and Victor checked the grounds. No sign of anyone.”

  “That’s a relief.”

  “He’s gonna come back because he didn’t get what he came for.”

  “Is he the nut that killed Rakowski?”

  “Could be. Different MO. But it could be the same guy.”

  “We’ve had enough excitement for tonight.”

  Brody made for the stairs.

  “Where are you going?” said Deirdre.

  “To talk to that actress again to see if she can give me any proof,” said Brody, descending the staircase.

  Chapter 91

  Gaetano was holding a wake for his mother Maria in the local Roman Catholic church nearest his hacienda. Standing beside the open casket with his son Juan, both of them dressed in black suits and somber ties, they watched the procession of family friends wend its way by the casket to pay their respects to her in the nave in front of the oaken pews.

  Javier Ramirez sat in his wheelchair beside the casket and gazed down morosely at his wife, who was dressed in a white dress with her hands clasped over her stomach, her eyes closed, her face waxen. Gaetano’s wife Carmen stood at Javier’s side, wearing a black crepe dress. Her eyes red, she sobbed into a handkerchief as she gazed at Maria.

  “She looks like she’s sleeping,” said Juan.

  “Gramps says that’s the dress Mama wore when she married him,” said Gaetano.

  Juan pulled his starched white collar away from his neck. “This tie’s choking me.”

  “It won’t be much longer. We’re about to leave. Be patient, my son.”

  Juan grimaced, but stopped tugging at his collar, his face pink.

  “I’m hungry,” he said.

  “We’ll eat soon.”

  “I feel like potato chips.”

  From his wheelchair Javier muttered incomprehensibly at his wife.

  The incense burning at the altar in the chancel calmed his nerves, decided Gaetano. He was grateful to the parish priest for allowing him to hold Maria’s wake in the church.