Brooks-Lotello Collection
Page 33
“Same answer. Just as far as Trotter may have permitted. I said ‘may.’”
Open palms facing out, Lotello raised his hands in front of his face as if to deflect a blow.
“Okay, I surrender, Your Honor. Just two more questions, and I’ll let you go inside and hit the showers. How far do you really think you can go with this officer of the court business?”
Brooks stopped just outside his door. Hands on his quads again. Breathing deeply. “Pretty far, actually. Thomas was waging war on the judicial system of our country. To me, that was intolerable. Unacceptable. I believe it would’ve been fair for me to advocate—as we have been hypothesizing that I did—a cover-up of Hirschfeld’s understandable compromises and the closing of ranks by all nine Justices to send a loud and clear message to all who might think to unduly influence our courts.”
“Would you have been as quick to do that if you thought the nine to zero result actually would have changed the result the Court was otherwise going to reach?”
“That didn’t seem to be the case, but I would have done it even then because the Court, knowing the real result, could always have set aside its decision after the girl was rescued.”
“Last question. What if no deal was reached and you believed the Court were going to uphold the 28th Amendment?”
“Again hypothetically, I would have gone to the Chief Justice and asked him to solicit his colleagues to invalidate the 28th Amendment in order to save the girl, and then set aside the decision and take the real vote after she was safe.”
“Do you think they would have done that?”
“Don’t know. I would like to think so, but let’s hope we never have to find out the answer to a question like that. However, I do think the nine to zero vote suggests the answer to your question—and perhaps suggests to those who believe they can manipulate the Court that they may have a tougher time of that than expected.”
Looking at the time on his phone, this was the longest power walk Brooks could ever recall—two laps through the neighborhood no less—yet it seemed like nothing. And he had also learned two things from the experience. First, a good distraction, such as Lotello had provided, is invaluable. Better than his headsets and music. He wasn’t even panting any longer. Second, he had gained a new appreciation for his delightfully damp sweatsuit.
CHAPTER 126
Wednesday, May 14, 5:00 pm
LOTELLO USUALLY GAVE Madison her weekly allowance on Sundays, but they had been pretty busy this past weekend. He had just handed it to her. She counted it out as she always did. Not that it was ever the wrong amount. It was just the principle of the matter.
She finished counting. And frowned. “Dad?”
“Yeah? What’s that look, princess? Something wrong?”
“Haven’t you given me two dollars less than you’re supposed to?”
“Oh yeah. Right. Didn’t I already mention that to you?”
“I don’t think so. Dad?”
“Well, when the kidnappers had Cassie, you kept giving me a bad time for not letting you be more involved in what was going on?”
“So?”
“And you remember how I told you after we got Cassie home that we had worked that out through an escrow company?”
“I remember. Spooky.”
“Well, the escrow company charged two fees for their services. The opening fee, paid when we first hired them was two dollars. That was paid by me when I was at the escrow company’s office. The final fee, paid at the end, after Cassie was returned, was a bit more. That was paid by Cassie’s family.
“Since I knew how much you wanted to help Cassie, I thought you might want to pay the first fee, the initial two dollars, that cemented the deal and made possible Cassie’s release. So, I paid the two dollars for you, as a loan, interest-free, and just now subtracted it from your allowance to pay myself back. I guess I forgot to mention it.”
She looked at her dad, gave him a big hug, and yelled. “Dad, that was so cool!”
She let go and looked at him with a puzzled expression.
“What?”
“Cassie and I don’t have any secrets, Dad. But somehow I don’t think I should tell her about this. I want to share this with her so much, but it feels like it would be the wrong thing to do. Like I was bragging or like I was telling her she owed me. What do you think?”
“I think that’s a pretty thoughtful analysis, princess.”
“Yeah, I understand. Besides, it’s not necessary. Cassie and I are already best friends forever. Dad?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think I can tell Leah?”
“I think that might be okay.”
CHAPTER 127
Wednesday, May 14, 6:30 pm
“HI POPPY, how was your day?”
“Great, baby. What about yours?”
“All good. I had my first golf workouts this morning and this afternoon. I crushed it. Coach said I looked like I never missed a day. Said he couldn’t tell I had the flu at all. Of course, I didn’t tell him I didn’t.”
“I believe we can let that just be our family’s little secret.”
“And Madison and her parents. And the doctor because she had to give me an exam.”
“Right. And just those others.”
“Hey, guess what, Poppy?”
“Tell me.”
“I get to play in a regional juniors’s tournament this Saturday. Dad’s going to caddy for me. Mom’s coming, too. And Madison. Can you and Nanny come?”
“We wouldn’t miss it, baby.”
“Great! Love you, Poppy. Talk to you tomorrow.”
EPILOGUE
One Month Later
CASSIE SPOTTED the strange email in her inbox. Strange because she didn’t recognize the sender’s handle, or even the domain name. She figured it was probably just spam. But when she saw “Brat” in the preview window, she held her breath and opened it.
Dear Brat,
Hope you’re well.
I’m back home. If one can really think of my whereabouts as home. At least it’s safe. I’m safe. Even though I know they’re looking for me. My wounds, physical and emotional, are slowly healing.
And I’ve had time to think. About those who are and are not my real friends. In that regard, I do have some unfinished business to take care of. And I will.
You and your family have nothing (more?) to fear from me. I want you to know I don’t blame you or them for what happened. You and they had every right to do what you did. If the tables were turned, I would have done everything I could too.
I’ll be watching (from a good distance?) to see how you are faring on the fairways.
Be safe.
Your (not so?) secret admirer,
Frank(enstein)
P.S. Think we might ever be able to get in that round of golf together?
The Puppet Master is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Except as otherwise noted in the Author’s Note, any resemblance to actual events or people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2019 by Ronald S. Barak
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be produced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning, or by any other information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and in certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Printed and published in the United States of America by:
Los Angeles, California
www.ganderhouse.com
Hardcover ISBN: 978-1-7327204-0-4
Trade Paperback ISBN: 978-1-7327204-1-1
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-7327204-2-8
Audiobook ISBN: 978-1-7327204-3-5
First Edition
Publisher’s Cataloging-In-Publication Data
(
Prepared by The Donohue Group, Inc.)
Names: Barak, Ronald S.
Title: The puppet master / Ronald S. Barak.
Description: First edition. | Los Angeles, California : Gander House Publishers, [2019] | Series: A
Brooks/Lotello thriller; [2]
Identifiers: ISBN 9781732720404 (hardback) | ISBN 9781732720411 (paperback) | ISBN
9781732720428 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Serial murders–United States–
Fiction. | Political corruption–United States–Fiction. | Detectives–United States–Fiction. | Judges–United States–Fiction. | LCGFT: Legal
fiction (Literature) | Thrillers (Fiction)
Classification: LCC PS3602.A73 P96 2019 (print) | LCC PS3602.A73 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6–dc23
In Memory of
EILEEN LONERGAN
To my beautiful and wonderful Goose
The man who pardons easily,
courts injury
—CORNEILLE
Happiness is a butterfly, which when pursued,
is always just beyond your grasp,
but if you will sit down quietly,
may alight upon you.
—HAWTHORNE
Solitude, seeming a sanctuary, proves a grave, a sepulcher in which the living lie, where all good qualities grow sick and die.
—COWPER
PROLOGUE
Undated
HE DIDN’T THINK HE was a bad person. But he acknowledged how that could be open to debate. Others would disagree. Maybe it all came down to the definition of bad.
The window shades were drawn. What scant light there was came from a single lamp sitting on the desk.
It was quiet. Just the two of them. In the one room. He wondered how the prowler had overlooked him. Sitting right there at the desk. His desk. It is my desk, damn it. In my room. Looking at my computer. Right here. The words I had chosen to read right here. On my computer. How could this trespasser be so brazen? So impudent?
A lesson needed to be taught. And he would be the teacher. Starting right here. Right now.
Without warning, the man stood and charged the intruder. Startled, certainly now aware of the man’s presence, if he hadn’t been before, his adversary seemed surprised and hurriedly sought a way out. Realizing he had no avenue of escape, the interloper turned and confronted the man. Mano a mano.
They stared at one another. The man edged forward, backing his foe into the corner. He perched on one leg, elevating the other, à la the black belt expert that he was. Once was. Poised like a rattlesnake. Ready to strike.
Trapped, sensing the misfortune about to find its mark, the invader made one last desperate attempt to scurry away beyond the man’s reach. But it was too late. The blow squarely found its target. No second assault would be necessary.
These insufferable parasites just don’t get it. There’s a price to be paid. A lesson to be learned. Right from wrong. I will teach them. Someone has to. As often as it takes.
The man bent down, grasped the smashed cockroach between his thumb and forefinger, and deposited it into the wastebasket. His wastebasket.
Not everyone would agree. No. But he didn’t think he was a bad person. Not at all. He was just … willing to do whatever it took.
* * *
THE WASHINGTON, D.C., SUPERIOR Court system consisted of 117 sitting trial court judges. Their primary task was to assure an impartial administration of justice. The kind that was supposed to be at the heart of every civilized society. Fairness and balance were the cornerstones of impartiality.
In the criminal courtroom, fairness required the avoidance of surprise. Balance meant equal respect for the interests of all concerned. The accused. The victim. And the public. Without fairness and balance, the ability to distinguish between accused and victim might prove unclear. As would maintaining the civilized character of our society.
Judge Cyrus Brooks had always thought of himself as among the best of those 117 active judges. Lately, however, he was beginning to wonder whether he was still up to the task.
If a man was arrested for robbing a convenience store, it was clear who the accused was, who the victim was, and what the public craved—upholding peace and order. Simple and straightforward. Right? Easy for any disciplined and competent judge to impartially manage his courtroom to achieve the “correct” outcome. Right?
But what if the accused had been down on his luck? Destitute? Try as he had, unable to find a job? What if all he had been doing when caught was stealing a loaf of bread and a carton of milk to feed his kids? After he had already exhausted his food stamps for the month, with ten days to go? What if he wasn’t carrying a weapon when he entered the convenience store. But the store proprietor was? And hadn’t hesitated to use it.
Once upon a time, if you were unhappy about things, you wrote your congressman. If he ignored you, then you didn’t vote for him the next time around. You voted for the other guy. Maybe you even campaigned for the other guy.
But what if the problem you were unhappy about was your congressman? What if you thought he wasn’t doing his job? Worse, what if you thought he was on the take? Corrupt. And what if the other guy was just as bad? Then what?
Brooks knew you couldn’t just take matters into your own hands. Go out and shoot someone just because you were unhappy with something. Let alone shoot a whole bunch of people. People you didn’t even know.
Or could you?
More and more, there were those today who seemed quite willing to do precisely that. To kill complete strangers just … because.
That was the crux of what had been troubling Brooks of late. What if one of those “alleged” killers was arrested, and assigned for trial to his courtroom? Could he still assure the accused, the families of the victim—or victims—and the people of D.C. that he remained able to impartially administer a fair and balanced trial? Could he genuinely suppress his personal views in the face of everything else going on in our society today?
Easy to ask the questions. Not so easy to answer them.
Once upon a time, Brooks had no trouble remaining impartial and objective when presiding over his courtroom. At all costs and under all circumstances. Subordinating his own personal views whenever running his courtroom. No matter what.
Of late, however, Brooks was finding it more and more difficult to achieve that necessary … impartiality.
He wondered if his recent doubts and concerns suggested it was time for him to step down from the bench. To retire. To pass the baton to someone else.
Perhaps he had already waited too long.
PART ONE
The Criminals
February 5–8
Society prepares the crime, the criminal commits it.
—ALFIERI
CHAPTER 1
Thursday, February 5, 7:20 p.m.
U.S. SENATOR JANE WELLS had been wondering whether tonight might be the night.
Her last two companions had been disappointing, downright boring, in every respect. Almost as boring as her political constituents—and having to pretend she actually cared about them.
Being single again definitely had its benefits. No longer back home in dull, sedate Kansas—first the wife and then the widow of former U.S. Senator Arthur Wells. But things remained boring. Maybe she had just found it more exciting sampling the other merchandise while still married. She hoped tonight would prove more fulfilling.
Wells glanced in the mirror on the wall opposite her desk, making sure everything was in order. Not too bad for a fifty-year-old strawberry blonde in a bottle. Well, admittedly with a little help from Dr. Nip ‘N’ Tuck. Looks had never been her problem. Or maybe they were her problem. Tall and curvaceous, she still managed to fill out her power suit in all the right places. Wells closed her briefcase and walked out of her oversized private office into the also spacious and well-appointed reception area. She carried herself in a way that was difficult for anyone to miss.
“Night, Jimmy,” Wells said to her chief of sta
ff, James Ayres, boyishly good-looking with darkish wavy hair and chocolate-brown eyes. When her husband had died suddenly, she knew most Kansas locals had expected Ayres, formerly an engineer and then her husband’s chief of staff, to be tapped to fill the senator’s remaining term. But the Kansas governor had concluded that picking the distraught, martyred widow made more political sense. It was rumored that it had also made more personal sense. Disappointed, Ayres had nevertheless agreed to stay on as her chief of staff.
Wells considered Ayres’s sandy-brown locks and piercing dark eyes—kind of a younger, chiseled version of Robert Redford—imagining for more than just a second what a frolic in the hay with him might be like. Probably a lot more virile than my somewhat more successful, but also older, recent partners. Hard not to visualize that firm body gliding back and forth across mine. Certainly one way to get better acquainted with the staff! She’d had no luck with her not-so-subtle outreaches to date, but she still kept that image tucked away in the recesses of her mind. For future consideration.
Wells’s mind drifted unintentionally from Ayres to her parents, and how disappointed they would be if they knew that her real interest—like that of most of the other members of the Senate Wall Street Oversight Committee—was not to manage Wall Street, but to be rewarded by Wall Street for not really managing it at all. She also couldn’t help but wonder how her parents would feel about her if they also knew about her fast-and-loose lifestyle. Actually, she didn’t wonder at all. She knew precisely how they’d feel. She didn’t feel much better about it herself.
“Goodnight, Senator,” Ayres replied, bringing Wells back into the moment. He summoned the elevator for her. “Robert’s here to drive you home. He’ll pick you up again in the morning at seven forty-five and deliver you to the WSOC hearings on schedule.” Wells nodded absentmindedly and stepped into the elevator.