Gates of Power

by Peter O'Mahoney

I could imagine the security guard despising Alfie as everything he was not. Alfie was good looking, tall, rich, successful, and had all the girls.

  He probably resented Alfie for not having what he deemed a proper job too.

  “Playing video games, that’s what kids do,” he probably thought. “And this big kid is earning millions of dollars, master of his own destiny, while I’m clocking in and out of three jobs, scraping by on slightly above minimum wage.”

  And so it went for the rest of the security guard’s time on the stand, with him painting Alfie the color of the darkest coal, issuing forth little insinuations here and there that made Alfie sound like a man on a mission when he entered Gates’ dressing room. And a deadly mission at that.

  Sure, Alfie’s defense threw in the occasional objection, but the damage was done. And as for their own cross examination, I’d rate it between weak at best, and defeatist at worst.

  As the judge dismissed the court for the day, Alfie looked guiltier than ever and nearly as distraught as when I’d seen him first thing in the morning.

  I just hoped he wouldn’t do anything stupid and irreversible.

  Looking at the kid, I decided there and then that this was it, no more trial for me, as much as Alfie needed me here. I had to focus my efforts elsewhere, on pinning Gates’ murder on Packman.

  Now more than ever, it wasn’t just a case I was trying to solve, but a life I was trying to save—and it was currently hanging from a single thread.

  Chapter 21

  The punch came from out of nowhere, hitting Alfie hard and unexpectedly in the left ear, rocking his head to the other side and nearly sending him to the ground.

  He was outside the courthouse when it happened, descending the steps on the way to his waiting car when the mob closed in: journalists, photographers, well-wishers and adversaries; like a swarm of piranhas attacking a carcass, all of them after their own little bit of flesh.

  The media in particular was in a feeding frenzy, delighting in Alfie’s unprovoked assault; it was good footage for them after all, and that’s all they ever cared about.

  They were looking at dollar signs, ratings, and copies sold, not an innocent and vulnerable young man on the edge, being pushed, inch by inch, ever closer to it.

  Security quickly intervened, dragging away the culprit, a vicious looking miscreant with a face that only a fist could love, leaving Alfie standing there alone, etched with a look of shock and humiliation, but also a haunting embarrassment.

  “Don’t cry, Alfie!” shouted one of the photographers mockingly, eliciting laughter from his colleagues.

  He got what he was after, tears welled in Alfie’s eyes as the man gleefully captured the moment.

  Rage filled me from head to toe, surging uncontrolled.

  A switch had been flipped and I powered towards the cretin.

  With an almighty shove I sent him crashing to the ground, smashing his camera into an unsolvable jigsaw puzzle of jagged bits of plastic and mangled electronics.

  “Wanna photo of me instead!?” I yelled at him, as he cowered at my feet.

  To be fair, his colleagues did; many of them, camera flashes exploding all around me.

  And then all hell broke loose.

  Punches and kicks flew in all directions, arms and legs everywhere, as others in the crowd began fighting among themselves, while the police quickly circled Alfie and whisked him to the safety of his waiting car.

  I didn’t stick around.

  I’m sure that I’d already made the evening news and I didn’t want to add to it. As I walked back to the parking lot, my phone buzzed.

  “I’ve got bad news.” It was Casey. “Three pieces of it.”

  “Hit me with the worst first.”

  “I can’t find anything on Packman. Not a thing that places him anywhere after 10pm that night. I’ve spent the last eight hours searching for something, even a sniff of a clue, and I haven’t got anything. Packman doesn’t have a big online presence, and he’s not a celebrity, so no-one was taking photos of him. He’s the man in the background, the person that no-one pays attention to, and that means there’s barely anything about him on the net.”

  “What about his trash—credit card bills, receipts, or letters?”

  “This isn’t the nineties, Jack. Most people have moved past the stone tablets that you seem determined to continue using.”

  She was right. Technology had changed my job a lot in the past decade. People could find out more in an hour with the few clicks of a keyboard, than a week’s worth of legwork from the old days. Someone in small town Montana could find out everything there was to know about someone in the middle of London, without ever having to leave the comfort of their chair.

  In some ways, that was good, but I did miss the old days. I missed never sitting still, never being in the office, and I hated spending hours behind a screen. That’s why I employed Casey as an assistant—she was so much better at computer tracking than I could ever be.

  “What about Packman’s place?” I asked. “Any chance of getting inside and having a look around?”

  “No chance. He’s got lots of video surveillance, a tall fence surrounding his yard, and an even taller front gate. You have to be buzzed in just to get past the gate. You could jump the fence, but you wouldn’t get far without the security cameras seeing you. It’s watertight.”

  “Any on grounds security?”

  “None. It’s all electronically controlled.”

  “And the second bit of bad news?”

  “People are starting to post online about their desire to see Alfie killed. There are even threats against him from different accounts.”

  “And this has been reported to the police?”

  “Of course, but all the threats are from anonymous sources, things they can’t track. The hatred of Alfie Rose is starting to trend online.”

  Terrible news, but not unexpected.

  “The third piece of bad news?”

  She waited a few moments before responding. “I have contacts on the inside, lots of them, and they’re all saying the same thing.”

  She didn’t continue, it was obvious what they were saying, but I needed to hear it from her. “What are they saying?”

  “Alfie’s got a target on his back. As big as they’ve seen. A lot of credit goes to the long-term prisoners who are able to kill the high-profile ones. There are so many people gunning for Alfie, and they all want him dead. Even the guards are in on the act.”

  “The guards?”

  “The guards in prison don’t have a lot to look forward to. Watching Brian Gates on the television was a highlight for them. They adored him, and why wouldn’t they? Gates was old school. Someone to look up to. The fact that Gates is gone, the fact that nobody will ever replace him, makes these people angry. And if there’s one group of people who don’t want to make angry when you’re behind bars, it’s the guards.”

  “Thanks Casey.”

  “What are you going to do, Jack? What’s our next step?”

  “I’m not sure, but I need some time to think.”

  I hung up the phone and turned back to look at the courthouse. The people were starting to disperse, going back to their normal lives after expressing their anger at strangers. I’d never been involved in a protest, but I could imagine that once all the energy started going in one direction, once the mob had decided on a viewpoint, it would be hard to stop. Even if you didn’t agree with it, it would be hard to challenge the herd.

  The walk to the parking lot was another five minutes, and that was more than enough time for my blood to boil.

  By the time I reached my car I was incensed, the red mist had descended and my heart pounded hard in my chest. Alfie was being hunted: inside the courtroom, outside the courtroom, in the papers, on TV, even in prison before he was convicted.

  The kid didn’t stand a chance.

  And that’s when I decided to go after Packman directly.

  To hunt him down right now, this
very moment, and force a confession out of him by hook or by crook. No matter what. The decision had been made; I’d get it done now. I was angry alright but determined too.

  Failure wasn’t an option or Alfie would be dead, maybe even by tonight by his own hand, but almost certainly before the end of the trial by another.

  Chapter 22

  Having tracked Packman before, I knew where he would most likely be right now, so I wasted no time.

  I fired up the engine and hit the gas, driving like a man possessed, weaving in and out of traffic, jumping on the horn, the brakes, the accelerator, in rapid succession as demanded by the road to get there in double quick time until, finally, the tires screeched on the hot asphalt outside Packman’s palatial Winnetka home.

  It was quite a place: All pillars and ostentatious statues, and more security than Fort Knox.

  I was raging inside, but for a second I sat still and tried to formulate a plan, while my heart rate settled down and my breathing became slower.

  Two large decorative metal gates stood in my way, blocking access to the property, unless buzzed through by way of a security intercom.

  I couldn’t imagine that happening so decided on a different approach.

  Hitting the gas once more, I tore up the street and spun the car around.

  A deep breath filled my lungs as I focused in on my target.

  I pulled my seatbelt tight, held on, and dropped the clutch.

  The wheels spun, I was thrown back hard in my seat and the car hurtled forwards.

  Everything else seemed to disappear; my world became those rapidly approaching gates to the point where it was unclear if I was hurtling towards them or they were headed towards me.

  Fifty feet…

  Thirty…

  Twenty…

  Ten...

  Suddenly they were upon me, close enough to momentarily see the detail of their filigree metalwork, and then—

  Metal split like wooden matches, sparks flew from the door’s hinges and the hood and roof of my car, as heavy wrought iron collided hard with the steel battering ram of my beat-up Chevy, now infinitely more so.

  The windshield morphed into a thousand pieces that clung together tenuously in one limp fold.

  I jumped on the brakes.

  The gates clanged loudly as they fell onto the ground, ringing out for several seconds as they rattled to a final halt. And then a strange momentary silence filled the air. There was no time to savor it. I knew it wouldn’t last. It was the calm before the storm, and I forecast a big one about to hit.

  Jumping out, I quickly surveyed the damage: bumper, hood, windshield, roof, all beyond repair, she’d need decommissioning after this, but I didn’t care—I was in.

  I ran towards the front door, jumping over little neatly manicured hedges and shrubbery as I went. I knew what I was going to do, what I had to do: I was going in the front door, and it would be by way of my size 13 foot, but when I got within striking distance, my whole game plan changed.

  Suddenly the door swung open and there, standing in his jocks with a look of shock and confusion, was Pat Packman.

  “What the hell!?” he yelled, eyes darting from me to his mangled gates, then back to me again, his mind trying to catch up with what his eyes were seeing.

  I wanted to get a confession, so I gave him a chance.

  “I know you killed Brian Gates, Packman! And I know why, too,” I yelled, jabbing a finger towards his chest. “You had an insurance policy on your business, and it’s the only thing that kept you from bankruptcy, Mr. Record for Violent Assault!”

  His surprise deepened, clearly taken aback at what I knew, but then it quickly turned to anger.

  He went for me with a punch, swinging wildly.

  I slipped to the side, the punch whizzing past close enough to feel the movement of air next to my face.

  Now it was my turn, with an almighty lunge I threw a counter, hitting him with a right hand that could have been fathered by a gorilla.

  Packman was a big man, but I’d faced off larger opponents in my time and the shot sent him toppling over into his hallway.

  I purposefully hit him high above the jawline so I didn’t knock him unconscious: a casualty in the hospital was no good to me, I needed him to talk.

  “Admit it Packman!” I shouted grabbing him by the collar and picking him up off the ground, ready to unleash another punch when…

  “Freeze or I’ll shoot!” shouted a female voice.

  I did as instructed, turning slowly in the voice’s direction, while tightening my grip around the scruff of Packman’s neck.

  There, standing at the top of an opulent staircase, was none other than Kelly Holmes in a skimpy negligee, pointing a pistol at my head.

  I guess we were both shocked, but then she took a closer look and she was more shocked than I was.

  “You!” she exclaimed, recognizing my face from the jazz club.

  “You two know each other?” asked a dazed and even more confused Packman.

  “You two are together?” I asked, rapidly trying to piece together this odd turn of events.

  “What the hell is going on?” asked Kelly Holmes.

  It was a good question, and I was wondering as much myself, but continued instead with what I came here for: a confession.

  “I’ll tell you what’s going on, your man here is about to confess to the murder of his former business partner and your ex-husband. A man he killed, for revenge, betrayal and good old-fashioned money.”

  I tightened my grip around his collar. “Ain’t that right, Packman?”

  He began to splutter.

  “Let him go or I’ll kill you!” said Kelly Holmes. “I swear I will.”

  She was calm but assertive and meant every word.

  I reluctantly released my grip on Packman, dropping him onto the floor.

  “You’re crazy, I never killed Gates,” said Packman, rubbing his neck. “I wanted to for so long, but I sure didn’t do it.”

  “Then what were you doing going into his dressing room at the time of the murder?”

  “Say what?”

  “Yeah, that’s right, I’ve got a witness who places you there at exactly the right time.”

  “That’s impossible,” said Kelly. “We were together then and I can prove it.”

  “How so?”

  “We left around ten to go to a restaurant, Everest, on South Financial Place. We stayed there for the next two hours. There’d be video footage to prove it: from the restaurant, from the foyer, from the elevators, loads of places.”

  “And credit card receipts,” chipped in Packman.

  “My card,” stressed Kelly Holmes, glancing at Packman, emphasizing whose turn it was to pay next time.

  “If that’s true, then why didn’t you come forward with this information before?” I asked.

  “What, and let the whole world know our business? Can you imagine the field day the gossip columnists would have? Ex-wife of Brian Gates, having an open relationship with Brian Gates’ producer, whose wife left him for… Brian Gates. No thank you very much. It’s our business and nobody else’s. And it stays that way,” asserted Packman, picking himself off the ground on shaky legs. “Besides, no one was asking, no one but you! No one else is crazy enough to think I had anything to do with it.”

  “And who exactly are you?” demanded Kelly, turning my way. “As in, who are you really? Because you sure as hell aren’t a theater critic.”

  “Jack Valentine, Private Investigator, working for Alfie Rose.”

  She slowly lowered the gun.

  “Well let me guess, Mr. Valentine,” she said. “Your star ‘witness,’ the one who saw Pat coming out of Brian’s dressing room with their own eyes, it wouldn’t be a certain… Lizzie Guthrie, now would it?”

  I was playing catch up, well and truly on the back foot, so Kelly filled me in, sketching out the details, while I took stock and listened.

  “Lizzie was seeing Pat, Pat started seeing me, Pat br
oke it off with Lizzie, Lizzie now hates Pat and me,” she said. “It’s pretty simple really, this is clearly Lizzie’s primitive attempt at trying to frame Pat, out of spite for him choosing me over her.”

  “Let me ask you a question,” I said with mock sincerity. “Is there anyone in your industry who is not sleeping with everybody else in it?”

  “Very funny,” said Packman. “I imagine this comes as a disappointment to you, Mr. Valentine. You thought you had your man, didn’t you? Well you don’t. I may have made money from Gates dying, but it wasn’t me who did the killing.”

  “If not you, then who?” I said, pondering aloud, more thinking to myself than seriously posing the question, but Kelly offered her assessment.

  “What I want to know, is why is no one is going after Lizzie Guthrie? Think about it, she was there at the charity event, she’s already demonstrated her willingness to pin the murder on Pat, on an innocent man, and by her own account she visited Brian’s dressing room just before he was killed.”

  She had a point.

  I was beginning to wonder exactly the same thing myself.

  There was a lot more to Lizzie Guthrie than met the eye. It was time I took a closer look, and quickly.

  I turned to leave, to track down Lizzie Guthrie and see where the trail led.

  “Hey!” shouted Packman, gazing at the mangled carnage in his driveway. “What about the gates?!”

  “The Gates? Oh, yeah…” I replied, bowing my head reverently while placing a hand on my heart. “… May God have mercy upon the man’s soul.”

  Chapter 23

  “I didn’t see that one coming,” said Casey, as she drove me towards the upscale tennis club frequented every Thursday morning by Lizzie Guthrie.

  “I was certain Packman was our man,” continued Casey, “The history of violence, the financial woes solved in a single stroke by Gates’ death, the personal and professional betrayal, the jealousy. It was all adding up nicely, or so it seemed. But Kelly Holmes is right, their alibi checks out; it’s watertight.”

  “I hear you,” I replied. “But it’s not all bad, at least Packman and Kelly Holmes are eliminated from our inquiries. And that’s no minor development. It may not be the development we wanted but it’s a development, nonetheless. And Lizzie Guthrie is looking more and more like a person of significant interest. So, there’s progress and momentum, we’ve just got to keep moving forwards, keep pushing. And I’m going to push Lizzie Guthrie hard—real hard.”