Kentucky Woman

by Mike J. Brogan

Tomorrow she would show the marriage certificate to her friend, Lieutenant Bob Darnell. Bob would then phone the lawyer in Kentucky, Mr. Fletcher Falcone, and tell him that she and Rick Radford were legally married.

  Then, as Rick’s widow, she prayed she might receive enough inheritance to support her family and restart her mother’s cancer treatments that were stopped for non-payment.

  She remembered being introduced to Rick Radford by Bob Darnell. When Rick learned that the war impoverished her family and forced her into prostitution to feed them, he immediately offered to support her – if she left her profession. She agreed that second. They became good friends, deeply cared for each other, and even talked of marriage. But before they could work out the details, he was killed.

  Today, she regretted using his name to get the marriage certificate. But she was desperate. She wondered if Rick would understand why she was doing this – like he understood her desperate situation when they first met?

  Something told her Rick would understand.

  FIFTY THREE

  As Quinn drove back to Louisville, Ellie noticed he’d been very quiet for a long time. Probably still recovering, like she was from Jessica’s disappointing DNA results.

  He’d been absolutely convinced she was Leland Radford’s daughter.

  But DNA is what it is, she realized. It can’t lie. Leland Radford is not my father! End of story! Get over it, Ellie.

  Still, it would have been nice …

  But one thing still puzzled her. If I’m not Radford’s daughter – why is someone still hell bent on destroying me and all my DNA tests? It made no sense to her. Nor to Quinn.

  She looked over at him. He seemed to be a thousand miles away. Suddenly, she had a gut-wrenching thought. He’s not thinking about the DNA test – he’s thinking about Jennifer. He’s having second thoughts about their breakup … he’s regretting it … planning on patching things up with her now that he knows I’m penniless. Is that what he’s thinking?

  “You’re mighty quiet over there, Quinn Parker.”

  “Bad news does that to me.”

  “Bad DNA news?”

  “Yeah.”

  She relaxed a bit.

  “I’m just wondering if someone altered your secret DNA test in Frankfort?”

  “Unlikely. Jessica said there was no break-in. And only the lab technician knew about the secret test.”

  “But he was a substitute.”

  “Jessica’s friend vouches for him.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s a Baptist seminary student.”

  “Stalin was a seminary student and slaughtered twenty million people.”

  “Fair point.”

  Suddenly, he thumped his hand down hard on the steering wheel. “Dammit, Ellie! I was sure you were Radford’s daughter!”

  “Well, fate’s’ fickle finger says no way!”

  He nodded as he passed a large track-trailer belching black diesel smoke.

  “So our big question remains – who’s my daddy?

  “True, but we have an even bigger question.”

  “What’s that?” she said.

  “Who’s your attacker?”

  She nodded. “Because they still think I’m Radford’s daughter.”

  “Yep.”

  “I phoned Falcone earlier and left a voice message telling him about my new test results. I’ll try again.”

  He nodded. “Once Falcone’s financial managers know you’re not Radford’s daughter, my sense is your life should get safer fast.”

  She dialed Falcone’s number. His phone rang several times and she realized his secretary, Ramada, was probably gone for the day. Ellie left Falcone another message.

  “But until he picks up your message you’re still -”

  “ – in the cross hairs.”

  “Yep. And Celeste’s home is not safe.”

  “Fortunately, Celeste’s with her son’s family for five days.”

  “That helps a lot. But whoever’s behind this probably knows you stayed at my apartment.”

  She nodded.

  “And my parents have friends staying over for the weekend.”

  Ellie patted the car seat. “Home Sweet Chevy is comfy?”

  “Not as comfy as Uncle’s Joe Ryan’s home. He and Aunt Rosie are in Florida. He likes me to stay there when they’re out of town.”

  “Sounds good.”

  Ellie was relieved they weren’t going to his parents’ home. She wasn’t ready to see the disappointment in their eyes … the realization that their son had traded in a beautiful, wealthy, debutante for a poor hick chick from Harlan. From their perspective, Jennifer offered Quinn so much more. From my perspective too, if I’m honest.

  What can I offer him?

  What do I know of Quinn’s circles? His friends were VIPs, distinguished law professors, star athletes, the upper echelon of campus society. Everything about me shrieks country girl. And some people have a problem with that. If they do, well, it’s their problem!

  But sometimes, she had to admit, it was her problem too.

  Like her stupid recurring nightmare. In the dream, she’s at the junior prom, dancing with a classmate she liked. Suddenly, people start laughing and pointing at her cheap red dress that has somehow split open halfway up the side. She runs outside, but everyone follows her, laughing, pointing, chasing her. Her high-heel breaks and she falls head first into a swamp. She crawls out, dripping with oily, scummy gunk. Weeds hang from her hair. Her dress has split open even more. Her spaghetti straps have fallen down. She’s practically nude and drenched with slime. Everyone howls with laughter.

  And then, as always, she wakes up in a cold sweat, afraid the nightmare will never go away. And of course, it hasn’t.

  “Here’s Uncle Joe’s shack,” Quinn said, steering into the driveway of a massive, stunning Victorian mansion.

  She looked up at the three-story home with red brick, dark-stained wood, white gingerbread decor along the roof, pointy turrets, large porches and balconies, expensive landscaping, even a gurgling waterfall.

  “Wow! It’s magnificent, Quinn!””

  “Lincoln thought so.”

  “Lincoln stayed here -?”

  “Jose Lincoln. He stocks shelves at CVS.”

  She tried to elbow him but he ducked away.

  They drove into the underground garage, got out and entered the large, paneled library. Quinn walked over to the mahogany bar. “Fancy a libation?”

  “How fancy?”

  He lifted up a half-empty bottle of Shiraz.

  “That works.”

  As he poured two glasses, she pointed to a family picture sitting on a table. “Is that little ankle-biter you?”

  “Yep. Age four. Family trip to Disney World.”

  “I’ve always wanted to go.”

  “Everyone your age has gone. It’s a kid’s rite of passage.”

  “My family couldn’t afford the passage.”

  “I’ll take you when this semester is over.”

  “Really?”

  “Promise.”

  Ellie felt giddy as a six-grader.

  He handed her the glass of wine. They touched glasses and sipped. The alcohol rushed to her head as she realized lunch was her huge Guinness at McCarthy’s Bar. They plopped down on a sofa near each other and sipped more wine.

  “Feeling safe?” he asked.

  “Like Fort Knox.”

  He put his arm around her and she inched closer. She felt completely attracted to the man beside her, and even more so because now that she thought about it, his attitude toward her hadn’t changed when he learned her DNA proved she would not inherit fabulous wealth. If anything, he seemed more sympathetic.

  But was it only sympathy? Did he feel anything more?

  Moments later she got her answer. They looked into each other’s eyes and suddenly, she didn’t care whether she wasn’t right for him, she didn’t care that she came from Harlan, didn’t care whether Jennifer was a better match, didn
’t care whether his parents preferred Jennifer …

  She only cared about Quinn, cared deeply, and wanted to be with him now.

  He leaned forward and kissed her and in that moment all her fears and insecurities drifted away … and so did their clothes as they hurried toward the nearest bedroom.

  FIFTY FOUR

  LEXINGTON

  Fletcher Falcone smiled and threw his fist in the air.

  He’d just won big money at 12 to 1 odds on Old Tom who’d galloped across the finish line first. Thanks in part to the jockey, Pepe Santos, who was rumored to juice his thoroughbreds with Aminorex, a non-detectable stimulant.

  Fletcher drained his whiskey and handed the winning ticket to his waiter.

  “Reuben, cash this quick!” he said, fearing the horse might fail the drug test.

  “Yessuh, Mr. Falcone.”

  “And bring me another whiskey.”

  “Comin’ right up, suh.”

  Falcone took a deep breath and sat back. He loved horseracing. The Sport of Kings was so much more rewarding than flushing money down those state lottery toilets for the brain-dead. He also loved this exclusive clubhouse at Keeneland Race Track, the most respected racecourse in Kentucky. No riffraff in this private club. Right in this room, he’d met movie stars, Saudi princes, even some crowned heads of Europe.

  The crowd roared. He saw the Finish Board flash – OFFICIAL. The race winnings were his!

  He savored the thrill – then felt it vanish as he locked eyes with the big thug that walked in. One of Big Tony Broutafachi’s goons. Here to remind Falcone to pay his overdue horseracing IOUs. Big Tony had already reminded him twice, and Falcone explained twice that the Radford case would soon bring millions into Falcone’s firm and that he’d pay back the three hundred nine thousand dollars then.

  But no – Big Tony wanted his money now! And to make sure Falcone got the message, sent him photos of a non-payer with his penis stuffed in his mouth.

  The muscular thug opened his wallet and gestured for Falcone to put some money in it.

  Falcone whispered, “No!”

  The thug shook his head, flipped open his cell phone and called someone, probably Big Tony.

  Falcone could easily pay the money back now, but hated being bullied by Broutafachi or anyone. I’ll pay him in a few weeks. And I’ll be damned if I’ll pay before my Radford windfall. No way Big Tony’ll kill me without first collecting his money.

  The noisy race crowd suddenly went graveyard quiet.

  Falcone turned and saw why: a jockey had fallen from his horse and was getting up slowly.

  Rueben pointed at the jockey and said, “Accidents happen!”

  The two words hit Falcone hard. They always had since years ago when a National Traffic Safety investigator and Falcone slogged through a snake-infested swamp near Paducah.

  “Accidents happen,” the investigator had said and pointed at the crashed Cessna.

  Falcone’s Cessna.

  He stared at the smoke billowing from the hot chunks of fuselage. He identified his wife’s wedding ring on her severed arm. And he identified his twin seven-year-old daughters, still strapped in their seats, their bodies charred like blocks of ebony.

  All dead because of me, Falcone reminded himself. Dead because I threatened to fire the pilot if he didn’t fly back immediately – even after he warned me the weather was too treacherous.

  A minute after liftoff, hurricane-strength windshears slammed the small aircraft down into the swamp.

  Their deaths shattered Falcone. He tried to escape through booze and painkillers and food, but the guilt kept eating away at him.

  Only one thing helped: Burying himself in his law practice. And the long hours paid off. He won important cases for a major mining company against phony health claims. Those successes brought in new clients and prosperous growth for his firm. When people asked for the secret of his success, he said, “knowing the law.”

  Actually, his secret was knowing the jurors.

  Or more accurately, what they wanted.

  All jurors wanted something.

  Some wanted to keep secrets, some wanted money or help. Falcone fulfilled their needs. And, in turn, the jurors helped Falcone win critical verdicts for his clients.

  Today, Falcone & Partners was a successful law firm, with offices in Louisville, Lexington, Manchester and Cincinnati, had a highly regarded reputation in the coal mining industries. The firm’s revenue provided him with a very luxurious lifestyle. It also allowed him to fund Falcone Charities that donated enhanced radar and weather systems to small airports. His wealth even allowed him to enjoy his nasty little vices like horseracing … and a few others. Vices he’d earned.

  And he’d do anything to preserve them. Anything.

  FIFTY FIVE

  Nikolai Pushkin sat in his rental Mercedes watching the Brandeis Law House. He focused his powerful Vortex binoculars on Quinn Parker’s darkened second-floor apartment. He’d seen no movement for over twenty minutes, or heard any sound from his laser listening device. Ellie Stuart and Quinn Parker were sleeping, screwing, or not there. And Parker’s phone number was unlisted.

  In a downstairs window, Pushkin saw an old white-haired guy watching television. Probably the house manager.

  Pushkin Googled the Brandeis House phone number, then dialed it. The old guy picked up.

  “Brandeis House.”

  “Hi, I’m John Harris, a friend of Quinn Parker’s. I was coming over to see Quinn, but lost his phone number.”

  “Oh, Quinn’s not here tonight. Stayin’ over at his Uncle Joe Ryan’s house.”

  “Is that the house over on, ah …?

  “Over on Magnolia,” the old guy said. “Big old red brick house. Can’t miss it.”

  “Yeah, I remember it.”

  “You still want Quinn’s phone number?”

  “Yes, please.”

  The old man gave it to him.

  “Thanks.”

  Pushkin hung up. Back on Google, he found Joe Ryan’s address on Magnolia Street and programmed it into his car’s GPS system. A map popped on the screen. The house was nearby and he drove ahead.

  “Turn right on Devonshire Street,” the GPS woman demanded. “Turn NOW!”

  Pushkin hated the GPS woman! He hated any woman ordering him around. They reminded him of his mother. He tried to turn GPS woman off and turn down her volume, but couldn’t figure out how to do either.

  “Turn left at this corner, then turn right in one hundred feet. Turn NOW!” she barked.

  “Fuck off!” he shouted back.

  Moments later …

  “You’ve arrived at your destination!”

  “No shit, Einstein!”

  He turned the car off, looked at the magnificent old Victorian red brick mansion and took a deep breath. It reminded him of another red brick mansion five thousand miles away … in Moscow … where his heroin-addicted mother and he lived in the mansion’s garden shack when Pushkin was six.

  He remembered the cramped, filthy shed, the icy gusts of winter blasting through cracked windows, and crying because he was hungry, and sleeping in the lawnmower’s grass bag, and foraging in alley garbage cans, and eating moldy, maggot-laced chicken and black rotting potatoes and his mother’s “fried chicken” that was really rat. He remembered the Lubyanka subway station where she dumped him at age ten, saying he was better off without her. Only time in her life she was right. He slept in the men’s room with vomiting drunks and loved it every minute of it because it had heat.

  And years later, he remembered finally escaping the Khitrovka slum thanks to saving a gay KGB agent from being beaten to death by street thugs. The thankful agent got Pushkin into a KGB apprenticeship where Pushkin’s physical prowess, street smarts, and the assassination of two important Chechen terrorists quickly promoted him to the KGB’s prestigious Second Directorate. But Pushkin’s success threatened his boss. So the bastard quickly fabricated evidence that Pushkin sold secrets to the CIA. But the ni
ght before he was to be arrested, Pushkin found out and boarded a fishing trawler to Helsinki. From there he moved to the states, where he soon gained a reputation as a specialist in what the Americans called “wet work.”

  Pushkin preferred to be known as a man who made problems disappear. Wet or dry.

  Problems like Ellie Stuart, he thought, as he stared up at the mansion’s second floor where she and Quinn Parker had just turned out the light.

  FIFTY SIX

  Nicolai Pushkin looked through the Mercedes windshield at Joe Ryan’s darkened Victorian mansion. He listened to owls hoot to each other in the darkness. So the omen is true. Owls hoot when death is near.

  The dashboard clock said 2:46 a.m., and although his KGB trainer said 4 a.m. was optimum attack time, he’d go now. After all, he wasn’t attacking Navy SEALS. Just college kids.

  His syringes held lethal dozes of heroin. His two-shot Taser was fully charged. And his suppressed Beretta had a full clip. Wearing amber-tinted glasses, a fake beard, and a baseball cap, he stepped out into the humid night air. He strolled down the sidewalk toward the sprawling mansion and eased into the tall hedge alongside the property.

  He focused his binoculars on the front door lock. Basic, easy to open. He looked at the home security sign. He knew the system and could disarm it within sixty seconds. If not, his Beretta would persuade Quinn Parker to. He saw no cameras.

  The owls hooted again.

  A breeze kicked up, bringing him the sweet scent of lilac. He loved lilac and could stand here for hours, breathing its gentle fragrance. But not now.

  His assignment was Ellie Stuart. Quinn Parker was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  Pushkin flicked the Beretta’s safety lever off, squeezed through a gap in the hedge and walked onto the lawn. Rich people grass. Cushy as shag carpet. It felt wonderful. He stepped toward the front door.

  Ellie bolted awake.

  A shriek – a shrill, penetrating alarm – pierced her eardrums as lights streaked across the bedroom window. Beside her, Quinn sat up.

  “The yard alarm! Someone triggered it. Quick, follow me!”

  Realizing she was nude, she grabbed a robe and ran with him down the hall. They entered a room and Quinn shut the steel door with a thud. He punched a code on a wall panel and a deadbolt clunked into the doorframe.