Kentucky Woman

by Mike J. Brogan

  “What is this room?”

  “Uncle Joe’s Fort Knox. He built it after a break-in last year.”

  Quinn opened a wall cabinet, grabbed a cell phone and dialed 911. In the cabinet, Ellie saw a mini-fridge, cases of tuna, soup, chili, and Evian water. In the corner alcove sat a mini-sink and mini-toilet. They could survive here for weeks.

  He gave the 911 Operator the address, kept the line open and took Ellie into his arms.

  “The police will be here in minutes, Ellie. You’re safe.”

  She nodded, and buried her face in his chest.

  Nicolai Pushkin still couldn’t believe it. Three feet from the front door, floodlights swept across him like he was an escapee in a prison movie … followed by an earsplitting alarm that could wake the dead.

  Very impressive system.

  Pushkin jumped in the Mercedes and minutes later, drove onto the Louisville Bridge that spanned the Ohio River and deposited him in Jeffersonville, Indiana. He always preferred to stay in a bordering state when possible for jurisdictional distance.

  Minutes later, in his Sheraton suite, he looked down at Ellie Stuart’s class schedule for tomorrow. He knew where she’d be and when. But the more he thought about it, the less comfortable he felt about the Stuart assignment. He didn’t like terminating a person who appeared innocent. Pushkin’s past assignments from Heinrich De Groot involved people who’d crossed him: the Mafia goon who threatened De Groot, a prosecutor who accused him of jury-tampering, a competitor who’d won a big piece of business that De Groot wanted, a plumbing contractor who overcharged him. Bad guys.

  But Ellie Stuart? A poor college kid on scholarship? What did she do to De Groot? Only one thing made sense. She’d threatened his money somehow. Money was his lifeblood. And if someone threatened it, he’d spill their blood.

  But Pushkin had agreed to do the hit, so he’d deliver! After all, De Groot had delivered for him. Years ago, De Groot kept him from being deported back to Russia where the KGB would have terminated him. But somehow, De Groot had learned that Pushkin’s U.S. Immigration Officer had a nasty predilection for sleeping with eleven-year-old Thai girls. When De Groot threatened to show police the career-ending photographs of the pedophile’s felonious activities, the Immigration Officer quickly expunged Pushkin’s KGB history from his files and reclassified him as a persecuted Russian dissident.

  Since then, Pushkin had lived the good life in America, growing wealthy from various assignments, successful real estate investments … and the occasional, lucrative whack job.

  He owed De Groot.

  Pushkin looked back down at Ellie’s photo on his desk and shrugged.

  Sorry comrade, my beautiful young krasivaya devushka … life isn’t always fair.

  See you in class!

  FIFTY SEVEN

  Ellie sat with Quinn in the his uncle’s kitchen surrounded by so much stainless steel – refrigerator, freezer, ovens, countertops, cabinets – she felt like she was in an autopsy room, something she almost wound up in last night.

  After the attempted home invasion, the police searched all thirty-two rooms and found no evidence of an intruder. A hidden security video showed a large bearded man wearing glasses and a cap walk onto the grass, trigger the alarm, then hurry away.

  The police interviewed Quinn and her at length, then promised to drive by every thirty minutes. After the interview, Ellie and Quinn settled in at the kitchen table. Now, after four cups of high-octane coffee, Ellie vibrated.

  “It doesn’t make sense,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Why they’re still after me? I left Falcone a second message yesterday saying our independent Frankfort DNA backup test also proved I’m not Radford’s daughter. By now, Falcone certainly would have told all his Radford managers … those with financial interest in my tests.”

  “And possible motive to harm you.”

  Ellie nodded. “Yet, hours after I left the messages for Falcone, I heard noises and saw male footsteps outside Lisa’s house. And hours later a big guy tried to break in here. What’s going on?”

  “Maybe Falcone hasn’t picked up your message yet.”

  “Or maybe,” she said, “we’ve had it all wrong.”

  “How so?”

  “Maybe a Radford estate manager isn’t behind the attacks.”

  “But who else has motivation?”

  “Maybe someone we don’t know about yet. Maybe Radford had a secret wife, son or daughter who’ll pop out of the woodwork.”

  “No one’s popped into probate court with a petition.”

  Ellie shrugged. “Maybe they will this morning.”

  Quinn nodded. “Let’s find out. It’s 8:07. Try Falcone or his secretary again.”

  She dialed Falcone’s direct line. No answer, so she left a another message saying her DNA proved she was not Radford’s daughter. She left the same message for his secretary, Ramada.

  “So now what?” she said.

  “So now they’re still after you.”

  “I know!”

  “So you should remain here today.”

  “I can’t, Quinn.”

  He frowned. “Why not?”

  “In one hour, I have a major history exam worth one-third of my grade – and I have to nail it!”

  “But someone’s trying to nail you!”

  “I noticed, but – ”

  An idea flashed in her mind. “I’ll be right back.”

  She headed upstairs, and minutes later walked toward him and got the laugh she expected.

  She was wearing his Uncle Jack’s baggy jeans with turned-up cuffs, large sweatshirt, Harley Davidson jacket, boots and reflective sunglasses. A Louisville Bats baseball hat hid her hair and a mascara moustache adorned her upper lip.

  Quinn smiled. “You trying for Hilary Swank in Boys Don’t Cry?”

  “No. Brando in The Wild One!” she said.

  “Not even close. But your disguise might actually work!”

  “Good. But I just realized something that won’t work.”

  “What?”

  “Your Chevy. They’ll follow it.”

  “Maybe not.” He gestured for her to follow. They grabbed their books and backpacks, headed into the garage where Quinn lifted the tailgate of his uncle’s big black Cadillac Escalade and pointed her toward the cargo floor.

  “Jump Spike jump!”

  Smiling, she crawled onto the floor and lay down, feeling like a golden lab.

  Minutes later, Quinn parked in a campus garage. He popped the tailgate. Climbing out, Ellie saw her reflection in the Escalade’s window and froze. “I can’t!” she said.

  “Can’t what?”

  “Go to class looking like a cross-dressing, mascara-mustached, baggy-pants, gang-banger chick!”

  “So go to the restroom, wipe off your mustache, lose the hat and glasses, then go to class.”

  She didn’t have a better solution, so she took off walking down the pathway toward the Humanities Building. A hundred yards later, they entered the lobby, unscathed.

  “When you’re finished,” Quinn said, “text me. We’ll meet here.”

  She nodded, then hurried into a nearby restroom. She rubbed her eye-marker moustache hard, but wound up looking like she’d smeared licorice on her lips. She had no time to fix it.

  She hurried into her lecture hall, sat down and watched eyebrows climb as students noticed her makeover. The girl beside her whispered, “Hey, biker babe, what’s with the puffy dark lips?”

  Ellie started to say licorice, but said, “Bruised from passionate kissing.”

  “Good for you …”

  “You have no idea how good!”

  It all flooded back. Last night’s passionate, magical lovemaking with Quinn. She had wanted it to happen, and so had he. So it happened. Her strong attraction to him, his helping her find her birth mother, his protecting her against the attackers, his physical closeness to her, his leaving Jennifer, everything had converged to create the perfect, ov
erpowering storm of desire between them. Within minutes of the first kiss they were making love, hot intense passionate love, followed by slow intense passionate love, followed by more of both.

  After, as they lay there in the afterglow, he whispered, ‘Ellie …?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I love you, but – ”

  “ – but what?”

  He smiled. “I would have preferred you filthy rich.”

  She nailed him with her pillow.

  FIFTY EIGHT

  As Professor Summers walked into the large lecture room, Ellie looked around and noticed some new faces: an older silver haired gentleman, a middle-aged brunette, a large muscular man in a suit and tie. Class auditors maybe. The muscular man looked Slavic and wore thick Kissinger glasses beneath a blond crew cut. He glanced at her like many others did when she walked in, probably wondering about who the macho-chick with the too-big leather jacket and mascara-smudged mustache was.

  Professor Summers lectured a minute, then handed out the tests. She looked at the first question and knew the answer. Usually a good sign.

  Forty minutes later, she handed the test in, thinking she’d done pretty well. She walked out into the empty hallway and texted Quinn that she was done. He texted back, ‘See you in ten minutes.’ Down the hall, the elevator opened and a large janitor with a mop and bucket stepped out, glanced at her, then walked into a room.

  Three students wandered out complaining about a tough essay question. The guy wearing Kissinger glasses walked out, stared at her and headed down the hall to the bulletin board.

  Ellie chatted with the students, getting compliments, and frowns, for her new look. The students walked toward the elevator and entered, leaving her alone.

  Alone with Kissinger Glasses, who was still reading the bulletin board. Slowly, he turned and looked in her direction. Something about him didn’t seem right. Not a student. Not a professor. Maybe an athletic coach. But even that didn’t seem right. The large man made her uneasy.

  He glanced at her again and she felt her muscles tighten. She knew she was hyperventilating herself into paranoid mode. More students strolled out and she merged with them as they walked toward the elevators. She’d go down to the lobby and hang out there until Quinn arrived.

  The elevator doors opened and the students crammed in ahead of her, jamming the already packed elevator. She tried to squeeze on, but the overload buzzer blared and the doors shut fast, leaving her alone …

  … with Kissenger Glasses.

  Who was now walking toward her.

  No, he was hurrying!

  Why hurry if the elevator left?

  The second elevator opened and her instincts told her to get on even though it was going up.

  She boarded and jammed the Close Door button. It didn’t close. She jammed it again.

  Still didn’t close.

  She heard the man running now.

  A second later, his fingertips scraped the corner of the door as it was shutting – but it slammed shut anyway … and the elevator rose.

  She drained air from her lungs, got off on the top floor, hurried down the rear staircase to the ground floor lobby and mingled with students, her heart still racing.

  Kissinger Glasses was nowhere in sight.

  Nor was Quinn. She looked for a campus security guard. No such luck. A group of football players chatted nearby so she walked over and hid behind them.

  An elevator pinged open. Out walked two professors, the janitor and a student.

  And then Kissinger Glasses.

  He scanned the lobby, but didn’t see her.

  She turned around to talk to the football players – but saw they’d just stepped outside, leaving her exposed.

  Kissinger Glasses saw her and hurried toward her.

  As she started to run outside, he touched her arm.

  “Please wait – I don’t mean to frighten you.”

  Slowly, she turned toward the man, ready to scream her head off. The lobby was empty.

  “I just wanted to ask about your leather jacket. It looks fabulous. Who makes it?”

  He seemed genuinely interested. She opened the coat and showed him the Tommy Hilfiger label.

  “Hilfiger! I could have sworn it was a Lauren. Well it looks fabulous! A tad large for you, maybe. Again, I’m sorry if I frightened you. Thanks.” He got back on the elevator and headed up.

  She leaned against the wall, relieved and embarrassed that she’d misread the guy. She told herself to stop suspecting everyone who looked at her. She swallowed a dry throat and saw a water fountain down the hall next to her. She walked down to the fountain, bent over and started drinking.

  She heard noise behind her and saw the big janitor holding his mop and pail enter a maintenance closet. He smiled at her and she nodded and went back to drinking water.

  Someone grabbed her from behind. Turning, she saw it was the janitor. He yanked her toward the closet.

  As he fumbled with the doorknob, she shoved his mop handle deep into his groin hard. He moaned. She shoved even harder. He moaned louder, buckled over. She kneed him and he released her arm.

  She ran outside, caught up with the football players and walked with them, catching her breath. A few steps later, she saw Quinn walking toward her.

  When he saw her expression, he jogged up to her.

  “What the hell’s wrong?”

  “A big janitor in a dark green shirt back there just grabbed me.”

  Quinn looked back toward the building entrance. “I don’t see him.”

  She turned around and didn’t see him either. Quinn ran into the lobby, searching for the guy, and came back moments later.

  “He’s gone! He might be armed. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  They hurried back to his uncle’s Escalade and got in and drove off. Quinn dialed Fletcher Falcone, the Executor, and hit the speaker button. His secretary, Ramada, picked up.

  “Is Mr. Falcone there?”

  “No,” Ramada said. “I haven’t heard a word from him since yesterday afternoon.”

  “Where’d he go?”

  “I got no idea! I’m right worried.”

  FIFTY NINE

  Jessica Bishop sat in the Gen-Ident Lab lounge beside her very tall significant other, Jim Williams. A few months earlier, while running the Lexington Fun Run, she fell over his very long leg. That night at the Fun Run Party she fell for the rest of him.

  At six-foot-seven, Jim was the first boyfriend she’d ever looked up to. Reason enough to love the guy. But he also happened to be a smart, funny, easygoing, second-year student at the University of Kentucky Med School. They both worked part-time at Gen-Ident doing genetic research on diabetes and Alzheimer’s.

  During lunch breaks, like now, they watched CSI, checking for forensic errors.

  And today’s CSI episode was driving Jessica crazy. It involved a defendant who’d been positively identified by three rape victims, but found not guilty in each trial. For good reason: his DNA did not match the semen DNA recovered from the victims. The defendant swaggered out of court each case, laughing at the frustrated prosecutor.

  Two weeks later, the same defendant was arrested for rape. And again, the victim and her roommate positively identified him. So did a neighbor who saw him climb from the victim’s bedroom window. But amazingly, the defendant’s DNA once again did not match the semen DNA recovered from the victim. The baffled prosecutor repeated the DNA test twice, but got the same results. He was preparing to drop the charges when a lab technician ran into his office and said, “I know how he gets away with it!”

  “So do I!” Jessica said, almost dropping her tuna sandwich.

  “Let me guess,” Jim said. “His identical twin brother with slightly different DNA took the test for him?”

  “He doesn’t have an identical twin brother.”

  “One more guess.”

  “Go for it!”

  “He got a blood transfusion in his arm just before they took his DNA sample
from the same arm. So his test showed the donor’s DNA, not his!”

  Jessica shook her head. “Nope. He was in jail for forty-eight hours before the DNA test. And a new study says that’s highly unlikely to work. Blood circulates too fast. No … I was thinking of something else.”

  “What?”

  “A very special DNA test.”

  Jim looked confused. “DNA is DNA!”

  “Yes, but I should run the test for Ellie.”

  “Why?”

  “Her eyes.”

  “What about them?”

  “A rare possibility I’ve heard about. I need to read up on it first. Then I’ll explain what I’m wondering about.”

  Jim shrugged. “Go for it.”

  Jessica dialed Ellie’s phone number. Ellie picked up on the first ring.

  “Hey, Jessie.”

  “Get your cute self back to my lab fast!”

  SIXTY

  Fletcher Falcone smiled as he drove away from BoDeene’s Feed & Fertilizer, his secret little side business that brought him massive revenue. Delicious tax-free revenue.

  In fact, BoDeene’s Feed & Fertilizer gave him a much heftier profit margin than his law firm, Falcone & Partners, thanks mostly to the creativity and cunning of his weird cousin, BoDeene R. Dukes, a chemistry major dropout.

  Six years ago, BoDeene begged Falcone for two hundred thousand dollars to produce an “exciting new product” at BoDeene’s fertilizer store. BoDeene guaranteed him twenty times his investment within three years. Falcone laughed and turned him down. But when BoDeene showed him the product’s marketing plan, Falcone quickly loaned him the money. Best investment I ever made, by far.

  Who knew cooking crystal meth beneath the fertilizer store would rake in millions annually … pure profit millions now earning bushels of interest in some numbered accounts in Belize and Nevis.

  His phone rang.

  “Falcone.”

  “Hey, fat man,” Tony Broutafachi said, “my friend Tito tells me you won a shitload of money on the ponies at the Keeneland track yesterday.”