by Peter Parkin
Dennis pulled himself away from the drawing room and wandered down the hall, stopping at the bedroom that was now his mom's. He was glad that he had this guest bedroom on the main floor. It would have been impossible for his mother to negotiate the narrow stairs to the upper floors. But, the room needed some womanly touches. It was spartan, as most of the house was if truth were told.
Dennis' home was clearly a man's home. He hadn't spent any time or energy decorating it, or adding those essential little touches that made a home feel homey. He made a mental note to phone Melissa and enlist her help. While his mom probably wouldn't notice anything anyway, he wanted to at least make the home comfortable and pleasant for her. Lucy had always been a woman of style—she might still remember that aspect of her life. Well, probably not...but it would make Dennis feel better at least.
He walked out to the front porch and took a moment to marvel at how spring was making his city forget the vicious snowstorms it had faced during the winter—one of the worst winters in memory. Flowers were blooming now, and the trees were full to overflowing.
He loved living in Washington—some hated it, but he loved it. It had one hell of a history, including being burned to the ground by the British during the War of 1812. That was in retaliation for the Americans invading Toronto, Canada—then known as York and before Canada was even known as 'Canada.' But the British had left most of the residential areas in Washington untouched, which was the blessing that the city enjoyed today with priceless architecture that could be enjoyed by residents and tourists alike.
And the fact that the city was the nation's capital made it all the more exciting. The power of Washington was palpable—poor Philadelphia probably still rued the day that it lost the capital city prestige back in 1800.
However, the city sure had its share of problems, not the least of which were political scandals. And most Americans didn't realize that at one time not too long ago, it was the most violent city in the nation. "Murder Capital." Dennis took some pride in knowing that the crime rate had dropped by half over the past decade. He knew in his heart that his own tenacious leadership had contributed something to that astounding turnaround.
And most Americans also didn't realize that 55% of the city's population was African-American, compared with the national average of only 12%. Racial strife was something that Washington always had to be aware of, and deal with front and center—it didn't take much to set it off.
But 46% of the population also held university degrees, contrasting starkly with the country's average of only 27%. The obvious reason for this was the political centric, which also produced a very high average income of $61,000. And women did better in Washington than elsewhere in the country, with 44% having at least a Bachelor's degree.
As Dennis sipped his coffee on the front porch, he admired the stately Scarlet Oak on his front lawn, one of a hundred or so beauties on his street. He was proud that he had one of the city's official symbols right on his own property. A tree that motivated him to actually do some gardening once in a while—but in all honesty, only on those days when his gardener was sick. Dennis was not a natural-born domestic.
He sighed. Today was a day off from the grind, but it didn't feel like a day off. He was preoccupied with his mother and worried about how she would settle in—and how he would settle in. He wasn't accustomed to having a house guest. His sister certainly hadn't been able to take mom in, having been saddled herself with her husband's elderly parents. So, it fell to him, and he didn't exactly consider himself a nurturer or caregiver. He had a housekeeper, who took care of most of his shopping and cleaning needs. Now he'd hired a nurse as well, who would see to his mom's health, diet, and bathing. Dennis was relieved about that part—he loved his mother but he really didn't want to see her naked, not if he could help it.
The nurse would be arriving this afternoon, and she would actually be moving right in. One of the upstairs bedrooms would be hers, and she'd have a monitor in her room connected to Lucy's room. Any groans, moans or cries for help in the middle of the night would be responded to by the nurse. Dennis could concentrate on just sleeping—an activity he treasured sometimes more than life itself.
Dennis hadn't met the nurse yet. His secretary had taken care of the arrangements for him. She contacted an agency that specialized in private nursing care, and it apparently had a reputation for servicing government employees and retirees: senators, congressmen, even the families of former presidents. It was a prestigious, discreet and expensive agency.
Discretion was an important quality for a government-favored nursing service. Dennis knew, from inside gossip, that many times in the past there had been the need for specialized medical and nursing care for some very famous politicians. If only the public knew how many times presidents had been treated for venereal diseases, or how many had needed a daily regimen of antidepressants or uppers just to open their eyes and smile for the cameras. Things like that didn't exactly inspire confidence in leaders.
The expense didn't bother Dennis; he wanted the best for his mom and didn't want to have to worry about the quality of the employees. One thing about government-favored businesses—they generally employed the best people.
He glanced down the street and noticed that traffic seemed kind of heavy—typical Monday morning. Thankfully, he lived close to his office, about a fifteen-minute drive to police headquarters at the Henry J. Daly Building, 300 Indiana Avenue NW. He never minded the drive—with his morning coffee in the cup holder and the Bang/Olufsen pleasantly assaulting his senses, it was a pleasant way to start the day, to crank up his sharp brain.
The pensive moment was broken by the sound of the phone ringing inside the house. Dennis reluctantly went back inside and walked down the hall to the phone in the rear living room.
"Hello?"
"Dennis, it's Barb. How are you?"
Dennis smiled in recognition. "Barb, so good to hear from you. And I think I know why you're calling."
"Yes, you do. Bad boy! You didn't tell me that Lucy was moving. I had to go to the nursing home to visit her—all that way by myself—only to find out that you'd kidnapped her! I didn't even know they were closing down the home—why didn't you tell me?"
Dennis grimaced. "I'm sorry, Barb. So much to think about, I just forgot. Not nice. Yes, she's home with me now. And I have a nurse moving in this afternoon."
"You're such a busy man to begin with, without having the worry of your mom—I understand why you forgot about little old me. But I am hurt, you need to know that."
Dennis smiled. Barb was a marvelous flirt, and she always teased him mercilessly. "Well, I'll have to make it up to you. Dinner sometime? Please?"
"My heart just fluttered. An old woman like me can't take this kind of excitement—but I'll try to endure. For a handsome man like you, I'll endure. Yes, pick a night and I'll be there."
Dennis sat down on the leather sofa. "Well, now that we have our next date established, I think I know why you're really calling. You want to visit Lucy, right?"
"Yes, handsome. I have some flowers that I've lugged back and forth from the now non-existent nursing home. Can I come over tomorrow?"
"Sure, she'd love to see you."
"Don't kid a kidder, Denny. She won't even know I'm there—but I'll know, and that's all that matters to me."
Dennis pulled at the tassels on a pillow. "Yeah, we both know that's true. But I do have something exciting to tell you about. You'll be shocked. Come over tomorrow night—I'm back to work during the day, but I want to be here when you come. Okay?"
"Okay—I'll be there with bells on, around 7:00. Does that work?" "Works great—but leave the bells at home. I don't like it when you get that kinky!"
Dennis heard a sexy chuckle just before the line disconnected. Barb Jenkins was one of his favorite people in the entire world. She had worked closely with his mom at the Department of Defense. She was around sixty-five years old now and had retired from the DOD five years ago. She started working
with Lucy as a legal intern at around the tender age of twenty-five. Then after a short time, Lucy made it permanent, bringing her on as her executive assistant. Barb had graduated from Harvard Law with an honors degree at a very young age—one of the youngest who had ever achieved a degree from Harvard. She had been ahead of everyone her entire life, no surprise to Dennis. She had been brilliant—and still was.
Even though Barb had been ten years older than Dennis, he'd developed a serious crush on her after his marriage ended. And he always suspected she had too. Or at least he always received those kinds of signals from her. But—they had just remained friends despite all that stuff. She was still beautiful even at sixty-five: the face and body of a fifty-year old. But her real beauty was in her brain and spirit. No age could be placed on the magic Barbara spread from her marvelous gray cells.
Dennis was looking forward to seeing Barb, but most of all he was looking forward to sharing with her about the brief re-awakening of her former mentor—her close confidant, the woman who had done everything to make Barb Jenkins a resounding success. The woman who Barb had idolized for what seemed like forever. She would be thrilled to know that
Lucy, for a fleeting moment in time, had come alive again.
Dennis leaned his head back against the soft leather of his sofa. He sighed. Tomorrow he'd head back to work, back to the grind—but also to one other task that couldn't wait. Something weird, something that had left a knot in his stomach. The DOD men. He'd look into that. Nothing would stop him. While a full day had passed now since he'd caught them tampering with his mother's room, his anger hadn't passed.
And Dennis knew that, for him, anger was not the kind of emotion that subsided too willingly. It always lingered. Until resolved. And he always resolved it.
CHAPTER FOUR
It was warm for a spring evening. Central air conditioning hadn't yet adjusted to the sudden change in temperatures. Brett Horton dragged the sleeve of his shirt across his forehead, and rubbed the sweat out of his eyes. Then he continued to stare in the direction of two men sitting at a table in the corner.
He tried to remember the name of the bar he was in—Blinking Owl? Blinking Eagle? Not that it mattered. He picked up the coaster and squinted in the faint light. Yep, he was right on the first guess.
He watched with a practiced gaze, studying his subjects with the intensity that only twenty years in the United States Secret Service could teach. His trained eyes also flicked alertly back and forth across the bar without losing a moment of surveillance over his marks.
They were both well dressed, as you would expect to see in downtown Washington. Leaning in close to each other, they spoke in hushed tones. Brett knew who they were. One was a reporter for a sleazy political tabloid, the other was the legislative assistant to a very prominent, but very indiscreet, Senator.
Each of these young men were trying to make it in the power world of D.C. in their own way; except that today they had chosen the wrong way.
Brett raised his hand, motioning to the waiter for another beer. It was so hot, easy to drink beer on a day like this. He pondered that maybe the bar had actually disabled the air conditioning for just that very reason.
The beer came, and went. Brett downed it in one long pull—the liquid was soothing, and the partially suppressed belch afterwards was surprisingly satisfying. He allowed his eyes to focus on the men once again.
It was happening. He saw the reporter reach into his pocket, pull out an envelope and pass it over to the legislator. He opened it, fingered the contents briefly and then smiled in triumph. The man reached under the table, pulled his briefcase up onto his lap, and flicked it open. He dropped the envelope in and brought out another one, passing it over to the reporter with a sly smirk on his face.
The reporter nervously glanced around before taking a glance at the contents. Brett quickly averted his gaze. The young man held the envelope on his lap and slid several of the items out for a look. Then he looked up at the legislator, giving the thumbs up sign. He stuffed the envelope into an inside pocket of his suit jacket. The co-conspirators shook hands.
Then Brett got the gift he had been hoping for—one that always made his job so easy. The reporter stood up, excused himself and walked toward the washroom at the rear of the bar. This was far too easy.
Brett got up and followed. Reaching the washroom he took a quick glance inside first. The reporter had just unzipped and was standing at one of the four urinals. Brett bent down and looked under the stalls. Empty. Just you and me, kid. He went back out into the hall, removed a roll from his inside pocket and peeled off a bright yellow sticker. He flattened it to the outside of the washroom door. It read: 'Out of Order.'
Back inside the washroom, he pulled a rubber stopper out of another pocket and slid it under the door. He chuckled to himself as he thought back to when his tailor had expressed dismay and horror at being asked to sew no less than six inside pockets of various sizes to Brett's handsome stable of Saville Row suits.
He moved quickly now, no hesitation, and crept up behind the tall figure who was preoccupied with shaking the last errant drops from his penis. Brett shoved the man's head like a spiked volleyball, banging it into the ceramic tiled wall in front of him. He winced as he heard the sickening thud—he'd done this trick a thousand times and still hadn't gotten used to the sound.
The man bounced backward and crumpled to the floor, blood streaming from his forehead, eyeballs swimming in utter confusion. Brett calmly reached down, opened the man's jacket, and removed the envelope. Then he wagged a scolding finger across the stunned reporter's face. "You've been a very naughty boy. And you just spent a lot of money for nothing. Well, not entirely true. It will go to my favorite charity—me."
Brett strode to the door, stuffed the rubber stopper back into one of his six inside pockets, and walked quickly back to the main part of the bar. The legislator was still sitting at the table sipping his beer, waiting patiently for his partner in crime. Instead, he got Brett.
Brett sat down in a chair next to the shocked man, pulling in as close beside him as he could. He smiled at him. Putting one hand on the table, he leaned in close, shoving his other hand under the table until it found its mark. He squeezed the little man's balls with such force that he knew a hard-on would be impossible for him for at least a month. Peeing might prove difficult too.
The man gasped and tears quickly formed in his eyes. Brett continued to smile. "Open up your briefcase and hand over that envelope that is apparently stuffed with ill-gotten cash." He patted the front of his suit coat. "I have the photos by the way. Your friend let me have them. He is so agreeable, don't you think?"
The legislator gingerly leaned over and picked up his briefcase. He quickly unsnapped it for the second time that afternoon. Brett reached in and grabbed the envelope with his free hand. With his otherwise occupied hand he gave the man's balls one last hard squeeze just to make sure he had something to remember him by. Another gasp, louder this time. Tears were now streaming down his cheeks. Brett laughed.
He reached into the envelope and withdrew a fifty-dollar bill, dropping it on the table. "The least I can do is pay for your beers."
Brett scraped his chair back and stood up. "Tell me, son. What's your favorite charity?" The man looked up at him with a puzzled expression. Brett persisted, "Well, tell me. What is it?"
"Heart...and Stroke...Foundation."
Brett nodded in appreciation. "Good choice. My father died of heart disease, so I like that one too. I'm going to give some of this money to that charity, okay?" He smirked. "Does that help make this day worthwhile in some way for you?"
The legislator grimaced. "Who...the fuck...are you?"
"Someone you don't want to meet again. And you probably won't, because there's one more thing I want you to do today. As soon as you get back to the office, you're going to hand in your resignation to the good Senator. And if you don't, I'll know about it. Get my drift, son?"
The man nodded furiously—e
ither in agreement or in spasm—as Brett turned around and strode calmly out of the bar.
He was glad to be outside again. At least there was a breeze. It had been stifling in the Blinking Owl. He patted his jacket pocket and wondered for a brief moment what the photos would show. He always wondered whenever he had to retrieve these packages. But he never ever looked. He didn't need the complication of knowing; neither did he need the emotional conflict of trying to establish in his mind the good guys from the bad guys. He would deliver the photos to his client at the prearranged time at the prearranged place. But he would keep whatever money was left over after the charitable donation—a nice tip for a hot day's work.
His Secret Service training had drilled incredible discipline into his psyche. He was fully aware of how detached he was. Work was just work, he didn't judge. He served. Even now, in private practice, he served— served his clients. When he was Secret Service, his client had been the U.S. government. His job then had been to protect the President, his family and other politicians. And the sanctity of the U.S. Treasury.
He had been assigned to the Presidential detail on several occasions for three separate Presidents, but never as a permanent assignment. He had been glad about that. Presidential details were far too messy. He didn't like messy. And they were boring also. He felt his talents had been wasted whenever he guarded the President. He much preferred his specialty—counter terrorism. Brett had been one of only a handful of agents who had been trusted to oversee the security of every destination that the President visited. And in the last three years before he retired, he was in charge of investigating every credible threat that the federal government became aware of. Anything that involved national security, existence of government, or continuity of government. He loved that work—it teased his brain. His sometimes very overactive brain.
