His screen pinged with a priority call from Lisa.
“Check the news feeds!” she told him, obviously excited. “You’re not gonna believe this…but I think you’ll be really happy when you see it.”
“What…Kim’s piece? She told us it wouldn’t run until tomorrow…”
Kim had sent Mark an email this morning. Her producers had been extremely happy with her when they saw the interview—so happy, they’d decided to go with a big production workup and put it on their Saturday prime-time news magazine program.
“No…not Kim. Here…let me send you a link to the story. Just look at it. I’m not gonna say any more.”
“Okay…” He selected the link. An anchorwoman was looking at the camera with a grave expression, and behind her on the screen was a picture of…
“TV viewers—especially children—were saddened by news of the untimely death of Magic World star Maurice LeChance, who was killed late yesterday in a skydiving accident. LeChance, known to viewers as ‘Lucky Maurice,’ apparently became separated from his parachute harness after jumping out of an aircraft and fell more than 10,000 feet to his death.
“At this time, we have no further information as to how the accident happened, but we are told that LeChance was a veteran skydiver with almost a hundred jumps to his credit. Both the FAA and the NTSB are investigating.”
Mark flipped back to Lisa’s grinning image on the screen. “Guess I won’t have to earn that 2 million bucks after all,” he told her.
“I think you’ve already earned it,” she said. “It’s been eating you up for the last two days. I swear, Love, I will never do that to you again.”
“Do you think it really was an accident? I mean…the guy was going to punch out tomorrow anyway. Maybe he just decided he’d rather go out with a bang.”
“A bang? More like a splat…but he certainly got attention. In a way, it kind of fits with the read I got on him. Guess we’ll never know.”
Being happily certain that Maurice would be a no-show, Mark spent Saturday morning in his office with The Matrix on his screen. Knowing the way the game worked, he realized he was unlikely to better his score of 182, but the thing was challenging, and just plain fun.
Lisa had also decided to put the Ferry’s work aside for the moment and start work on the book she was writing; one she didn’t plan to publish until she and Mark decided to retire. After a somewhat fitful start, the writing itself was flowing smoothly, but she hadn’t yet settled on a title for the book. She had already rejected Mark’s suggestion: ‘Murder with the Victim’s Permission—The Story of Charon’s Ferry’. Too wordy and way too pretentious, she decided.
They broke for lunch at noon, then decided they really should spend a little time on business. They were in the conference room reviewing some recently received applications when Mark’s pad chimed with an incoming call on his direct line.
“Hmmm…L.A. County Prosecutor’s Office.” Mark looked at the incoming ID. “Must be something big, if they’re actually working on Saturday.” He touched the pad to take the call, audio only.
“Mark Marshall.”
“Mr. Marshall, this is Eric Wilder, Assistant District Attorney for Los Angeles County. I’m calling in regard to a suicide case, specifically the illegal suicide of one Maurice LeChance. I believe he was a client of yours.”
“Our client list is confidential and—as I’m sure you know—not subject to legal discovery. Check Charon’s Ferry, LifeEnders, et. al. vs. State of California, Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals,” Mark replied coldly. “Besides, Mr. LeChance died by accident, according to the media reports I’ve seen.”
“It was no accident. The media aren’t reporting the whole story.”
“Really…and that story is?”
“They’re saying he became separated from his parachute harness. That might support an accident hypothesis, were it not for the fact that he also ‘became separated’ from every bit of clothing he was wearing on the way down. We found one of those signature purple shoes of his a quarter-mile from the impact site.”
Lisa had been listening and was making a supreme effort to suppress a fit of giggles. Mark looked at her with a grin and a suppressed chuckle of his own.
“You’re saying he hit the ground naked?” he managed to ask in a serious voice.
“As a jaybird. Not even socks or underwear. FAA says he would have had more than a full minute of freefall, based on the altitude from which he jumped. Plenty of time for an airborne striptease.”
“I see. And this should interest me…why, exactly?” Mark was in serious business mode again.
“Mr. Marshall, I don’t need to see your client list. I have access to the late Mr. LeChance’s financial records. He transferred a large sum of money—2.5 million dollars, to be exact—to Charon’s Ferry, LLC just three days ago. We’ll need to seize that money, of course, as part of LeChance’s estate.”
“No, you won’t. That money was in payment of a legal obligation prior to Mr. LeChance’s untimely death. It is not part of the estate—see Charon’s Ferry vs. Los Angeles County, again 9th Circuit Court of Appeals, just two years ago.”
“I’m not going to search through a bunch of ancient-history decisions that may or may not apply. We are taking that money—you’ll have to go to court if you wish to contest it.”
“No, counselor, you aren’t taking the money.” Mark looked at a message that had just popped up on his screen. “In fact, you tried to take it about two minutes ago, and the bank shut you down,” Mark told him. “If they hadn’t, you wouldn’t have bothered to call me in the first place.
“We are a federally chartered corporation under the jurisdiction of Homeland Security. You lack the authority to attach or garnish funds from the Ferry. For that matter, even a federal district court order against one of our accounts would trigger an automatic referral to the appeals court. For someone in your position, you seem sadly ignorant of the law, Mr. Wilder.”
“Look, Marshall…I’m about to issue a warrant for your arrest. Now release the money, and we’ll just forget this ever happened.”
“No, you’re not going to do that, either. The anti-suicide statute is a federal law that allows local authorities to proceed against the estate of Maurice LeChance. It does not allow you to issue an arrest warrant for anyone—not even LeChance, if by some miracle he had survived. Only a federal prosecutor can do that. You know damned well you’re not going to get cooperation from Albright’s office, so I’d advise you to kiss your dreams of a multimillion-dollar windfall goodbye.”
Leona Albright was the U.S. Attorney for the district, and a friend of both the Ferry and LifeEnders. Mark waited for a further reaction from Wilder and heard only crickets—though he could well imagine the little shit on the verge of apoplexy.
“We have no further business to discuss, Mr. Wilder. Have a nice day.” Mark cut off the connection and looked at Lisa.
“Why am I thinking we haven’t heard the last of this?” she asked.
“Because we probably haven’t,” he admitted.
“You kicked his testicles up between his ears,” she said. “Petty bureaucrats don’t react well to that kind of treatment. They think they have infinite authority over everyone and don’t like to be reminded of their limits—especially in such a disrespectful manner.”
“So…you would have handled him differently?”
“Of course,” she said in a serious tone. “I’d have substituted ‘Go fuck yourself’ for ‘Have a nice day.’”
Saturday ended on a high note. Mark and Lisa watched Katie Kim’s Inside Charon’s Ferry exclusive and concluded that Kim had done well by them. More importantly, she had apparently convinced her producers that future access to the Ferry was more important than any sensationalism they might want to apply to the story. The report was factual and to the point, but as Mark had predicted…
“Told you they would use it,” he said smugly. “Bet it goes viral.”
“Great!” Lisa
rolled her eyes. “I go from nobody to the Angel of Death in 10 seconds of video. From social-media invisible to thousands of followers…just what I need.”
“Hopefully that asshole Wilder will see it and get the message,” Mark grumbled.
“What message would that be?”
“Don’t fuck with the Ferry.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Three Choices
Sunday and Monday passed with no further mention of the LeChance affair. Tuesday morning found Mark in his office with Simpson, as scheduled.
“ID…” Mark held out his hand, and Simpson handed it over.
“Wrong ID…unless you want us to tell DHS that ‘Juan Hidalgo’ is now deceased.” He handed the card back to Simpson.
So that’s your new identity, is it? Hope you didn’t pay too much money for it…The Ferry’s system had already spotted it for a fake, failing on three different verification parameters. You’ll never get on an airline flight with this one—or get past HSA at any border crossing.
“Oh, hell! That’s the wrong card. Here’s my old one.”
This time the card checked, and Mark slid the contract across the desk.
“Imprint,” he ordered. Simpson reached forward and provided the requested verification. The square turned green.
“Are we done now?”
“Almost…” Mark pressed a button, and the panel on top of his desk slid open silently. He reached in and took out the suppressed Glock 21 and shot Simpson three times in the chest.
Simpson only had time to open his mouth before the hollow-point .45 rounds slammed him back in the chair. Mark was an expert marksman, but also a practiced executioner. He placed the three shots in a neat two-inch triangle in the middle of the man’s chest. Tight groups were fine on the target range, but the goal here was maximum cardiovascular damage.
The chair tilted backward with the impact, keeping Simpson from getting up—unnecessary this time, since he no longer had the ability to do so. His body convulsed momentarily, then his head lolled to the side, and he went limp.
The first rule was to verify the kill. Mark got up and checked for a carotid pulse, keeping the Glock trained on Simpson’s forehead. Satisfied the target was dead, he reached into Simpson’s coat pocket and retrieved an expensive personal pad.
Showing it the dead man’s face activated its recognition software and allowed Mark to open it up. He then deactivated the security features—had to get an imprint from Simpson’s still warm index finger to confirm the changes—and had access to everything on the device. Hmmm…was going to hit him up for an extra 500k, but it looks like he’s already transferred all but a few dollars to a bank account in Nicaragua. And…here’s his airline boarding pass—Juan Hidalgo, First Class, LAX to Managua.
His other coat pocket contained a wallet with a bundle of cash—U.S. Dollars—and a U.S. Passport, also in Hidalgo’s name. A quick scan revealed that it was as poorly faked as the first UID he’d produced.
“Look at it this way, Simpson…” he told the dead man, “I’ve just saved you the embarrassment of being arrested at the airport. You’d never have made it out of the country.”
Not surprisingly, Simpson didn’t reply.
He was still looking through the wallet when Lisa came in. Zipping up her coveralls, she went to the chair and started stripping the corpse.
“I think most of this outfit is wasted,” she remarked. “Even if we got the blood out, the bullet holes would probably raise eyebrows at the Salvation Army. And the pants…eeewww…you told me the guy was full of shit, but…”
“Red tag it,” Mark agreed. Bags that went down the laundry chute with a red tie on them went straight to the incinerator. “Just be sure to check the pockets. I’m pretty sure he’s got…”
“This?” she held up the key remote. “Gee…we own a Lamborghini, and it’s right downstairs in the garage, next to my Audi.”
“Assuming it isn’t leased or bought on credit,” he said. Per the contract, any personal property a client brought onto the premises on termination day belonged to Charon’s Ferry—subject to any prior liens. “We’ll run the title when we search the car and see what else he’s got down there.”
“All done,” she declared. “Nice belt and shoes, anyway. Somebody will be glad to get them.”
Together, they dragged the stripped body to the far wall, where Lisa opened the access panel for the disposal chute. Seconds later, a splash announced the arrival of the late Warren Simpson in the basement tank.
Cleanup didn’t take long. Mark wiped down the chair and disinfected the cushions. The bullet holes had disappeared in the self-sealing foam, and the spent bullets—stopped by the steel back plate—were in the catch tray below.
He cleaned the Glock and reloaded it before putting it back in the desk compartment. Setting the floorbot to work, he went to join Lisa in the cafeteria.
“The guy may have been an evil genius in the money world,” he told her, “but he didn’t know jack shit about bugout. Those fake IDs wouldn’t have passed anywhere that mattered, and his airfare was paid with a credit account in his real name.”
“Well, yeah,” she replied with a grin, “and I imagine people would wonder how that Lamborghini ended up in long-term parking at the airport.”
“Oh…by the way…” She displayed the certificate she’d retrieved from the car’s glove compartment.
“Title, free and clear…I went down and got it while you finished the clean-up. Left everything else in the car to check later, but I really wanted to find this. Ooooohhh—can I drive it? Can I?” She was almost bouncing in her chair with eagerness.
“As soon as I process the transfer through DMV, it’s yours,” he promised. “Just so you know—that thing is worth more than he paid us for the contract.”
“I know…” She was grinning at him. “A brand-new Huracan Evo Spyder in that sexy green color—Verde Selvans, they call it.”
“How do you know so much about…?”
“I did a little research after he showed up with it Friday,” she admitted. “I was kind of hoping he’d be dumb enough to bring it today.”
Lisa was still expounding the Lamborghini’s virtues when their pads chimed with the intrusive tone of a security alert—someone at the gate requesting entry. Mark brought up the kiosk camera and found himself looking at a familiar face.
“Sheriff Dunn…what brings you to the Ferry today?”
“Hello, Mark…just a sticky little issue, didn’t want to put it on one of my deputies—sure as hell didn’t want to give it to the rookie on process-server duty. I know what the result’s going to be, so I brought it myself.”
“Sounds like you’re trying to tell me somebody wants you to serve papers on me. Let me guess…L.A. County Prosecutor’s office? Assistant D.A. by the name of Eric Wilder?”
“He’s a piss-ant,” Dunn replied, “I’d just tell him to pound sand, but my office has a duty to serve papers from the D.A.’s office, so…”
Charlie Dunn was an elected official who had little regard for political appointees and bureaucrats. He was also a former Army Ranger whose campaign for sheriff Mark had supported.
“So…what have you got?” The sheriff was not required to advise the recipient as to the contents of a subpoena before serving, but Mark knew Dunn wouldn’t make an issue of it.
“Let me see here…subpoena, signed by that idiot Judge Werner, ordering you to turn over all ‘contracts and related documents concerning your dealings with one Maurice LeChance, deceased.’ Hmmm…now I know you didn’t snuff old ‘Lucky Maurice’—word is, he thought he could fly and was doing fine until he ran out of sky. So what’s up with this?”
“It’s a money grab.” Mark shook his head. “The aforementioned piss-ant has reason to believe LeChance paid us big bucks for ‘services unspecified’ two days before he hit the dirt.
“You know the drill, Charlie—federally chartered corporation, everything we do protected by the Official Secrets Act. Nor
mally I’d invite you in for lunch, but under the circumstances, I’ve got to invoke Homeland Security on this one and refuse access. You can tell the piss-ant you’re unable to serve the papers due to lack of jurisdiction.”
“I will happily do that.” Dunn grinned at the camera, then sobered. “Just be aware—he’s not done with this. Word I got was he couldn’t get a warrant for your arrest—not even Werner was that stupid—so now he’s talking to Westview P.D. Wants them to stake out your place, stop and question anybody entering or leaving. Now I don’t think Chief Willis will go along with it—or if he does, it’ll just be a token show—but for what it’s worth…”
“Thanks, Charlie. I appreciate it. How does this guy get past his own boss? I would think Meyerdahl would have stepped on him after his first attempt failed.”
Wallace Meyerdahl was the district attorney, and Dunn’s face took on a sour look at the mention of his name.
“The word is Wilder’s the one calling the shots over there. Young punk came out of nowhere and immediately became a first-class pain in everybody’s ass. I think he’s got something on Meyerdahl, something heavy enough he figures he can do anything he wants. Wouldn’t surprise me—our distinguished DA’s been into some nasty political shit for years.”
“You know we hate whacking bureaucrats.” Jay Morgan did not look happy. “But if he can pull shit like this with you, it’s probably only a matter of time before he comes after us.”
LifeEnders had a hard rule against killing elected officials—they weren’t in the business of overruling the will of the people. Likewise, they refused to hit a sitting judge, even of the lowest court, or a serious candidate for elected office during a campaign.
“Can’t have the political process turning into a gang war,” Morgan had once remarked. “Considering the amount of money some of these politicos spend to get elected, they could pay for a half-dozen hits out of their slush funds. Don’t know if the Federal Elections Commission would consider that a legitimate campaign expenditure, but we aren’t about to let them find out.”
The Ferryman Page 18
