[Lady Justice 13] - Lady Justice and the Assassin Read online

  “That’s what I would have done. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Now that we know the money is available, I can make the first contact with our mark. I don’t expect him to say ‘yes’ right away, but he’ll come around. His family is desperate.”

  “I’ll let you know when the money has cleared,” Cobb said. “In the meantime, do you need anything else from the militia?”

  “As soon as we have our assassin on board, I’ll need for you to check him out. We can’t expect a guy that has spent the last twelve years sitting behind a desk to be a sharpshooter --- especially with a handgun. I expect that he’ll need a week or more at that Ozark encampment of yours to become proficient enough to pull this off.”

  “If he’s got two good eyes and his hands don’t shake, we’ll make a shooter out of him. By the way, you’ve only mentioned one guy. Who’s taking care of the vice president?”

  “Don’t worry about that,” Jaeger replied. “The VP will be on the West Coast when all of this comes down. We have an organization in California similar to yours handling that end of things. The more we can keep the operation compartmentalized, the safer we all will be if something goes wrong.”

  “Makes sense. Let me know when your boy is on board.”

  The house was deathly quiet as Henry Martin opened the box that held their wedding album.

  The only sound was the ticking of the old mantel clock that had belonged to his grandparents. He silently wondered what would become of the treasured heirloom when the house was gone.

  As he thumbed through the pages of the album, he reflected on that time so many years ago. Everything was so perfect then. He had just graduated with his MBA and landed the job at Majestic Enterprises. His first paycheck was all the encouragement that he needed to ask Marsha to be his wife. He had promised her that he would take care of her forever.

  A tear rolled down his cheek and landed on the photo of them standing at the alter exchanging vows.

  “How,” he thought, “could things change so drastically?”

  Little Billy had come along a year later. He had been so proud when he opened the savings account for his son’s college tuition. That account had been emptied months ago to pay utility bills.

  He looked around the basement storage room. His whole life was stored away in the boxes that were stacked in neat rows. He had to decide what to save and what to throw away, and he just wasn’t up to the heartbreaking task.

  The sound of the telephone interrupted his melancholy musings. His first impulse was to ignore it --- probably bill collectors harassing him for a payment --- but it might be Marsha.

  “Hello,” he said cautiously.

  “Hello, Mr. Martin.”

  Henry nearly dropped the phone. The voice coming over the line had obviously been altered electronically. He had heard voice enhancers on many mystery programs on TV, but he had never experienced one in real life.

  “Y-Y-Yes. This is Henry Martin. Who is this?”

  “At this point in time, you can just call me Max. I have a proposition that I think will interest you.”

  “A proposition? What kind of proposition?”

  “First, let me tell you what I know about your situation. You lost your position at Majestic Enterprises several months ago and haven’t found new employment. Your benefits have run their course and in sixty days your home with be auctioned on the courthouse steps.”

  “How could you know all of that?”

  “Please Mr. Martin. This is the electronic age. You of all people should know that. Everything about everyone is available somewhere. One just has to know where to look. Now, to make matters even worse, your wife, Marsha, and Billy have had to take shelter with her parents --- on Brookside Boulevard, I believe.”

  “Look, Max --- or whatever your name is, my family is none of your business and if you ---!”

  “Calm down, Henry. I’m not here to threaten your family. I’m here to help. Now are you interested in hearing my proposition?”

  His first impulse was to hang up, but curiosity got the better of him. “Go ahead. I’m listening.”

  “Very wise choice, Henry. If my calculations are correct, a quarter of a million dollars would set your family up very nicely. It would pay off the remaining balance on your home, clear out the balances on those pesky credit cards that you have maxed out and maybe even be enough to replace the funds in little Billy’s college savings account.”

  Henry was speechless.

  “I suppose that you’re wondering what you would have to do to earn that kind of money? I would be too. Before I tell you, I want you to think very carefully about your family and what lies ahead for them. What options do you have to pull them back from the brink of disaster?”

  Silence.

  “That’s what I thought, Henry. Now are you interested in hearing my proposition or should I just hang up?”

  “I’m listening.”

  “It’s really quite simple. You have but one thing to do to earn that rather large sum of money and save your family.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “Assassinate the President of the United States.”

  Henry couldn’t believe what he was hearing. During the conversation, he had imagined several scenarios, but nothing like this.

  “Are you crazy? What makes you think that I would ever even consider such a heinous act?”

  “Because, Henry, you are a desperate man and desperate men do desperate things --- especially to save their families. I know you’re not a murderer or a sociopath. If you were, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.

  “Think about this. If an intruder broke into your home and threatened Marsha and Billy, and you had the means to end that threat, would you hesitate?”

  “Of course not. But this is different.”

  “How is this different? Your family has been put in harm’s way by a government that sent your job to Mexico. You are competing with thousands of others for the few jobs that are available. The government gave billions to bail out the banks, but hasn’t spent a dime helping a hard working man like yourself save his home. I could go on, but you’re a sharp guy. You get the picture. All we’re asking you to do is eliminate the threat to your family.”

  “I - I - I could never do that. It’s just not right. I’m no assassin!”

  “Henry, I know this is a lot to digest. I’m not asking you to make a decision right this minute. Think about it. Think about what a quarter of a million dollars could do for your family. I’ll give you this number. Just so you know, it is a burner phone and untraceable, but you probably figured that already. You might also think how silly you would sound, going to the police and telling them that some guy called and offered you two hundred and fifty grand to kill the president. Think about your family, Henry. This is your ticket out of this mess. I’ll be waiting for your call.”

  The line went dead.

  Henry remained motionless for several minutes, replaying the conversation in his mind.

  “Who was this guy? Was it just a crank call? A horrible prank? A foreign government? Al-Qaeda?”

  It really didn’t matter. There was no way that he would ever consider such a despicable act.

  He climbed the stairs and turned off the basement lights.

  As he walked through the kitchen, he passed the door casing where marks measuring Billy’s height had been made every year on his birthday.

  In a few months, these marks, precious to his family, would be painted over by some new family and lost forever.

  He stood in the silence of the lonely house, his heart aching for his family, his mind envisioning things he never thought possible.

  CHAPTER 5

  Captain Short laid the sheaf of papers on his desk. “Nothing! The crime lab boys couldn’t find a fingerprint other than the owners at either location. No evidence of any kind. Have you come up with anything?”

  Ox shook his head. “The owners are as baffled as we are. We can’t come up with any logical motive wh
y anyone would break into a home just to shave a dog --- unless maybe we’re dealing with some kind of wacko. They really don’t need a reason.”

  “Any connection between the two families?”

  “Not that we have found,” I replied. “They live in different parts of the city, run in different social circles and neither remembers ever meeting the other.”

  “You can go back to your regular patrol unless --- .” At that moment, the Captain’s intercom buzzed.

  “Captain Short. Call on line three.”

  The Captain motioned for us to wait while he took the call. After a brief conversation, he hung up and gave us a puzzled look. “Forget the regular patrol. There’s been another dog shaving. This time it’s a Labradoodle. Stop by my secretary’s desk on your way out. She’ll give you the address. Bring me something this time.”

  While the two previous shavings had taken place in well-to-do neighborhoods, the address of the latest assault on our furry friends was in a blue-collar part of the city.

  “I don’t get it,” Ox said. “Lhasa Apso, Bichon Frise and now a Labradoodle. Whatever happened to plain old dogs? Doesn’t anyone own a Collie or a Cocker Spaniel anymore? Seems like the perp is only interested in the more exotic breeds and he certainly isn’t interested in shaving mutts.”

  “Good observation,” I replied. “There has to be some connection between these dogs that we just haven’t seen yet.”

  We pulled up in front of a modest, but well maintained two-story home.

  Ox looked at the case printout. “Owner’s name is Morton Baughman. I can’t wait to hear his story.”

  We knocked and a thirty-something guy in a sweat suit opened the door.

  After introductions, Ox got right to the point. “Your dog. What happened?”

  “In order for you to get the full impact of our situation, I need to show you this,” he said, grabbing two photos from his coffee table.”

  “That’s a dog?” Ox asked. “Looks like a lion!”

  “Exactly!” Baughman said. “That’s Charlie. He lives in Virginia and he’s very well known to the local police. His owner, Chris Painter, had him groomed to look like a lion and he’s become quite a celebrity. He even has his own Facebook page with over a thousand friends.”

  “Interesting,” I said, “but what’s that have to do with our current situation?”

  He handed us another photo. “This is my dog Duke. The Duke of Earl, actually. We had him groomed just like Charlie. Cost me two hundred bucks.”

  The dogs in the two photos could have been lion brothers.

  “And now?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

  “And now it’s gone --- all of it --- along with my two hundred bucks. And that’s not the worst. Let me show you something.”

  He grabbed a remote off the coffee table and pushed some buttons. The disk started playing, the TV screen lit up and Duke was standing in regal anticipation of something that was happening off screen. A few seconds later, the old 50’s song, Duke of Earl, by Gene Chandler could be heard. As soon as the song started, Duke was on his hind legs twirling to the music.

  Duke --- Duke --- Duke --- Duke of Earl --- Duke --- Duke. As I walk through this world, nothing can stop the Duke of Earl.

  Duke danced until the song ended and eagerly waited for the treat from his owner that he knew would be coming.

  “That’s really cool,” I said, earnestly. “That song is one of my favorites. So what’s the problem?”

  “Let me show you,” he said, leading us into the kitchen.

  Lying on a rug with his head resting on his paws was the once regal, now shaved, Duke of Earl. The look in his eyes could only be described as sad and forlorn.

  “Here, Duke,” Baughman coaxed. “Come to Daddy.” He held out a treat. The dog looked but never moved.

  “Now watch this,” he said, flipping a switch on a boom box.

  Gene Chandler’s classic song filled the room, but poor Duke never moved.

  Baughman flipped off the boom box. He’s been like this ever since --- the incident. He’s completely demoralized.”

  “Never knew dogs were so touchy,” Ox said.

  “Dogs have feelings just like people,” Baughman said, indignantly. “How would you like to be stripped naked for the world to see?”

  A mental image flashed through my mind. It wasn’t pretty.

  “Yeah, I guess,” Ox said, apologetically. “How did the perp get into the house?”

  “Back door,” Baughman said, pointing.

  Just like the home of the first invasion, a small window had been broken, allowing access to the deadbolt.

  “Any thoughts as to who might have done this?” I asked.

  Baughman shook his head. “None! I just can’t get my head around why someone would do this. It makes no sense.”

  I had to agree with him on that.

  We called the lab boys, knowing full well that they would come up empty, but we had to try.

  We bid farewell to Morton Baughman and as I took one last look into the dog’s sad eyes, it actually grieved me to think, after all the years of humming that song, that something could actually stop the Duke of Earl.”

  Back in the cruiser, Ox’s thoughts, as they often do, turned to food.

  “So I guess we’re taking the girls to dinner tonight. Any idea where?”

  “Nope. Maggie told me she’d let me know when I got home.”

  “Well I hope it’s someplace good. Last night, I actually dreamed about a big, juicy T-bone and a loaded baked potato. When I woke up, I’d been drooling on my pillow.”

  I had heard about ‘wet dreams’, but this was a new one.

  Later that afternoon, when I pulled up in front of the three-story apartment building that I own, Professor Skinner and Jerry Singer were sitting on the front porch.

  Maggie and I occupy the entire third story of this brownstone beast on Armour Boulevard. The other four apartments are occupied by my dad, his octogenarian squeeze, Bernice, the Professor and Jerry. My old friend and maintenance man, Willie, lives in a studio apartment in the basement.

  If there ever were another odd couple to compete with Tony Randall and Jack Klugman, it would be Jerry and the Professor. They are as opposite as night and day. The Professor was my mentor during my university days. His studies included philosophy, psychology and sociology. Over the years, his scholarly insights have guided me through some rough and troublesome times. Jerry, on the other hand, lives only to tell jokes, hence the name we have given him, Jerry the Joker. For some reason, the two have bonded, and on rare occasions, the usually somber Professor will actually crack a joke. Unfortunately, we haven’t seen any signs that Jerry has picked up any of the Professor’s intellectual traits.

  Jerry was waving a copy of the Kansas City Star. “Walt! You and Ox are in the paper. The Dynamic Duo has made the news!”

  I had seen the article about the dog-shaving intruder earlier. I was hoping no one else would notice.

  “Why would ANYONE break into a house just to shave a dog? That’s just crazy!”

  Coming from Jerry, that was quite an indictment.

  “That’s the $64,000 dollar question,” I replied. “If we had a motive, we might have somewhere to start.”

  “I’ve got a dog joke. You wanna hear it?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “Not really, but I thought I’d ask just to be polite. Anyway, two guys were walking down the street when they came across a dog sitting on the sidewalk studiously licking his balls. ‘Oh boy, I’d like to do that,’ sighed one man enviously. ‘Go right ahead,’ encouraged his friend. ‘But if I were you, I’d pat him first’.”

  “Very funny.”

  Not to be outdone, the Professor weighed in. “A continuation of that very old and tired joke is the question ‘why do dogs do it?’ and the usual answer is ‘because they can’, but actually, ball licking may be an indication that the dog has a skin disorder. By the way, did you know that there is archeo
logical proof that dogs were domesticated and have been man’s best friend for over 14,000 years?”

  This was way more than I wanted to know about canis lupus familiaris. “Thanks for all of that, but Maggie is waiting for me.”

  As I headed up the stairs, Jerry got off a parting shot. “What do you call a dog with no legs? Doesn’t matter. He won’t come anyway.”

  When I opened the door, Maggie was standing there with purse in hand, ready for our evening out.

  “What took you so long?”

  “I got waylaid by Frick and Frack on the front porch. We’d better leave by the back stairs or we’ll never get away.”

  “So what is our dining destination?” I asked as we made our way across town to pick up Ox and Judy.

  “It’s a surprise. You’ll just have to wait till we’re all together to find out.”

  Her response sent a shiver down my spine. Her ‘dining surprises’ more often than not, had turned out to be ‘dining disasters’ to my picky palate.

  We had just turned off the expressway, when I noticed a billboard. It read, ‘Heart of America Kennel Club Dog Show’. The event was to be held in Bartle Hall in downtown Kansas City. I made a mental note to mention this to Ox.

  Once we were all in the car, I inquired, “Okay, where to? What’s the big surprise?”

  “Head for the Plaza,” Maggie replied.

  “Our first thought was to eat a JJ’s,” Judy said.

  “JJ’s is good,” Ox replied. “They have a fantastic Kansas City Strip steak.”

  “Well, that was our first thought, but then Jane, one of Maggie’s friends at the real estate office, told her about the Melting Pot. It sounded fun and different, so that’s where we’re going.”

  “What makes it different?” I asked apprehensively.

  “It’s a fondue restaurant,” Maggie replied proudly.

  “What’s fondue?” Ox asked.

  “It’s fun!” Judy replied. “You cook your own food right at your table in special little pots of bubbling liquid.”

  “I’m going out to eat and I have to cook my own dinner?” Ox asked incredulously.