[Lady Justice 13] - Lady Justice and the Assassin Page 4

  “Don’t be a big poop,” Judy scolded. “You’ll love it.”

  “So we’re doing this because of your friend, Jane Fondue?” I quipped.

  Maggie punched me in the arm.

  We pulled into the covered parking garage and immediately, the smell of sizzling steaks from JJ’s just around the corner filled our nostrils.

  “Not too late to change,” Ox said, hopefully.

  “Suck it up, big guy,” Judy replied. “This is ‘ladies night out’, so it’s fondue for you.”

  “Swell!”

  When we were seated, the server, a perky little gal with a ponytail, brought the menu with the wine list. I knew we were in trouble right away. There were fifty different kinds of wine, but no Arbor Mist.

  “Have you dined with us before?” she asked cheerfully.

  “Nope, first time,” I replied.

  “Then I’d like to recommend our Four Course Experience. It includes a cheese fondue, a salad, an entree and a chocolate fondue for dessert. How does that sound?”

  Maggie and Judy were delighted. Ox and I shrugged and nodded. When in Rome --- !

  I looked at the cheese choices. I knew about cheddar. Mel puts that on just about everything he has on the menu. I had never heard of Emmenthaler Swiss. I’m always dubious about things I can’t pronounce.

  The cheese arrived bubbling in a pot and we were presented with tiny little forks and a plate of stuff that we were to dip in the pot of cheese.

  “Isn’t this fun!” Maggie gushed as she and Judy jumped into dipping mode.

  I reluctantly had to admit that it tasted pretty good.

  Salads came next and then the entree.

  Our plates were divided into sections like the plastic plate that mom always had for me because I didn’t like the various food groups on my plate to touch each other.

  Another bubbling pot of liquid that I learned was ‘Seasoned Court Bouillon’ appeared. It was in this bubbling cauldron that we were to cook our evening meal.

  I could see that Ox was struggling as he speared the teeny-weeny piece of steak with the itsy-bitsy fork and plop it in the pot. I had seen my friend wolf down a 24-ounce Porterhouse in less time than it took to cook his first little tidbit. There was no doubt in my mind that Ox would be going home hungry.

  The highlight of my fondue experience was the dessert. Fresh strawberries, bananas, cheesecake, marshmallows and bits of brownies were available to dip in a pot of warm, rich, creamy milk chocolate.

  When it was all over and done, I concluded that the meal was not about the destination, but the journey.

  Maggie and Judy were deliriously happy, which was a good thing, because when mama’s happy, everyone’s happy. Well, maybe not Ox.

  At the very least, we had discharged our husbandly duty to treat our ladies to a girl’s night out. Next time, Ox and I would get to choose.

  We were ambling back to the parking garage, when an explosion that dwarfed anything I had ever experienced, shook the ground.

  Windows shattered in the multi-storied office building across the street. We ducked into the garage as glass rained down onto the street.

  When the shock from the initial blast had subsided we hurried around the corner and were horrified to see that all that remained of JJ’s restaurant was a piece of the front facade. What had been the interior of the restaurant was engulfed in flames.

  People were sitting and laying in the street in shock and we could see others stumbling from the burning inferno and collapsing, gasping for breath.

  As we approached, a fireman held up his hand. “Please, stay back.”

  Ox showed the fireman his badge. “Three of us are off duty cops. How can we help?”

  “Thank God,” he replied. “Help us keep people away from the scene until the first responders arrive. They should be here any minute.”

  We heard sirens blaring in the distance.

  “Any idea what happened?” I asked.

  “Looks like some construction guys were digging a trench and hit a gas line. The restaurant filled with gas and ignited. That’s about all we know right now.”

  For the next three hours, we helped where we could while the firemen battled the raging blaze and ambulances carried the injured to area hospitals.

  At midnight, with our clothing smelling of smoke and our faces smudged with ash, we headed back to our car. It would be hours, maybe days before the full impact of the tragedy would be known.

  I took one last look at the once-elegant restaurant that had been serving its patrons for almost thirty years, and I reflected on our conversation when we had parked earlier in the evening.

  Had our ladies not insisted that we try something new, we might have been among those staggering from the burning building --- or worse.

  I made a mental note to thank Jane for telling Maggie about the Melting Pot. She may have just saved our lives.

  CHAPTER 6

  Henry Martin spent a restless night. He tossed and turned and when he did manage to drift into fitful slumber, his dreams were filled with horrifying images of being relentlessly pursued by sinister figures.

  Before tumbling wearily into bed, he had tried to picture himself pulling the trigger and firing the bullet that would kill the President of the United States, but the scenario was so far removed from his frame of reference, he simply couldn’t realistically imagine himself committing such an atrocity.

  Henry wasn’t unfamiliar with guns. As a youth, he had hunted small game with his dad, but that was twenty years ago. There were no guns in his home and he couldn’t remember the last time he had actually held one.

  After the phone conversation with the mysterious stranger, he had wadded up the paper with the call-back number and tossed it in the trash, but when he returned to the basement to sort through the next box of memorabilia that had to be sorted and disposed of, he returned to the kitchen and salvaged the discarded number.

  In those rare moments when he actually contemplated pulling the trigger, his thoughts focused on the consequences to himself and to his family.

  He knew that he could be shot right on the spot by the Secret Service and at the very least, he would spend the rest of his life in prison. After a great deal of thought, he realized that he was willing to sacrifice himself for the good of his family, but what about his family? Even though they would be set financially, they would forever live with the stigma of being related to an assassin.

  Maybe that wasn’t so bad. Who remembers or ever even knew the families of Lee Harvey Oswald or Sirhan Sirhan.

  It surprised him that he was actually considering the consequences of accepting the mysterious man’s proposal.

  He had pretty much put the matter out of his head when he heard the mailman at the door.

  Among the solicitations and ads was a letter from Acme Collections. Mastercard had turned his account over to the agency to hound him for payment. He had expected that one.

  The other letter was from his insurance company. His grace period had expired. His family --- his wife and child, had no medical insurance.

  He fell into a chair and wept. Everything that he had worked for, for twelve long years, was gone --- wiped away, and his family would soon be wards of the state.

  When his sobbing had subsided, he pulled the crinkled scrap of paper from his pocket. He stared at it for the longest time and finally picked up the phone and dialed.

  “Henry,” said the electronically altered voice, “I was hoping I would hear from you.”

  “Listen, I’m not making any commitment --- not yet anyway. I just have some questions. How exactly would this work?”

  “It’s really very simple. We will need you for about a week to sharpen your skills with a firearm. The president will be coming to Kansas City to cut the ribbon on a new preschool for inner city kids. You will be standing close by for the event. When the time is right, you’ll do your thing. Don’t worry. We’ll coach you every step of the way.”

  “What will happen
after the president goes down?”

  “If you do exactly as we say, you will be fine. You will immediately lay your weapon on the ground, fall to your knees and raise your arms. With all the press around, all they can do is arrest you and take you into custody. You’ll be a model prisoner.”

  “What about the money?”

  “What about it?”

  “The only way I could be sure that Marsha has the money is if it’s wired to an offshore account in her name and I verify the deposit before I pull the trigger.”

  “I see that you’ve given this some thought. Of course we would agree to those conditions. We want this to be a win-win situation.”

  “Let me think about this some more. I’ll be in touch.”

  Henry disconnected and stood motionless. “Am I actually considering this?” he wondered.

  After squad meeting the next morning, I pulled Ox aside.

  “With all the excitement from the explosion, I forgot to mention something I saw.”

  “What’s that, partner?”

  “A billboard. It was advertising a dog show sponsored by the Heart of America Kennel Club. It got me thinking about those three fancy dogs. If they were planning to compete in the show, that might be the link that we’ve been missing.”

  “It’s worth a shot,” he replied. “Let’s make some calls.”

  I found Mrs. Fitzhugh’s number in my notebook and dialed her number.

  “Mrs. Fitzhugh, this is Officer Williams. We were at your home a few days ago. I have a follow-up question for you.”

  “Certainly, Officer. How can I help?”

  “Were you planning on entering Lazzie in the Heart of America Kennel Club dog show?”

  “I was, but I obviously can’t now. We’re very disappointed.”

  “Is it possible that your dog was shaved to remove you from the competition?”

  “Well, I suppose that’s possible, but I can’t imagine anyone going to all that trouble considering what’s to be gained.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “The winners will receive trophies, of course, and the recognition that goes with being declared a winner, but that’s the same as it’s always been. The competition has always been spirited, but never mean and vicious.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Fitzhugh. You’ve been a big help.”

  “What do you think?” I asked, after hanging up.

  “I think it’s worth two more calls.”

  Calls to Morton Baughman and Edith Barksdale were much the same. Both had planned to enter the dog show, but had abandoned the idea after the shaving.

  “Time for a conference with the Captain,” Ox said.

  It was a weary Captain that greeted us. He had been summoned after the explosion on the Plaza and hadn’t yet been home to sleep.

  “What’s up, guys?”

  “We may have found a connection between the three dog shaving incidents. It’s pretty thin, but it’s all we’ve got.”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  The Captain listened quietly as we related our calls to the three victims.

  “We thought it would be worth a conversation with the dog show promoters to see if there was something special about this event that would encourage someone to eliminate the competition,” I concluded.

  “Do it,” the Captain replied. “I want to get this thing wrapped up. We have bigger fish to fry. I know this is important to those three owners, but there are actually murders, rapes and muggings that need our attention. By the way, thank you both, and Judy, for your help last night. Keeping the crowd back gave the first responders room to do their jobs.”

  “We just wish we could have done more,” Ox replied. “Any report on the casualties yet?”

  “One death and fifteen injured, some critically. A real tragedy.”

  “Sorry to hear that. Let us know if we can help --- even off duty.”

  “Thanks, Ox. I’ll keep that in mind. Right now, just get that damn dog shaver off the street.”

  A visit to the website of the Kennel Club led us to the show chairman, Richard Reese, who agreed to meet with us later that morning.

  “How can we be of help to the Police Department?” Reese asked, offering us a chair in his office. “This is my secretary, Miss Biggs. Can she get you anything?”

  “No, we’re fine,” I replied. “This may just be a shot in the dark. Have you read in the paper about the home invasions where the dogs were shaved?”

  “I have,” he replied, shaking his head. “Unconscionable! Why would anyone do such a horrible thing?”

  “We were hoping you could tell us,” Ox replied. “All three of the dogs were going to be in the show, but have cancelled because of the shaving. Is there anything special or different about this show that would make someone want to eliminate the competition?”

  Reese and Miss Biggs exchanged worried looks.

  “I’m guessing that there is,” Ox observed. “Anything you’d like to share with us?”

  “Well, there is,” he replied, reluctantly, “but it’s been a closely guarded secret. Only a handful of people knew about it.”

  “Go on,” Ox encouraged.

  “Maurice, The Wonder Dog!”

  “Excuse, me?”

  “It’s a new sitcom on one of the major TV networks. The production company has sent a team of observers to dog shows all over the country. They’re looking for the next big dog star --- the next Lassie or Rin Tin Tin. They’ve kept the whole thing under wraps. If word got out, the owners of every mutt in the state would flood the shows. It would be a three ring circus.”

  “Obviously someone out there knows,” I said, “and they’ve been eliminating the competition. I’m afraid you have a leak in your organization. You said only a handful of people knew. We’re going to need a list.”

  “Of course. The last thing we want is for our club to be responsible for this kind of behavior. You will have our full cooperation.”

  The Captain was just heading out the door to go home and get some shut-eye.

  “Anything substantial?”

  I nodded. “I think we’ve found our motive.”

  For the second time that morning, the Captain sat quietly while we shared the information we had gleaned from Richard Reese.

  “Maurice the Wonder Dog! Just what the world needs. Another dumb TV show.”

  “I would agree,” Ox replied, “but whoever owns the dog selected for the part will become very wealthy overnight. People have murdered, not just shaved, for a lot less than that.”

  “You’re right, of course. We need to get a handle on this thing before it escalates into something more drastic. You said that the kennel club would cooperate. What about the network?”

  “Reese thought that they would be supportive,” I replied. “The last thing they want is for their new sitcom to start out with a scandal.”

  “Good!” the Captain said with a smile. “Walt, it looks like you’re going undercover.”

  “What! Why me?”

  “Because you’re our undercover guy, that’s why. You’ve got more experience than anyone else in the squad and you just look like a network executive --- well, you will after you get a haircut. Have Maggie trim your ear and nose hairs too. As soon as the word gets around that you’re part of the team judging the dogs, there’s no question that our perp will try to influence you.”

  “But I don’t even like dogs!”

  “You do now!”

  CHAPTER 7

  I’m not a dog person --- at least not right now.

  It’s not that I don’t like dogs; it’s just that it’s so difficult to own one in an apartment in the city while working a full time job.

  One of my fondest memories is of my grandfather’s old dog, Scrappy. As a kid, when I visited the farm, which was almost every weekend, old Scrappy was right there to greet me, wagging his tail in anticipation. The two of us spent treasured hours hunting small game in the forests and fields surrounding the farm.

 
I don’t ever remember Scrappy setting foot in the house, but he was always there by the back door to tag along when Grandpa and I did our chores. He was always on guard to keep the foxes away from the chicken house and the coons out of the trash.

  Over fifty years later, I still vividly remember the day when Scrappy, old, weary and barely able to move, left us. Grandpa took Scrappy and his rifle out behind the barn. “Time to put him down,” Grandpa said. “It’s the right thing to do.”

  I cried for days.

  I love Elvis songs, but to this day, I cannot listen to his soulful rendition of Old Shep without tears running down my cheeks.

  As the years fast did roll, Old Shep

  he grew old

  His eyes were fast growing dim.

  And one day the doctor looked at me and said

  I can’t do no more for him, Jim.

  During those years when I was living alone, before Maggie came into my life, I thought about getting a canine companion, but then I would look out the window on a cold winter morning and see Mrs. Bigelow from next door, shivering in the cold while her little mutt was trying to squeeze one out. After he had finished his business, she would dutifully bend down and scoop up the steamy deposit in a plastic bag.

  I didn’t need that.

  I would go to someone’s home and watch as their dog scooted his rear end across the carpet. I had heard that was a sign of worms, or maybe his butt just itched. Either way, I didn’t want that on my carpet.

  Then there’s the drool. I just don’t do drool, so, no dog for me in the city.

  Per the Captain’s request, I got a haircut and trimmed the offending follicles from my ears and nose with my Remington Turbo. I put on my best suit and headed downtown to Bartle Hall.

  The actual representative from the TV network was a perky little gal named Mandy. For the purposes of our undercover operation, she would tag along as my administrative assistant, but would still be doing the evaluations.

  Ox would be roaming the halls as a custodian, keeping things neat and tidy for the entrants and the spectators.