USA, Inc. (A Mike Wardman Novel: Book 1) Read online

One month later, a board of inquiry cited Mike for storming the office without just cause. His explanation fell on deaf ears as Hearst, calling in his chits, made Mike the sacrificial lamb. Mike was forced to resign.

  Now, meeting on the Judy Bee, would be the first time the two had been face to face since then.

  Wearing his standard blue work uniform and boots, Mike looked at home on a working boat, but out of place among the gaggle of FBI agents dressed in business suits, long overcoats, and shiny black shoes. He asked for Hearst, the snake-in-charge.

  No one had thought to empty out the ice hold, which now held rotting scallops. The smell didn’t bother Mike, but clearly overwhelmed the agents, who huddled far away from the stench at the fore and aft sections. Mike stood above the hatch, eyeing the metal block-and-tackle assembly above that he had used to lift the hatch cover. He leaned against the winch, waiting for Hearst to appear.

  “Wally.”

  “I go by Wallace, now,” he replied.

  So Mike had heard.

  Hearst began. “We believe that another fishing-boat crew had a beef with the Judy Bee men. Maybe some argument over fishing grounds.”

  “I doubt that,” Mike said. “That’s not how these guys do things. They curse and fight, but the boat and the catch remain off-limits. Livelihoods are sacred. They respect that. If they insist on duking it out, they go to the nearest gin mill for courage and then step outside.”

  “Well, be that as it may, that’s where we’re looking. You’re welcome to look where you want. Just keep us posted on what you learn.”

  “And you’ll do the same?” Mike asked, knowing the answer.

  “Of course. You’re still family, Mike. That counts for something.”

  Mike realized for the first time that Hearst actually looked like a weasel, with his sharp nose, tight features, and short legs. Despite their diminutive stature, weasels are vicious predators.

  “I have to take this,” Hearst said, turning away from Mike and grabbing the phone in his pocket.

  Mike realized how easy it would be to lift the clutch on the winch and release the heavy block and tackle directly above Hearst’s head.

  Chapter 4

  The two men sat in the front seats of a canary-yellow Camaro. The short man on the passenger side fidgeted, tapping his feet to a song only he could hear. His fingers drummed on the dashboard in sync. Friggin’ Jack Shanolin, who took his name from the Sex Pistols song, “Friggin’ in the Riggin’,” always wore a watch cap because he thought it made him look like a merchant seaman. No one ever questioned him about it further. Alberto Rotunda, on the other hand, had no trademark clothing save his lucky black jeans with an army-issued web belt that he always wore on the job. His forte was being able to sit in the same spot for hours without so much as a twitch. On surveillance, you could barely hear him breathe, and that sometimes freaked out Friggin’ Jack, who would often ask if he was okay. “Fine,” is all Alberto would answer, and that might fill hours for them as far as conversation was concerned.

  Many people had wrongly staked their lives upon first impressions when they’d seen this Mutt and Jeff duo coming their way. These two didn’t look like killers; they had no mean scars or swaggers. But when working as a team, they melded into one moving part for the dispatch of their targets. It was their unassuming, even friendly demeanor that brought them success in their chosen profession.

  They watched the entrance of Beebe Hospital Center, waiting for visiting hours to end so they could pay a visit to Marilyn Montclair’s room.

  Their plan was simplistically effective, one they had employed countless times in an effort to undo the good work of doctors and nurses. Dress in scrubs, pin on phony ID badges, carry cleaning supplies, kill.

  Friggin’ Jack pointed to the dashboard clock: 9:00 P.M. Time’s up. They would wait another thirty minutes for friends and loved ones to clear out of the hospital before making their move.

  Friggin’ Jack continued to drum, and Alberto sustained his sphinx impersonation.

  Thirty minutes passed.

  “Let’s get ready,” Alberto said. He reached into the backseat and handed his partner an ID badge he had concocted that afternoon.

  “Nice work,” Friggin’ Jack said as he eyed the badge, then flipped the dome light off so it would not illuminate the interior when the door opened. That would be a rookie mistake, but one he had seen trip up pros.

  Just as he cracked the door, Friggin’ Jack saw a black Jeep Cherokee pull into the hospital driveway. “Wait,” he said, holding Alberto in place. “It’s some of kind police vehicle, but I can’t make out the jurisdiction. It’s not county, not state … Who the hell is it?”

  They both could read POLICE in white block letters on the rear, but not the emblem on the side of the door.

  “It looks like some kinda bird or something,” Friggin’ Jack said, squinting.

  “C’mon,” Alberto decided. “Nothing to worry about. It’s some kind of rent-a-cop making his rounds. Let’s do it.”

  Being careful not to slam the car doors, they sauntered to the entrance as if they worked there. They didn’t give the police vehicle a second look. The guard at the front barely picked his head up to see the two aim for the basement, where hospitals stockpile cleaning supplies. A bucket and mop would be the minimum each needed to look the part.

  • • •

  Mike held Marilyn’s hand. He watched the ventilator expand and collapse, expand and collapse. He closed his eyes. The high beeps and low tones of the machines hooked up to Marilyn made it impossible for him to grab an image of the woman he was in love with, the beautiful and perfect Marilyn from his past. The doctors had told Mike that she had fought back against her attackers and was slammed to the deck—marks on her skin confirmed it—and that they tossed her in the ice hatch, probably because they thought she was dead. The doctor said the odds for her recovery were fifty-fifty.

  Just then, the two phony cleaners pulled back the privacy screen.

  “Oh, excuse us,” said Jack. “We’re supposed to clean the floors. We didn’t know any visitors were still here.”

  Mike eyed them. “That’s all right. I was just leaving.” He gently placed Marilyn’s hand under the covers, gave her a kiss on the forehead, and walked out of the room.

  Chapter 5

  All morning, limousines and town cars streamed into the J.W. Marriott Hotel on Pennsylvania Avenue, just three blocks from the White House. They let out state governors and their substantial entourages of staff and bodyguards that rivaled those of the president and foreign dignitaries. As one vehicle offloaded, another took its place in a well-choreographed arabesque that kept traffic flowing without seeming to rush anyone out of their cars.

  This dance occurred every year for the annual meeting of the National Governors Association. Proximity to the seat of federal power allowed governors the opportunity to break bread with the president, lobby Congress, and present a united front to benefit their states.

  Governor Russell “Rusty” Pike sat in an empty conference room, the Texas state jet having landed an hour ago. Wooden folding tables were arranged in a U-shape. Metal chairs lined the walls. Two plain-clothed protective detail officers stood guard outside the door as the governor smoked a cigarette. Usually a confident and self-assured person, Pike felt uneasy about this meeting. He Anxious about his meeting, he lit a second cigarette with the stub of the first.

  “Hello, Rusty,” Sam Rennert said as he entered the dimly lit room. “You’re not allowed to smoke in the hotel.” Voters had reelected Rennert to a second term as California governor after a particularly brutal election. Like many other states, voters had been divided over the most basic issues—taxes, immigration, abortion, and gun control. A left-leaning politician, Rennert had won because a YouTube video had surfaced in the last days of the election; a convenience-store security camera showed his opponent throwing beer and chips into a clerk’s face after a heated exchange. The candidate had later claimed that the store ripp
ed off neighborhood people, that he’d been outraged by the high price of the items and gently returned them to the young woman working the cash register. The clip went viral and contradicted his obvious lies.

  “I was just sitting here thinking, Sam,” said the Texas governor. “We’re two different people with two different views—very different views—on how this country should be run, but we’ve always been able to talk like civilized folks, right?”

  “That’s true,” Rennert said, remembering the time that Pike and he had vehemently argued on television about the Texan’s belief that if teachers carried guns, nobody would dare invade a school and shoot children. The California governor had been appalled by that position, but after the show they’d dined together. “We both have our states’ wellbeing in mind. We just have different ways of getting there,” Rennert had said.

  Pike took a long drag, then dropped the cigarette to the floor and stepped on it. “I guess you heard what happened on the fishing boat.”

  “I heard. Who would do such a thing?”

  “I have someone looking into it, but I want to make sure you know that my side had no part it in. That wasn’t part of the plan.”

  “We’ve always been on the up and up with each other, Rusty. I believe you, but—”

  “But nothing,” Pike interrupted. “I keep my promises. You know that.”

  “Then who?”

  Pike frowned. “Look,” he said, his voice growing louder. “We’re still on track. I’ve got to meet with a few more governors during this meeting, and we’ll go from there. For all we know, it was just wrong place, wrong time for the boat.”

  Rennert raised his voice. “I’m not an idiot, Rusty. Somebody knows what’s going on and is trying to stop things from moving forward. Or, I don’t know, taking it in their own direction.”

  “It’s three o’clock, sir,” said the officer peering through the slightly open door. “You asked me to remind you.”

  Pike acknowledged and turned back to his colleague. “I’ll let you know what we find out, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  As they walked out of the room, each picked up their contingent of bodyguards and walked in separate directions.

  “I have a special job for you,” the Texas governor whispered to Stan Manger, the detail leader. They stopped walking, and the governor motioned for the others to give them privacy. “Governor Rennert—find out where he goes tonight.”

  Chapter 6

  Following his meeting with Rusty Pike, Sam Rennert prepared for his evening engagements, unaware that he was to be observed by the Texas governor’s most trusted and highly skilled detail leader. Manger had been part of the governor’s protective detail since Pike had taken office, and they’d become more than boss and employee over the past eight years. Manger hated the word “bodyguard”; “I guard a person, not a body,” he would argue. But like any good bodyguard, he had inserted himself several times between the chief executive and those who wished him harm, including two pie throwers (both favored key lime) and one recently fired teacher who’d wielded a replica pirate’s cutlass. Manger had taken a gash in his arm as he wrestled the man to the floor, where uniformed officers handcuffed him. There were other, less physical threats as well—mostly handwritten letters alleging some slight, which Manger investigated and dispatched.

  Like others in his position, Manger also handled special jobs for the governor, which included procuring people and goods to help pass the time while on travel. His purview also encompassed surveillance. Manger had never followed another governor, and it presented challenges. This man brought his own protective detail, and like any professional in their position, they could spot a tail. Manger was concerned that he might already have been seen by the governor’s protectors as they waited outside together during their bosses’ meeting.

  To remedy this, Manger relied on two diversions. First, a disguise consisting of facial hair, glasses, and a different suit than the afternoon. The other came in the form of a female PI who Manger used for other assignments. Reality TV shows to the contrary, people still don’t expect women investigators, and that played to Manger’s advantage.

  Martha Canan had been a Metro DC officer until she was forced to shoot a teenager who lunged at her with a screwdriver. Although cleared by the shooting board, the job was over for her. She’d shot a kid only a few years older than her son. Bolstered by a small severance, she’d opened up her own PI shop and gone where the money was: domestic surveillance. Unhappy unions in the well-to-do Washington suburbs, as well as wayward politicians, kept her busy. She and Manger met whenever he traveled to DC, which was several times a year.

  Canan followed Rennert from his hotel to an Italian restaurant on New York Avenue where he dined with a man in his forties—dark hair, dark suit, red tie, no distinguishing marks. She sat at the bar, occasionally looked their way, and took two pictures with her phone without anyone noticing.

  “Do you know who that is?” a tall Latino said as he cozied up to the bar on the stool next to her.

  “Pardon? Are you talking to me?” she replied.

  “That guy over there. Do you know who he is?” he asked again, pointing to the governor.

  “No. And I’d like to be left alone, if you don’t mind.” She faced front and took a sip from her martini glass. The bartender, alerted by Canan’s tone, shot a glance her way. He considered intervening, but decided against it. He’d smelled cop or grifter the moment she’d asked for ice water in a martini glass, three olives, please.

  “He’s the governor of California, and I work for him.”

  “Really. Are you his secretary or something?”

  The man was undeterred by her condescending dig; she was too hot to give up without a fight. “Protective detail. You know, a bodyguard.”

  “How do I know that you’re telling me the truth?”

  He discreetly took out his credentials from his inside coat pocket and opened the case below the bar so she could see both the badge and the ID card.

  “Wow. That’s some heavy stuff,” Canan said, turning toward the man. She made no attempt to stop her dress from inching up as she swiveled. “Does he get a lot of threats?”

  “I’m not allowed to talk about that. But I can say that we work closely with the Secret Service and the FBI all the time.”

  “How do you know that the man he’s with isn’t going to pull out a gun and shoot him?”

  “Him? No problem. He’s the head of CalPERS.”

  “What now?”

  “The California Public Employees’ Retirement System. They run the pension system for public employees in the state. Teachers, cops, everyone. They got almost two million members. I’m in it. They’re the largest pension system in the country, maybe the world. Over two hundred billion dollars.”

  “What do they do with that money?”

  “They invest it, and use the money to pay people’s pensions. But let’s not talk about that. Let’s talk about what we’re going to do later. He’s got one more stop, and then I’m free.”

  She ignored the comment. “If he works for California, what’s he doing in Washington?”

  “I have no idea. It’s been on my assignment list for three months.”

  The two looked over to see the governor and his dining companion engaged in an animated discussion. Voices were raised, hands popping up and down.

  The governor stood up abruptly, folded his napkin, dropped it on his chair, and walked toward the bathroom.

  “Gotta go,” the man said as he overtook the governor and squeezed into the bathroom before him.

  Canan used his departure to drop a twenty on the bar and slip out the door. She walked to her car and called Manger.

  “It was easier than expected,” she said. “I don’t know his name, but the governor met with the head of something called CalPERS. That’s the state’s pension organization.”

  “I’m familiar with it. We have something similar in Texas,” Manger said. “Could you make
out anything they were saying?

  “No. But at one point, their conversation seemed intense.” She kept her eye on the restaurant’s front door. “I’m burned, though. I sat next to the governor’s body … er, protective-services agent. He tried to pick me up. If he sees me again, we’re in trouble.”

  She gave Manger the address and said she would wait until he arrived.

  “I’m ten out,” he said.

  When Manger arrived, she pulled out of the parking spot and he nosed in. He considered why the governor would be meeting the CalPERS chief in Washington, DC. Manger called an old friend in the California Highway Patrol. “Bill, do you know why the CalPERS chief is in Washington?”

  “Personal trip,” he replied after clicking keys. “That’s all I got. Problem?”

  “He’s having dinner with the governor. Isn’t that unusual?”

  “I’ve never heard of them having a friendly dinner, especially out of town. It’s all business with those two.”

  “I thought so. If you hear anything along these lines, let me know, okay?”

  “Sure thing. You got it.”

  The promise didn’t ring true, and Manger realized it. Even though they were bound by the policeman’s code, one state cop wasn’t going to rat out his own state official, even for an old friend, and especially for one in a different state. Immediately, he regretted making the call.

  Chiding himself for his bad move, Manger almost missed the governor’s car wheeling from the curb. He followed it to the Marriott Renaissance on New Hampshire and M Street Northwest, where the governor met a man in his sixties. He looked familiar, but Manger couldn’t place him. He sat where he could see them sitting in overstuffed chairs, drinking and talking. The lounge was half-full, mainly with tourists and the after-work crowd tucking in a few before the ride home to the suburbs. Some would have to stay over in the hotel, Manger surmised based solely on their loudness. He clocked a protective-detail man sitting a few lounge chairs over and looking extremely bored.