life.
Brentwood Park, a typical, quiet suburb, proved the perfect place to hide. Andre’s clean-cut “white boy” facade blended in nicely. No one questioned his comings, goings, or how he managed to afford such an expensive townhouse. He kept to himself, rarely entertaining visitors, except for the occasional prostitute he’d sneak in during the middle of the night.
Andre paused in front of his townhouse and skimmed the front page of the Times. His heart raced. SUPREME COURT CHIEF JUSTICE DIES OF HEART ATTACK. PRESIDENT TO APPOINT FIONA PATRICK.
“Mr. Bardoff! Mr. Bardoff! How are you this morning?” His neighbor, Gloria Parsons, an attention starved redhead, waved to him from her front door. Still in her nightclothes, a pink sheer robe, she motioned with one finger, inviting him over. The sunlight lit her silhouette from behind. Andre wondered why she wore anything at all.
“Sorry Ms. Parsons, but I’m in somewhat of a hurry this morning,” he said, in his best Eastern European accent.
“Now, now, Mr. Bardoff, I’ll have none of that,” she continued, making her way over to him. “We Americans appreciate a good neighbor you know.”
Scintillating in the morning glimmer, her forceful, rich green eyes said today’s excuses would not go over without a fight. Her hair, usually pulled back into a conservative bun, draped her shoulders like red strands of silk. Propped up on long, alluring, milky white legs, her breasts full and firm, (not the work of a surgeon), her thick dark nipples, like him, were hard, erect. Smiling, she put her hands on her hips and shook her finger at him in jest. “You’ve turned down my invitation for coffee every time mister, and quite frankly, I’m insulted.” Her robe fell open, and a white lace thong snuggled where he now longed to be.
“I’m sorry Ms. Parsons. It’s just that I’m so busy and…” She snatched him toward her place. He didn’t put up much of a fight.
“ Pussy can do what ten men with machine guns can’t, and with not nearly the mess.” Vladimir’s words rang in his ears as she pulled him inside and shut the door.
Gloria pushed Andre back against the door and kissed him hard. His instincts said stop, leave, but his erection offered a different opinion. He kissed her back, his thoughts drifting to Fiona Patrick.
He spun Gloria around, pushed her up against the door, snatched off her robe, and tore off her thong. He licked her body and sucked her breasts hard. “That a boy!” she said, wrapping a long leg around his back. “That’s what mama’s been waiting for.” Andre threw her down on the couch and quickly undressed. Gloria licked her lips. He closed his eyes and saw himself choking the life from Fiona Patrick’s body. The thought excited him. He straddled her, angrily thrusting and ramming hard.
“Oh! You’re a bad boy!” Gloria shouted. He flipped her over and sodomized her. “Not so hard honey, it’s been a while.” He felt Gloria’s muscles tighten. She pounded the couch and screamed. Unsatisfied, he grabbed her by the hair, and forced her down to her knees. He felt the back of her throat, imagining how he’d do the same thing to Judge Patrick. His orgasm erupted, knocking Gloria to the floor.
“Honey, you’ve got to come over here more often,” she said, gasping for air.
“Sorry,” he said, catching his breath. “It has been a while for me too.”
Andre slipped into his slacks, staring at the newspapers now strewn across the floor. A picture of Judge Patrick, shaking the President’s hand, blanketed the inside page of the Washington Times.
“I think she’ll do great on the Supreme Court, don’t you?” asked Gloria, picking up the paper, not bothering to dress. “Not bad looking either.”
“I don’t concern myself much with your politics.” Andre took the paper from her and folded it under his arm. Outside, he looked around to see if anyone was watching.
“Don’t be a stranger,” Gloria shouted. She winked, smiled, and closed the door.
In his living room, Andre leered at the picture of Fiona Patrick. The article promised a quick confirmation. Fine with me. The faster she’ll die. First, I’ll send her a little message.
12
Robert’s cell phone vibrated.
“I need to see you right away,” said Barbara Veil. “Stop by as soon as possible.”
He tried to put it off for a few days. “Mother, I’m busy.”
“No, I want to see you today.”
“What’s it about?”
“I’ll explain when you get here.” Click.
Robert hit Interstate Fifteen towards Great Falls, Virginia. The image of Charlie, dead on his living room floor, elbowed its way into his thoughts.
They wrapped the corpse up in sheets and an old rug, hauled it down to Thorne’s Rover, and had it cremated by a mortician who owed Thorne a favor. On their way to the office, his partner tossed the ashes in a dumpster. “He’d want it this way,” she joked.
Charlie’s videotape confession now worthless, Robert focused on the evidence hidden somewhere in the city. It might as well be at the bottom of the ocean. Thorne stayed at the office compiling a list of cemeteries and mausoleums..
Robert growled and slammed his fist on the dashboard. The Mustang swerved, almost hitting another car. A grandmother in a shiny red Volvo blew her horn, and gave him the finger.
Interstate Fifteen merged onto Route Eighty-Nine. Robert exited Twenty Second Street into Great Falls. Five miles later, he swung into the driveway of a modest red brick colonial with ice white shutters. He shut off the engine. Where do we start? Popeye. I’ll start with Popeye.
He bounded up the cobblestone walkway. It struck him how things hadn’t changed much in the neighborhood in thirteen years. He grabbed the brass lion-head knocker he purchased in Cairo, then remembered his key. The door swung open before he could use it.
“Bobby,” Barbara Veil shouted, lunging into his arms. Her strength still amazed him. She stepped back and gave him the once over.
“Haven’t been eating again I see.”
“Good to see you too mother,” said Robert. “Chasing down bad guys keeps you thin.”
“Excuses, excuses. Boy, I tell you, what’s a mother to do,” Barbara responded, shaking her head in jest.
Age stalked Barbara Veil, but at a Dick Clark pace. Her hair, thick and full, showed very little gray, and for a sixty-eight year old woman, her figure held a respectable shape.
“I’m here, so what’s up?”
“I need a favor, a small one,” she told him, slipping her arm through his, guiding him toward the den.
“A favor? You don’t need to ask me for a favor. Just tell me what you need and it’s yours.”
Barbara pushed the den door open. A bright-eyed little girl with Lego blocks sat playing on the burgundy- gray Persian carpet.
“Good,” his mother said. “Then I need you to look after a friend of mine.”
On cue, a well-dressed blond, her eyes bluer than his, rose from his dad’s old recliner and walked over, a nervous smile on her face.
“Fiona Patrick,” she said, her hand fully extended. “And that mass of energy on your mother’s floor is my daughter, Jessica.” Robert smiled and shook her hand. “Congratulations on your appointment to the Supreme Court, Your Honor. It’s quite an accomplishment.”
“Thank you. I only wish it hadn’t come at such a trying time.”
“Oh?” said Robert, looking at his mother, wondering if he’d been too quick to offer an unchecked favor.
“What she’s referring to, son, is the case you’re working on.”
“You mean the Bear?” he said, the picture coming clear.
“Yes,” Fiona jumped in, her smile fading. “Barbara mentioned your involvement several months ago when this psychopath started killing more judges. I didn’t think much of it then, well, not until he killed Judge Weiss. We
