Chapter 11 - The Joy Ride

I was pensive as Andrea’s phone rang and was desperately trying to come up with a code that Nord would not pick up on. He was clearly the brains and the Latino the sharp shooter brawn of this duo. After the forth ring Andrea grabbed it - one ring shy of her voice mail.

"Randall, where the heck are you?"
"Sorry Andrea I feel like crap. Must have been one too many Fosters or maybe bad oysters."
"You and your oysters, how many times do I need to tell you not to eat those things," she replied in a motherly wife-like way. Andrea continued, "Have you seen the market today?"
"Not yet, I have been puking all morning," I lied wishing I’d been praying to the Kohler God all morning.
"Our stock is tanking, the whole market is this morning. The pundits are calling it Meteor Monday because stock prices are falling like meteors from the sky."

Here came my opportunity to alert Andrea that all was not well in paradise.

"Damn!" I replied. "I will go on the Schwab service to monitor." She knew we didn't have Schwab.
"Schwab?" She replied confused.
"The one we got for private trades," I said hoping she would catch on. She knew we would never trade privately. We agreed to that when we took the company public.
"Something wrong?" She whispered.
"Yes that one." I replied.
"Are you home, it sounds like your in a car, but not enough wind for your Boxter?" She asked. Nord pressed his pistol in my ribs. He was getting impatient.
"I'll be at the condo all day and check in later if I'm still alive," I said for drama, "this hangover is miserable."

I pressed the red button on the Berry Pearl to end the call. Nord put his hand out as if requesting a tip. I knew it was the phone he was after and I obliged.

"She buy it?" He asked.
"I think so," I responded. In all the years and all the hangovers, flu’s, viruses and just plain feeling like shit days, I had never once missed a day of work and Andrea knew it. Granted I may have left before dark rather than the usual nine o'clock after a fourteen hour day, but I was there, always. Nord of coarse did not know this and that call in itself should have alerted Andrea that something was amiss, but the private trade put it over the top.

She knew I was in trouble, probably in a vehicle other than my beloved Porsche, and that if all clues were taken, I would be at my condo. It was the place where many deals with guys from Wall Street had been consummated over drinks and shrimp. Some days it was Bubba Burgers and brews.

Andrea would do something, or call someone. Probably Jerry, but his phone would ring unanswered at the Flagler county jail, in the pocket of his suit pants, too impotent to bring help for Andrea.

The Nord looked at his Apple iPhone, he was clearly not a businessman. "Your stock is tanking today," he said.
"I know, my boss informed me," I responded clearly annoyed.
"Das ist nicht gute," he said in German, the meaning universal.
"No it's not," I agreed.
"Isn't it your job to keep the price up?"
"It is."
"So."
"So what? I am stuck here with you and Carlos."
"Carlos?"
"Your Latin friend," I said as smart ass-like as I could muster.
"That's Diego."
"Not Cuban?" I asked.
"Nicaraguan"
"Ah," I replied as if interested when in actuality I couldn't give a shit. "You know where we’re going?"
"Is this not the right way? Do we look like amateurs?” asked Nord.
"It's the right way, just asking."
"I ask, you answer, verstehen."
"Yavol, mein heir" I replied clicking my heels and raising my right hand as if saluting the Fuhrer. I was kind of hoping he would just kill me then. He didn't, he pistol whipped me and I went out cold.

Chapter 10 - Liberation

Pete and Jerry listened to my story in disbelief. Not in the way they thought I was lying, but the story seemed so unbelievable, how could it be true. How could the chain of events have happened the way I described? People joke that there is no such thing as a man being raped, but it could happen - and it did. What a horrible thing for one human being to do to another. To embezzle something so intimate, personal, and private. It tears at one’s soul.

"So Pete, where do I stand? What comes next?"
"I suspect the Sheriff will enter this room at any moment and interrogate you. They have twenty four hours from the time of arrest to charge you or let you go."
"Do you think I'll get charged?"
"No doubt. The officers heard the shot and saw you standing over her. Your prints are on the gun, and they'll have that shortly. It will take more than twenty four hours to get DNA results, but they won't need that to charge you. Her murder clearly points to you. I'm sorry Mr. Scott."
"Call me Randy. Okay, so I’ll get charged. How about bail?" I had never been involved in anything like this before and didn't understand the mechanics.
"If you can afford it. I suspect this will be at least a million dollar bond, which means you need to come up with one hundred grand."
"No problem," I said. "When can I get out?"
"Slow down Randy, you haven't even been interrogated yet," said Pete. "If all goes well, maybe by tomorrow afternoon, possibly Wednesday."

Just then we heard a loud blast from outside the meeting room. Jerry jumped up and looked out the small ten inch square bullet proof window. Pete obviously was too short to be able to see. I fell in behind Jerry to look over his shoulder, the scent of his Ralph Lauren cologne assaulted my nose. I could see past Jerry, but all I saw was smoke.

"What the fuck is that?" I rhetorically asked.
"What is it?" asked Pete frustrated that he couldn’t see. That must have been a common issue for him.
"Smoke and some movement, but I can't make it out," I replied. Just then the bullet proof glass was penetrated by some sort of bullet that shattered the glass. Fortunately I was looking over the shoulder of Jerry and not standing directly behind him because the bullet entered his forehead and exited the back of his skull. Unlike Rach, the bullet was so precise, it left his skull in place. The projectile cleanly escaped and landed across the room, coming to rest in the block wall with a small spattering of hair and blood. I felt the heat of the bullet when it passed my left temple.

"Shit!" Exclaimed Pete as Jerry fell back against me his blood slowly seeping into the shoulder of my shirt, his body laying heavily against mine. I eased him down to the floor faced up and looked at the crimson assault on my oxford shirt. I had never seen a corpse before in my life, today I saw two.

The door flew opened and a large Latino man entered the room, tossing the index finger of Red to the floor. He obviously needed the bio key to access different parts of the jail including this room. Before Pete had a chance to open his mouth and object as a litigator in a courtroom, a second bullet entered and vacated his head, ultimately resting in the floor, silencing him forever. No doubt there would be quiet private celebration among Florida DA's - the midget was dead.

A second man, this one much more average size - about my height, blond hair and blue eyes quickly put a gas mask over my head stopping the itch from the smoke that quickly filled the room. He then grabbed my upper arm and brandished his firearm, "your coming with us."

I could barely see through the mask as I was led out of the municipal building. I thought I saw Red on the floor, but was not sure. I counted three other bodies but there could have been more. I wondered if they were dead or unconscious from the smoke. I hoped that Junior was out on patrol – he was too young to face extermination.

As soon as we left the building the mask was removed from my head. The Nordic assailant holding my arm pushed me in the back seat of an H3. I was surprised how roomy the compact Hummer was on the inside. He followed me into the back seat and the Latino got in the drivers door, started the military type vehicle and drove off slowly as to not attract any further attention. I never understood the desire to drive these things, but as we drove off it felt indestructible. I guess people who were insecure were buying that invincibility. I suspect the Nord and Latino drove this vehicle for other reasons, and it wasn't for grocery bags gathered at Publix.

"Where are we going?" I asked.
"Home," responded Nord.
"Huh?" I replied puzzled.
"Your condo," he clarified in a German accent.

Just then he produced my Blackberry which he must have taken from the jail before my liberation from the law, and incarceration by these thugs. "Call your boss," he commanded.
"Why?"
"Tell her you don't feel well and won't be in." I wondered how he knew my boss was a female. There were larger things at work here. If I only knew then what I know now.
"She’ll know I went to jail," I argued.
"And how will she know that?"

I thought for a moment. Jerry came to see me early and I doubt he called in sick for me. I guess the only people that knew were the police in Flagler County and two dead attorneys. I wondered if the FBI was on this yet.

"Call and make it short."

I took the Berry and selected Andrea's name from the call list. I called her cell of course, she never answered her desk phone - it was always solicitors that made it past the automated attendant. Andrea Hollister was a homely but brilliant CEO who started her business when she was in her twenties. She was now forty-something and one of the most influential businesswomen in the Southeast. I pressed the send button.

Chapter 9 - Pete the Dwarf

Red returned and opened the door. "Your lawyers are multiplying like rabbits. Let's go," he ordered. I got to my feet and followed him to the second opportunity to repeat the story. My mind had been playing games, and I was hoping the story remained exactly as I told Jerry. I kept my head this time, maybe it was the food and time to reflect, but I felt like a different person than the first time I entered the green room. Too bad it wasn't the green room for the Tonight Show.

When I entered, Pete and Jerry stood; at least I thought Pete was standing. He was clearly height challenged, a little person - oh call him what he was, Pete was a dwarf. I reached down and took his stubby hand first, then Jerry's, who was making the introductions. I hadn't noticed that Red had left and sealed the room.

"Ever meet a dwarf?" asked Pete.
"Can't say that I have," I responded as I was immediately put at ease.

There was almost something magical about Pete, and his ability to diffuse tension was apparent. His uniqueness would catch people off guard, which could go either way. By him saying what the stranger had on their mind showed that he was comfortable with himself and so should his new acquaintance. I felt comfortable quickly. He clearly was non-assuming. Pete wore a JC Penney suit with some well worn lace Bostonians. His fat tie was appeared left over from the seventies, and his balding head lead me to believe he was fifty something.

"Have you said anything to the authorities?" he asked.
"No," I replied.
"Nothing at all?"
"I don't think so. I knew that the circumstance must have looked bad, so I kept my mouth shut. Is that okay?"
"All depends. Sometimes silence indicates guilt, sometimes it indicates wisdom. At this point you just spoke to uniforms, right?"
"Yeah."
"Good. I made some calls and these guys don't know what to do. The Sherriff likes his town peaceful and doesn't want lots of news folks around. He’s thinking about letting the FBI handle the investigation. That's probably why you haven't been interrogated yet."
"Is that a good thing?" I asked.
"Yes and no. It's good that you haven't been questioned until you and I have had a chance to talk. It's bad because the FBI will throw everything at this one."

Jerry was sitting quietly; he was clearly out of his element. I was hoping his clock stopped running when Pete started yapping.

"Why," I asked earnestly.
"You know the girl that you were found with?"
"I did."
"Do you know who she is – was?”
"Yeah, Rachel Johnston."
"You know who she was married to?"
"No."
"Carlos Encinosa from Miami Beach."
"Should that mean something to me?"
"It should now; he’s a councilman in Dade County. That's why the Flagler County Sherriff is keeping his distance. Since Carlos is a politician who is very influential in the Cuban community, the FBI wants in."
"Damn," I said, “this day is going from bad to worse.”
"The good news is the sheriff wants you out of his jail. Tell me what happened so we can try and oblige him."

"The story is bizarre. I was driving to work along the Coastal Highway when a Lexus quickly pulled up behind me....."

Chapter 8 - Lunch

Red led me back to the holding cell and brought me a tuna sandwich on stale white with a Sam's Choice cola and an outdated bag of Golden Flakes – all placed carefully with a napkin in a box. It was actually a corrugated board box from soda cans the vending machine guy left. Flagler County deputies decided to recycle the case bottoms as trays for the inmates so they could take the plastic ones home to be used as TV trays to hold Buds and Dominos Pizza while they watched their favorite college football team, Gators or Seminoles or Bulldogs.

As crappy as lunch was I finished every morsel. Is this to be my future? I wondered if long term prisoners get Prozac. Maybe I would have to act a bit crazy and get in a psych jail to get drugs so that I could try to forget where I was. I was really having a bad time conceiving a defense in my head. I knew what happened but the only other person who knew was dead, and she tried to make sure that all guilt pointed my way. I sat on the hard bench, the steel making a stamped indent in my ass. No books or electronic stimulation. It was just me and my mind. No music from my iPod, not even another conscious prisoner to talk to. I would almost welcome a conversation with Red or Junior at this point, but that would be a mistake, besides not reality. What did I know of reality anymore anyway? Was this morning real? Did Rachel chase me down, or did I chase her. Did I really kill her and my mind was telling me she set me up so I could cope?

Let's assume my mind is tricking me, what would be my motive? Then again what was hers? Why the fuck did she do this? And why did she do this to me? Fuck!

I was having a difficult time with my anger. I knew if I couldn’t contain myself during the interrogation I would be screwed. I tried to calm myself but couldn’t seem to redirect on something serene.

As much as she hurt me, my thoughts focused on Rach and what we had. I met her at the office. She sold high end computer software and our company was growing. We hadn’t quite gone public at the time but were in the process. The Internet “dot-flops” had filtered off the big board and the Enron scandal was at its height. Congress began to investigate and Sarbanes-Oxley started to get some teeth. Clearly the rules of corporate engagement would be different for me. I always held my head high as a CFO, but as I watched my peers go to trial for falsifying financial statements, I realized nerd white collar criminals were no longer exempt. I certainly would have been more concerned to be the fall guy for a CEO and go to jail for something only related to cash. Never would I have dreamed that I would be behind bars for murder.

So there was Rachel, one of the new breed of power female sales superstars. They usually appealed to married overweight balding executives and middle managers who enjoyed the time spent privately in their office with a flirtatious sales woman. It was very safe. Safe for the executive, whose family pictures on the credenza and wall were a reminder that the flirtation can be no more than a fantasy. Safe for the power suit chick, who knew the same, and therefore could flirt endlessly with her eyes and body language, the only sale to be that of equipment – or software – or services, but not the kind that required removal of clothing other than what may have passed through the mind of her opponent across the desk.

If she could flirt enough for him to convert the cleavage and possible nipple bulge if the office was cold enough to a naked visual in his mind, she could use the trance to get him to remove the cap of his Monte Blanc and place the tip of his pen to ink the contract. That was her thrill. The “thrill of the kill,” as salespeople well know. For many it was better than sex. If the contract was large enough the reward more lucrative than a five thousand dollar a day call girl. There was little difference between the two except for one sold her body and the other her soul. She would say anything to get the contract – they were both whores, only one was legal and the other not.

So there was Rachel, at my door – the eight foot mahogany door of a single up and coming power executive’s top floor corner window office. From the moment we met, she cared little about selling me the software her company represented. Our eyes connected and spoke without words – we both knew that by the end of the day, after our libations consumed, Cosmopolitans and Belvedere martinis – we would share intimacy without meaning. The only thrill for the power sales bitch that could top the long drawn out foreplay of software sales that could take six months was a six hour meet to heat engagement, consummated with meaningless sex. Followed by six hours of passion – the kind that only first encounters could produce.

The sex was good and we became friends. Fuck buddies actually. Rachel or I would return from a business trip high on the juices of our sale and need to share conquests and release our libidos building frustrations. She sold software; I sold the merits of our company that was going public. I would return from a meeting in New York with investment bankers, Goldman Sachs, Bear Sterns, Merrill Lynch – all courting me to make a deal. I would return home to the Jacksonville Airport, walk to the parking garage, get in the Boxter, and take out my cell, ready to share the courtship, the flattery with a friend. Not just a buddy to listen over beers at a sports bar, I needed a buddy who would listen to my glorious corporate courtships and conquests while on my elbows, my wilting passion still inside her, my total world complete – and without commitment. That my friend is what a fuck buddy is all about.

I sat in the cell, taken away by the thought – a woody in the making, then broken by the sawmill snore of my cell mate, his wreaking breath careening across the cell as his wide opened mouth shared years of cigarettes and Jack Daniels that had embattled the pink God given tissue of once pure internal organs. Damn this place sucks!