The Trials of Max Q, page 40
“I knew you always wanted my job,” I replied with a surprised smile.
“Oh please, Jack—if I wanted your job I would have taken it a year ago.”
“Maybe your dream was really to get EKG to offer you a job, so you could turn it down.”
“It did feel good, I can’t deny it.”
“I’m sure you did great in the interview. Most people do better in their second interview.”
She looked confused. “There was only one interview, Jack. Last week in the city.”
I shrugged. “I must have been mistaken.”
I couldn’t figure out why Shep had traveled to New York that morning of the murder, via a helicopter. And she invoked her personal life amendment rights when I asked. I had recently learned that EKG had flown her in for a job interview under an assumed name, in order to not tip off her current employer. I’m sure glad she stayed—I wouldn’t have survived the trial without her.
An awkward silence hung over the moment. Until I broke it, “When we were in Florida and you said a person came into your life and saved you, did you mean me?”
“Could you be any more narcissistic? If anything, I was your person.”
“I thought you meant Reyanne was that person for me?”
“She was the love of your life, Jack. But I think you were the one who brought joy to her last days on the planet. I think you saved her, not the other way around.”
Those were the last significant words said between us. Our final act was a brief hug and a moment that went by too fast.
But if things work out today, I should see her next week for the christening of Mac and Ashley’s newborn son. Mac wanted to name him Derek Jeter Cirillo, after the famous baseball player, but Ashley outranked him. She named him Donovan Jackson Cirillo, but they call him DJ as a compromise.
I am to be the godfather, while Shep conveniently will be the godmother. I have only seen photos, but it doesn’t get past me that every picture Ashley sends me has Shep in it, smiling. It’s a great smile. She should do it more often.
Following my pilgrimage to visit Reyanne, my next stop was another cemetery, one state to the east. For some reason I expected a circus to be revolving around Laney Bang’s gravesite, much like Jim Morrison’s at Père Lachaise Cemetery in France. But as usual, Laney surprised me, and this time saddened me. She was buried in a small, unmarked grave hidden beneath overgrown grass on the outskirts of Pensacola, Florida.
I don’t know what to make of Laney’s life. She was a riddle of contradictions.
What I do know is that whatever angel was supposed to help her didn’t get there in time. Her life reminded me of something I read once about the murder of John Lennon: He beat the rock n’ roll life. Beat the drugs. Beat the fame. He was the only guy to beat it all. That was the victory that was taken from a man who had an abundance of what everyone wants and wanted only what so many others take for granted. A home and a family—some still center of love —and one minute more.
I never cast judgment on her like so many others did, and always kept an open mind, but in the end I failed to deliver the justice I promised. All I could do was sit before her headstone and apologize.
I had one more stop in Florida. I don’t know why I had to see the dorm room where the whole thing began. Ironically, another golden boy quarterback—a limping Doug Leach—now occupied the room. I didn’t find any resolution, just an attractive young woman in a towel, which made wonder if a pattern was repeating itself.
I ate lunch that day at the local Chili’s where Shep and I had interviewed PE Albertson. While munching on a bacon cheeseburger, I saw it. Wife of Former Seminole QB Re-marries. It didn’t make the front page, just a blurb buried toward the back of the newspaper.
Marissa Torres, the wife of former FSU Seminole, Drew Anderson, married billionaire James Lansdale in a small ceremony on his yacht off the coast of Monaco. Ms. Torres was recently granted an annulment with the help of the US Justice Department, citing her husband being a fugitive from justice as grounds. The couple plans to sail the world.
Chapter 111
The ferry arrives at Kawau Bay, the east-facing bay of Kawau Island. The trip was about an hour through the Hauraki Gulf. I had picked up the ferry at Sandpit Wharf, which was about a half-hour drive from the capital city of Auckland, where I flew in yesterday. The temperature is in the mid-fifties. The wind off the water is brisk, but the sky is a sharp aqua color, littered with white fluffy clouds.
There are no cars on the island, so I approach a teenager on what they call a motorized bicycle. Much like a Moped. Wadded cash is the international language.
“I need to go to Lansdale Estate,” I tell him.
Kawau is a small island of only five thousand acres and a hundred permanent residents, so it wouldn’t be a long trip.
“That was terrible news about Mr. Lansdale,” my driver says.
“Yes, it was tragic. I’m going to pay my respects.”
When I read in the Tallahassee paper of the nuptials, I began trying to track down the Lansdales, port to port. I thought I had them in my sights three weeks ago in Brazil, but that is when I received the news.
Traveling up the coast of South America from Brazil to Venezuela, and docked for the night, James Lansdale’s yacht was boarded by pirates armed with automatic weapons. They killed James Lansdale, stole millions in jewels, but luckily Marissa was spared.
My driver drops me at the outskirts of Lansdale’s property and I face a fierce-looking jungle he refers to as New Zealand bush. I adventure through the rugged terrain, which is full of exotic tree ferns and wildlife like wallabies, kookaburras, and peacocks.
I arrive at a jagged cliff, which Lansdale’s mansion hangs over like it’s suspended in air. The property extends back from the cliffside—flat ground that seems to go on for miles, scattered with horse barns. A large helicopter sits on a helipad.
I reach the edge of the cliff and look down to see a splendid beach that touches a calm body of water known as Lansdale Bay. I cautiously work my way down the rocks. When I hit the beach, I look out and see a dock that extends out into the bay.
I put my hand up to shade my eyes from the sun, which allows me to view the dark curls of her hair dancing in the cool wind.
She appears wonderstruck when I approach her. Somehow I doubt she is.
“Jack, I haven’t seen you since …”
“Thanksgiving,” I respond coldly.
She looks at me blankly, as if it has been washed from her memory bank—ironically, her last words to me that night were that she would “never forget this.”
“Did you come with good news—have you been able to locate Drew?” she asks.
“What did you do to him, Marissa?”
She looks out at the endless sea. “I thought about Drew a lot when Jimmy and I were sailing around the world. I was sad that he chose to run away from the law. I thought he should stay and fight the charges like a man. We tried to find him, but I remember when I looked out at that mind-boggling huge ocean and thought that he could be anywhere, and nobody would ever find him.”
I get the message. Drew’s body will never be found. Max Q-gitive will be nothing more than a myth with occasional inaccurate sightings in a tabloid. Some people still claim sightings of Amelia Earhart.
“I forgot to offer my condolences for the death of your latest husband.”
“It was a tragedy. But I cherish every minute that I got to spend with Jimmy in the winter of his life. He helped me through some hard times after my husband ran off.”
I view the large estate—it’s breathtaking. The stunning cliffs, the mansion on the hill, and a bay filled with sailboats. It’s paradise on earth. “You seem to have landed on your feet.”
“Jack, I don’t think two people who know each other as intimately as we do, should beat around the bush. I have always been honest with you—I told you I would do anything within my powers to get my husband off, and I did. I told you I was the only one telling you the truth when it came to the facts of the case, and I was.”
I hand her an enlarged copy of one of the helicopter security photos that features Marissa in disguise. When we blew it up, you couldn’t miss those green eyes. It wouldn’t hold up in court, but I just want her to know this will never be over. If her perfection is security, then I don’t want her to ever feel secure. “I thought you might want this to remember Jimmy by.”
She barely looks at it before tossing it into the bay.
I let her know that not only am I aware of what she did, but I know what she plans to do.
She flashes a cocky smile. “I’m glad that you are beginning to see the whole field, Jack, but I’m afraid what you’re seeing isn’t adding up. If you check the pre-nup that I forcedJimmy to sign before we got married, you’ll find that his fortune goes to his son, Jordan.” She lets out laughter that echoes off the bay. “I guess Jimmy’s accident would have looked bad if I didn’t make him sign that. I would have had a lot of suspicious fingers pointing in my direction.”
Suddenly I hear a voice coming from shore. I look to see Jordan Kelly, sitting on a magnificent horse and shouting, “Are you coming, baby?”
I can tell he doesn’t recognize me from the distance, but he’s probably jealous of any male near his beloved Marissa.
There is one more step for her to gain control of the palace. Call me an optimist, Jack, but I really think perfection is possible. Just like Drew, Lansdale, and myself—Jordan Kelly has played into her hands again like a lovesick junkie. My guess is, when she marries Jordan there will be no strings attached. If he seeks one, she probably has proof that he was behind his father’s death, or something along those lines. Then there will be no more things being taken from her. She’ll be in control of her destiny.
“Just give me a few minutes, Jordan,” she yells in his direction.
She gazes at him as he gallops down the beach on his horse. “I worry about that boy. He’s always riding horses and sailing. It’s so dangerous, I worry myself sick that he might have an accident one day.”
Marissa looks at me, as if to say: It doesn’t matter what you know, Jack. There’s nothing you can do about it, and you certainly can’t prove it.
She holds the look for a long moment, and then stares out into the boundless water. “Look at it, Jack—isn’t it just perfect?”
***
Thank you for reading The Trials of Max Q!
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Books by Derek Ciccone
Featuring JP Warner (in order)
Officer Jones (See preview on follwing pages)
Huddled Masses
Psycho Hill
Confederate Gold
Stand Alone
Painless
The Trials of Max Q
The Truant Officer
The Heritage Paper
The Jack Hammer
Kristmas Collins
Preview—Officer Jones
Chapter 1
Redmond, Washington
July 4, 1991
The bartender slid a mug of beer in front of him.
Flip Tompkins pulled out a handful of mangled bills and spilled them onto the sticky bar for the tip. He included an extra dollar for looking past the fact he was still eighteen months shy of his twenty-first birthday.
Flip wore a multicolored flannel shirt, tied around his waist, and a T-shirt that saluted his favorite band, Pearl Jam—a local group that was a driving force in the new “grunge rock” craze that had swept through the Seattle area. He even copied the haircut of the band’s lead singer, Eddie Vedder, with long, brown bangs that would constantly fall over his eyes.
Instead of attending college like most of his classmates, he’d spent his post-graduation year chasing around local grunge bands like Pearl Jam and Nirvana. His parents were seriously getting on his case about his current slacker status. And they were not thrilled that he’d decided to spend the Fourth going to another concert, instead of the traditional family picnic.
Between sips of beer, Flip glanced at his watch. The plan was to meet his best friend, Tim Kent, for their usual pre-concert party. But Flip couldn’t get too wasted, since he had the misfortune of being the designated driver tonight. Tim had lost his driver’s license a few years back, so he wasn’t an option to drive them. It was a touchy subject.
Flip had hoped that the beer would make Cransky’s slightly more tolerable. It was a dive bar in Redmond, a suburban utopia on the north end of Lake Sammamish. Its one saving grace was that it would never be confused with any of the trendy coffee houses and brew factories that were popping up like weeds in the Seattle area. But that didn’t make Flip any less fearful that he’d end up like the many “lifers,” who had nothing better to do on a holiday, or worse, preferred spending it here. Luckily, the combination of his Walkman and the rat-a-tat-tat of the raindrops on the tin roof drowned out most of their mindless conversations.
With all the commotion, few noticed the young man enter the bar. He walked directly to the last remaining seat at the bar, right next to Flip.
The man took off a dripping rain poncho, revealing a tight T-shirt that was tucked into dark blue jeans. Across the chest it read: USAF: We Fly The Not So Friendly Skies.
The presence of a non-lifer re-energized Flip, and he introduced himself.
The military man shook Flip’s hand with a vice-like grip. “Nice to meet you, Flip—I’m Batman.”
Flip first thought he was joking, but the man kept a serious face. So Flip went with the flow, “From the movie or the TV show?”
“It’s my pilot moniker in the Air Force.”
The guy seemed like he was straight out of Top Gun, Flip’s favorite movie. “So you got a civilian name, Batman?”
“I would tell you, but then I’d have to kill you,” he replied with a grin.
“In that case, Batman it is,” Flip said, before swigging down what was left of his beer. He offered to buy the man a drink, but like the superhero he was, he only wanted water.
“What are you listening to?” Batman said, pointing to Flip’s headphones.
“Pearl Jam,” he answered proudly.
“Never heard of them. I’m a big country fan; Garth Brooks is my favorite. What is Pearl Jam, like hard rock?”
It was Flip’s favorite topic—the grunge rock phenomenon. “They’re a local band. If you haven’t heard of them or Nirvana, then you must not be from around here.”
“No, I’m not,” Batman replied pleasantly. “Pearl Jam and Nirvana you say?”
“The next big thing. Really down-to-earth music. Totally different from that corporate, big hair, lip-sync stuff from the 80s.”
He handed Batman the headphones. The military man placed them over his crew cut and seemed to enjoy the wailing lyrics of Eddie Vedder. Flip saw a possible convert.
“Maybe if you aren’t doing anything tonight they’re playing in Seattle at RKCNDY,” Flip offered. “I’m heading up there with a few friends.”
“Funny you should ask. I’m in town for the night and was looking for something to do. I planned on catching a movie at the drive-in—I hear this new Schwarzenegger flick Terminator 2 is a must see—but with the rain, I thought I’d just call it an early night.”
Flip couldn’t believe his luck, finding someone at the last minute to take his designated driver duties. “First, we’re going to meet my friend Tim. We like to pound a few beers before the concert—it’s much better when you got a good buzz going. You can almost feel the lyrics.” He hurried another look at his watch, before adding, “Speaking of which, we should be going.”
The two men rose off their bar stools. Batman pulled out a credit card and slid it to the bartender with the instructions to pay the remainder of Flip’s tab. Flip noticed the name on the card—Kyle Jones—but he’d keep playing along. Once the bill was settled, the two men headed out into the rainy afternoon.
Flip led him to his 1988 Chevy Beretta. The discolored back bumper had a V-like gash and the brake lights were damaged from when he slammed into a guardrail, following a similar pre-concert party last March. He told Batman the story, boasting how he and Tim were able to evade the cops after the accident.
“So you’re going to drink and drive?” Batman asked.
“Don’t get too drunk, might spill your drink,” Flip responded with a chuckle, but grew worried when it wasn’t returned. “You don’t have a problem with that … do you?”
“I’m sober, so why don’t you let me drive. I heard on the radio that there will be a lot of police traps because of the holiday. If you end up in jail you’ll miss the concert.”
He had a point, so Flip tossed him the keys and they got in.
Once behind the wheel, Batman turned to Flip and said, “Drinking and driving can be deadly. You should really be more careful.”
Chapter 2
The rainwater flowed like a river down the windshield. The Air Force pilot gripped the wheel and searched for the wipers. He couldn’t believe that he could expertly fly an F-16 with enemy fire closing in on his ass, but was struggling to master this beat-up little Chevy.
It was just another bump along his journey. And he knew that nothing could stop him—he was Batman now. His alter ego that took over when he was carrying out a mission.
