Heir Apparent: Joel Smith, #2

Chapter 1

The assassin lay on the moist grass waiting, while nervously fingering the handgun. Of course, tonight – of all nights – would be blanketed with heavy, dripping fog. Indian summer had lingered for weeks, yet when it was time to act, Murphy’s Law dictated the weather was to be bone-chillingly cold.

Research said the Glock 22 was one of the most common of handguns. A forty-caliber weapon with a fifteen-shot magazine, it was favored by police forces across the United States – at least that’s what the salesman had claimed. In this case, a popular firearm did not make for an easy purchase. It required a little forethought to ensure it would not be easy to trace.

There were five steps in all for covering the tracks, the first being the selection of a gun that was nothing special. Then the timing of the purchase had to be relatively distant from the event – in this case six months earlier, when murder was still a contingency plan. A trip halfway across the state of Missouri to Columbia put some distance between the point-of-sale and the potential crime scene. Finally, a forged permit and the fake registration should make identification of the shooter virtually impossible.

The gun rested in the crook of a raincoat-covered arm. A tarp over the wet ground would have been nice, but it would have been just another item to clean up when the job was finished – and would have represented another possible clue for the police. All clothing items had been carefully chosen to limit crime scene trace, and to make sure whatever might be left was so common as to be of little use to investigators. This killing would draw a lot of attention, and no lead would be ignored. So it was basic Wrangler jeans and a plain, cotton T-shirt under a store-brand, fleece jacket. Tennis shoes were off the rack at Walmart. Everything was purchased from different locations on different days to further hide any trail. The raincoat was a little more unusual – a London Fog that was older than it should have been. Like the gun, it would be discarded in a lake far south of the city after everything was over – heavily weighted down to prevent its discovery.

Everything had been considered. There was a getaway vehicle, an older pickup truck parked more than a mile away in the lot of a smallish church. It was one of many vehicles there this evening and would go unnoticed. Latex gloves would prevent fingerprints from being transferred from skin to anything and keep any gunshot residue away from the flesh. An escape route was planned – through the backyard, over a fence, and along the cart path of a golf course. By jogging slowly, casual observers would think they were merely seeing an after-dark exercise fanatic.

Yes, every element had been well-considered, and every possible contingency was covered.

But planning and putting the plan into action were two very different things. Having an escape route didn’t steady the hand that held the weapon, especially not in the moment when the victim’s face was only a few feet away. Selecting the right clothes didn’t help pull the trigger. Using latex gloves didn’t provide the intestinal fortitude to take a life.

One last time a mental inventory was taken – willpower, righteous rage, courage. Yes, they were present in adequate abundance. The job could be completed, the act consummated. And it would happen tonight.

Besides, it was already too late to turn back.

~ ~ ~

Ginger Treadway drove her Mercedes SLS AMG through the evening fog. Bridge Over Troubled Water by Simon and Garfunkel blared away, and she sang along at full volume. She knew her subordinates at the bank would jeer at her choice of songs – but only behind her back, of course. Not one of them had the nerve to take her on head-to-head over matters of real importance, much less question her taste in music from a glorious, bygone era they would never understand.

She knew the road well enough to picture the curve ahead, despite it being well cloaked tonight in the darkness and fog. The 600 horsepower growled discontentedly over the sound of the stereo as she downshifted the V-12. She normally loved to push the car through curves, but on a night like this, it would be a prescription for disaster.

Ginger sang along with the final chorus, friends sailing right behind and all, but when it ended, she pushed the button to turn off the music. Her short time of unwinding was done for now. It was time to consider the Sunday afternoon strategic planning session and what she was going to do about the things she’d learned.

The wealth management division was a mess, and it was obvious there were going to have to be some changes. She’d been polite thus far, even asking Brigit Heidelberg for her opinion – but was surprised when Heidelberg had disagreed with her basic assessment of the trouble. She pretty much asserted the Earth was flat. Treadway had been patient – to a point. As far as she was concerned, the division’s vice president, Quinn Hayes, needed to go. Immediately.

Brigit’s already stuck her neck out a couple of times for that loser – maybe she should go, too.

That was not an easy conclusion, nor a snap judgment. Heidelberg had been at the bank a long time and was Treadway’s second in command, but longevity counted for little as far as Ginger was concerned – all that mattered was performance, performance, and performance. And if you wanted to stick around Truecom Bank, you’d better consistently deliver. Things in Operations hadn’t been too rosy lately, and the wealth management division was just the tip of the iceberg. Should she keep Heidelberg or dump her? There was still some value there, but how much? It wasn’t an easy call.

Snapping out of her thoughts, she detected movement ahead. With the fog it was hard to tell, but she reacted instantaneously, slamming her foot on the brakes, locking the tires, and engaging the ABS system. Treadway steered hard to the right, and then back left as two tires slipped onto the shoulder.

Damned deer!

Mission Hills was an exclusive area with large lots full of trees and multiple golf courses that more or less surrounded the entire enclave, providing plenty of privacy. But with everything good came a little bad. In this case it was the pesky, landscape-destroying whitetails. If she’d been driving the Escalade, she would have been tempted to stomp on the accelerator instead of the brake and run over the louse-infested vermin. But killing a deer with the Mercedes would have caused a lot of damage, which would have only made her angrier.

She might be rich, but she didn’t get that way by wasting her money. Or by taking stupid risks. Or by giving second chances.

The adrenaline rush following the evasive maneuver brought her final decision – she would fire both Hays and Heidelberg. Tomorrow. Brigit acted like she owned the bank, anyway. Her ouster would shake up the team, put the survivors on notice, and encourage them to work even harder. She’d talk to Keith Murray in Human Resources first thing and get him on the paperwork. The two has-beens would be out of the offices before noon.

With that decided, she forgot about the deer and settled back in buttery leather luxury to enjoy driving the remaining few blocks to her home.

She pushed the button on the dash, and El Condor Pasa began playing. Soon she was singing about being a hammer instead of a nail.

~ ~ ~

Waiting, shivering under the flimsy raincoat, cold creeping up from the ground, time seemed to stand still.

How long does it take for hypothermia to slow reaction times or impair aim?

The silence of the evening was broken by the sound of an approaching vehicle, and the shivering instantly stopped. Pre-performance jitters were at their end.

The street was isolated, lined on both sides with huge estates. There would have been very few people within earshot, even if it were a pleasant afternoon. With the damp and cold of the night, the neighbors would all be holed up inside.

Would any of these rich assholes even hear a gunshot, safely inside their rambling, custom-built mansions? Doubtful.

The hiding spot – or more properly, the location of the baited trap – had been selected to be nearly invisible from both the street and the house. There might be servants inside, and it would be better not to deal with them – at least not before getting the principle business completed. Afterward…well, that was a wait-and-see kind of thing. While the spot needed to be obscured, it also required reasonable illumination. That would come, at least for a moment, by car headlights swinging into the long driveway from the street.

The car slowed.

It sounded large and powerful, which was exactly what was expected. The headlights skimmed across the front yard, and when they passed across the raincoat, a slight movement was created to ensure the driver would recognize someone was there.

The headlights continued into the drive for a moment, but then stopped abruptly, just as predicted. The enticement had worked perfectly.

It takes a moment for someone to react to the unexpected, and if anticipated, that can be used to one’s advantage. The headlights now only partially illuminated the raincoat, which would prevent clearly discerning what – or more accurately, who – was on the lawn, and provided a lure demanding further investigation. The light dispersed by the fog added a surreal aspect to the setting – one which seemed fitting, given what was about to happen.

The driver’s door opened.

The target had taken the bait.

The trap was about to be sprung.

~ ~ ~

She stopped the SLS and stepped out into the chilly air. Why hadn’t she brought a coat, or at least a sweater, this morning? Oh yeah, it had been sunny and warm then.

Despite being puzzled and a little alarmed by the lump on her front lawn, she immediately realized her pumps would be a problem on the soft, soggy grass. What hadn’t been moistened by the fog had recently been soaked by the automated irrigation system.

Removing her shoes would help, but the idea of walking across the damp grass in her stockings sent a shiver up her spine. It would definitely be both dirty and unpleasant.

Hey! Are you okay? she shouted, trying for an easier alternative.

There was no response. She wasn’t sure if it was a person at all. Then she decided if it was, it was probably some drunk who’d stumbled into the neighborhood and passed out. But from where? The country club? That was quite a hike. There were no bars nearby, and the neighbors were cultured enough to get plastered inside their own homes.

She saw a hint of movement through the fog. She wondered if it could be someone who was hurt, the victim of some kind of accident. Dying perhaps?

Maybe I should just call the cops. Then I could go inside, make myself a highball, and watch this all unfold through the windows.

Another movement.

Hey! You! You’re on my front lawn. What the fuck do you think you’re doing?

"Uhhhhnnnnn."

It was a faint moan, and definitely human.

Ginger was a little afraid. Retreating to the house seemed more and more attractive.

She also knew, however, that if it were someone who needed help, a few minutes could be the difference between life and death.

In her mind, she could see an imaginary headline on the front of the Kansas City Star – Bank CEO Saves Injured Man.

Wow, what that would do for her image. Successful businesswoman, hero, and perhaps a future politician? Well, only if the people insisted.

She slipped off her shoes and ventured across the mushy sod.

~ ~ ~

Choosing to face away from the driveway, back to the car, left the target’s actions a bit of a mystery. There would have been little to see, however, even if turned the other way. The fog and silhouetting headlights prevented that. But a clear view wasn’t necessary. The target was teetering, wavering, unsure. So an intentional twitch of the legs was an irresistible siren’s song saying: Look closer.

Hey! You! You’re on my front lawn. What the fuck do you think you’re doing?

Good. The assumption of drunkenness would do nicely.

A groan would help reinforce the impression.

"Uhhhhnnnnn."

Then another interminable wait. The Glock was re-gripped and an index finger was placed on the trigger.

Listening.

Was that the sound of a soft footfall on the grass? A lengthening shadow confirmed the truth.

It was almost time.

Get up, you drunk. You can’t sleep…

In a quick series of practiced moves, the raincoat came off, a turn, the gun up, and they were face-to-face.

Don’t move.

Despite the familiar Weaver stance – muscle memory at work – adrenaline was rapidly surging, making the gun shake and quiver slightly.

This needs to happen now, or I’m going to screw it up.

What the fuck? said the barefoot woman.

Recognition was suddenly evident in the form of a wide-eyed stare, as was the subsequent open-mouthed look of terror.

No. Please. Don’t.

Quickly, the index finger squeezed. Then again. And again.

Ginger Treadway collapsed, and the gun’s muzzle followed her path to the ground.

Waiting. Watching. Listening.

There was still labored breathing.

Amazing. A forty-caliber round could do a lot of damage. Three of them should have been catastrophic. How the bitch could still be alive was beyond understanding.

It was, however, a problem easily remedied.

A few steps closer, leaning over, calmly placing the barrel between Ginger Treadway’s eyes.

Two additional rounds went into the CEO’s brain, removing all ambiguity as to the attack’s outcome.

Chapter 2

Horace McBiel turned the television off for what seemed like the twentieth time today. It really pissed him off to walk in and find the stupid boob-tube running with no one even in the room. How old did a kid need to be before he remembered to shut things off? Thinking about it logically, maybe ten or twelve, which meant his five year old, Matthew, was going to drive him completely crazy well before then. Hell, he and his mother weren’t even home, and the damned thing was blaring.

If he didn’t have to work from home, he wouldn’t have to put up with all these stupid kid shenanigans. Out of sight, out of mind. When the economy had been blowin’ and goin’ he ran his commercial real estate empire from a high-class address in the city. But along with the crash had come high vacancy rates. Some of his asshole tenants had the gall to skip out on their leases, or scurry off to bankruptcy court for protection. Even the good ones had demanded rent reductions. He’d needed to economize, and the high-rent business office had been dumped in favor of a spare room in his Mission Hills mansion. Sure, he was hurting a bit, but not as bad as some of the poor slobs he’d had as clients.

In the blissful silence that followed, he heard three or four muffled, cracking sounds from somewhere outside the house. Odd. He paused and looked up at the ceiling. As he strained his ears, there were two more pops.

Many years ago, Horace had spent some time in the Army, and knew the sound of a pistol. And in this neighborhood, guns were a nightstand paperweight, not to be used unless absolutely necessary. That meant it was likely someone had just been shot. That kind of shit just didn’t happen in Mission Hills.

His heart had kicked up a few notches, and when he reached for the phone, he noticed his hand was shaking.

"Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?"

There’s been a shooting in Mission Hills. On Verona Street…

~ ~ ~

The gunshots had been much louder than expected. Despite the fog that normally muffled sounds, the shots still erupted, explosions filling the surrounding void. A screw-on sound suppressor would have been a nice addition under the circumstances, but obtaining one would have raised many more eyebrows than just buying the Glock.

Time to go.

It was important not to panic, nor rush, despite the urge.

The coat was gathered from the ground, but the spent shell casings were abandoned. There was no way to locate them all in the dark, and time wasted searching for them would simply bring the police closer to the scene. Besides, the gun would be safely out of reach in an hour or two anyway.

The engine of the Mercedes was off, but the headlights of the car continued to burn, and that might attract attention. Night was supposed to be an ally that would help the killer slip away without being seen.

Damned automated switch.

A quick glance at the house confirmed there was no activity inside. At least there wasn’t a butler or cook now peering out of a window. No one else that needed silencing.

Time to go.

Moving through the trees and bushes at the side of the house, holding the gun in one hand, and the raincoat bundled under the other arm, the edge of the property soon appeared. Then a split-rail fence – more of a decoration than an obstruction – and finally the feeder road. On the other side was the golf course and relative safety.

A slow jog along the cart path completed the escape as sirens sounded in the distance.

~ ~ ~

Chaos.

Chaos was exactly what John Zoll expected, and chaos was precisely what he saw as his driver pulled the car onto Verona Street. There were dozens of reporters here already. A swarm.

How does the press find out about these incidents so fast?

Of course, he hadn’t immediately jumped in his car and raced over – he’d been eating dinner with Leslie, and forced himself to stay and finish, although admittedly in somewhat of a hurry. There’d been enough of these kinds of calls since he’d been appointed as Chief of the Kansas City Police Department for him to know there was no point in abandoning his wife mid-dinner. His team would get to the crime scene and do their jobs regardless of his presence or absence. His arrival now was strictly ceremonial.

Nice neighborhood, the driver said as she steered past a news van, noticing the palatial homes past the flashing lights and TV cameras.

Maybe the nicest in the metro, he said, looking for someplace to park while Evangelina gawked at the homes. He spotted an open space at the curb a block away. Not many calls out here, especially not to investigate a murder.

Zoll contacted Detective Evangelina Sikes after he’d received the dinner call and asked her to swing by the restaurant to pick him up. The young detective was his favorite from among the homicide team, and – in addition to being easy on the eyes – she was special, a rare, deductive talent. He’d been planning to find a place for her to shine and knew this case could certainly fit, as it looked like it was going to grow into one of the most followed Kansas City crimes of the year. Maybe even the decade. But he wasn’t doing her any favors – Evangelina Sikes was good. Very good. The department would need her help sorting through what was already looking to be quite a mess.

Other than a single burglary and the occasional fender-bender, Chief John Zoll couldn’t think of another investigation that had occurred in the area. One might think criminals would beat a path to this neighborhood. Maybe the private security services, neighborhood patrols, and high-end alarm systems really did intimidate the bad guys. Apparently there were three social classes when it came to crime: The poor, the rich, and those so incredibly rich as to be untouchable. Mission Hills, and particularly Verona Street, seemed to fall squarely into the last category.

You want me to drop you?

Naw. Just park, and let’s go in together, he said.

Sikes pulled to the side of the road, they exited the car, and walked toward the source of the commotion. Uniformed officers stood aside as the short and rotund Chief Zoll approached. At five-five, and pushing 230 pounds, he was easily the most recognizable man on the force.

Zoll often joked that he was in shape – round being a shape. But despite being more than a little overweight, the man had presence, and he knew it. He considered his obvious charisma to be fair compensation for his other physical traits.

Chief Zoll! Chief! shouted a couple of reporters.

He made a point to ignore them, still making sure his body language communicated a simple message – I’m here, and I’m in charge.

Zoll saw Danemiller, the homicide detective on duty that night.

What’ve we got, Larry?

Hi Chief, Danemiller said, nervously. Zoll didn’t know why, but the man was always nervous when he was around. He’d be a disaster in front of the cameras and reporters.

Danemiller was the departmental dork – a barely competent cop who had a way of pissing off his fellow detectives without really trying. Zoll couldn’t imagine what might happen if the blundering investigator was put in front of the lights and microphones.

Sikes’ first job would be to take charge of tonight’s press conference, he decided.

Zoll considered pulling Danemiller from the lead on the case, but then thought better of it. Doing so would go against past practice and would cause talk among his team. Besides, this thing might get ugly, and Danemiller was expendable. A chief had to be clever like that – a well-positioned sacrificial lamb could often be useful. Sometimes essential.

An uncomfortably long time passed before Detective Danemiller seemed to realize Zoll had asked him a question.

Uh…sorry Chief, what did you say?

What’s happening? What’s the scoop?

The detective shuffled his feet, and Sikes sighed softly.

We’ve got a gunshot fatality – name of the victim is Ginger Treadway. She lived in this house, he said, gesturing toward a mansion barely visible in the light bounce-back caused by the fog. It looks like six or seven GSW’s, two of which were in the forehead – execution style.

Professional job?

Possibly, but hard to tell for sure.

Okay. What else?

The grass near the body was matted down, and shell casings were found close by. She was definitely shot at close range. A neighbor heard the shots and called it in. A real pro would have used a silencer in a place like this.

Unless they didn’t care about being heard. Anything else?

It wasn’t a robbery. There were several thousand dollars in her purse. Her shoes were on the ground by the car, and she was in her stocking feet. The car isn’t even all the way in the driveway, and the door is open.

Was she wearing flats or heels? Sikes asked.

Danemiller ignored her question and continued to look anxiously at Chief Zoll. After the silence dragged out long enough, Zoll cocked his head toward Sikes and waited. Eventually Danemiller answered, a mixture of frustration and something else indistinct in his voice. Jealousy?

The shoes were black pumps.

Zoll turned to Sikes. What are you thinking?

Just that I wouldn’t walk out into a wet yard in my pumps, either. And I wouldn’t want to take them off and go traipsing around unless there was an obvious emergency.

Meaning a trap?

Sikes nodded.

It was Danemiller’s turn to sigh.

There was something going on between these two – or at least with Danemiller. Maybe the guy didn’t like working with a woman. Zoll guessed, though, that he probably had a thing for her – just like about half of the guys in the homicide department. Sure she was attractive, but that didn’t mean the guys should run around like a pack of horny teenagers.

Jeez, sometimes I wish these overgrown kids would act their age.

Have you got a theory? Zoll asked Danemiller.

Just the usual. Probably killed by someone she knew. It doesn’t look like a robbery – nothing appears to be missing, and there have been no reports of burglars or prowlers.

But who? Zoll wondered.

He knew more about Ginger Treadway than Danemiller – he’d met her more than once at various community fundraisers. She’d seemed okay as CEOs go, but he thought that was like saying she was the least sweaty girl at the dance.

From what he could tell – from their brief conversations – he sensed she had no family to speak of, although she had once or twice mentioned a brother living somewhere on the east coast. That pretty much eliminated family as suspects. The next most likely possibility was a boyfriend or a jilted lover.

Treadway was a leading member of KC’s inner circle – the group of top business people that were involved in shaping the city and its institutions. They were the power brokers, the ones who determined which projects succeeded and which ones died on the vine. A person in a position like that could make a lot of enemies.

The question was: Who hated her enough to kill her?

~ ~ ~

Sikes studied the murder scene, at least as well as she could on a foggy night. The body was long gone, and the technicians were combing the property. Given the conditions, they’d be here for hours, well into daylight.

Sikes did her best to imagine the scene without all the people. In her mind’s eye, she saw it – the powerful Mercedes roadster slowly pulling into the circular driveway after rolling down the foggy street. And then the driver spots something. Something that made her stop her car, get out, take off her shoes, and walk across the clammy grass. But what? Or, more importantly, who?

The first fundamental question to answer was: Did Ginger Treadway know her assailant, or was she murdered by a stranger? In her opinion, the fact that the woman left her car and crossed the lawn argued in favor of a known assailant – just as Danemiller had suggested. Also, there was Treadway’s unmolested purse, which was left inside the Mercedes. The cash inside would certainly have been a temptation for any perp if robbery were the likely motive. But maybe the would-be robber was scared away by … what? She imagined even after the gunshots, Verona Street was silent as a graveyard.

On the other hand, there were many things that might persuade her, as a homeowner, to get out of her car and examine her front lawn – even in less-than-ideal conditions. A piece of discarded trash? An injured animal? An abandoned bicycle? Whatever it was that lured Treadway out of the sedan and to her death, the crime lab techs would figure it out.

Hey, Detective?

She turned to see a uniformed officer approaching. She self-consciously pulled her jacket across her chest, already imagining the cop was staring at her breasts. They always did. Being a woman, and an attractive one, wasn’t always an advantage.

I think I might have found something, the cop said.

What’s that?

He led her to the side of the house and pointed his flashlight’s beam onto the grass.

Do those look like fresh footprints to you?

They did. With the flashlight held at just the right angle, the tracks were obvious. The grass was bent, and the blades had lost their fine coating of water droplets.

Good job, Officer…

Wilcox, he said.

She nodded and smiled politely. Stay here for a minute, and I’ll get somebody from the crime lab to look at them.

She walked back to the front yard and recognized the head of the crime lab standing in the driveway. Wow, all the big wheels are here for this one, she thought.

Captain Miller? she said.

He turned to her, but there was no recognition on his face. Not too surprising, since he was a techie, and there were probably too many detectives in the Kansas City Police Department for him to keep track of them all.

Officer Wilcox seems to have found some tracks leading behind the house. Could be our killer.

She pointed toward the side of the house where the uniformed officer was standing and waving his light at the ground. Miller didn’t even acknowledge her, but instead turned to a group of his people.

Hume, he barked, Go check out those footprints. And get somebody to tape off that part of the yard, too.

Van?

She was startled to hear her nickname and turned to find Chief Zoll standing right beside her.

Yes, Chief?

I want you to act as our spokesperson with the press tonight. Give those reporters something for their late newscasts, and then get them out of here. They’re just in the way.

Can’t we wait for someone from PR to show up?

This wouldn’t be the first time she’d had to talk to the press at a crime scene, but it was hardly something she enjoyed. Not fucking it up yet was perhaps her only qualification for the assignment. She understood why Zoll wouldn’t let Danemiller within half a mile of the cameras, but why did it have to be her?

I didn’t call Public Relations. We can handle this fine without them.

Rather than protest, she asked a different question: Do I have anything to tell them?

Tell them we’ll have much more for them in the morning. Until then, there was a fatality here this evening, and we’re trying to sort it out. There hasn’t been a positive ID on the victim yet, and we aren’t going to speculate who it might be.

She knew such scant information wasn’t going to be an easy sell.

~ ~ ~

Feeling surprisingly buoyant as the pickup left behind the Mission Hills area, the local news on the radio provided some distraction, but also no small amount of disappointment. There was nothing yet on the air concerning the murder.

But it was only a matter of time.

With a little luck the media would go into its usual feeding frenzy. Sooner was better than later – at least in this situation. The sirens had implied the authorities were on the scene, but even if no one found the dead CEO’s body until morning, the police would certainly be working overtime on the case from here on out.

The fog persisted, and even though traffic was light, the heavy mist made travel slow. The visibility also made it difficult to dial a cell phone. It took several attempts to punch in the familiar number, but finally the task was accomplished. After a few rings, the call was answered.

Hi, it’s me. I just wanted you to know I’m going to be late tonight. I’m on my way to dinner with a customer.

A long pause.

No, don’t wait up. This could go pretty late.

Another brief pause.

Love you, too.

Now on to the second half of the evening’s festivities.

The mobile phone was snapped closed, and another task was mentally crossed off the to-do list.

One big question had already been put to rest – a doubt, really – whether the life of another human being could be snuffed out. And it was. Without hesitation, in fact. Asked and answered.