Dillon Volume III

DILLON

Volume III

by

DAVID R. CUDLIP

PUBLISHED BY

David R. Cudlip on Smashwords

Copyright 2015. All Rights Reserved. This book may not be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission from the author, except for brief quotations embodied in reviews. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. All characters and storylines are the property of the author.

This book contains mature content intended only for adult readers.

Except as noted, any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are inventions of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously.

Cover by Christina Carden

Chapter 1

Monte Carlo, Monaco

Rappa-rap-rap.

Expecting no one, thinking it might be the bellman, who each week delivered a bill for the previous seven days of his stay at the Hermitage, a five-star magnificence he should’ve checked out of two months ago. The bills, coming with the regularity of temptation, had, like forgone temptation itself, become its own punishment. Dillon stayed on for the sole reason that he’d told the police he’d stay put, and, candidly, he thought it better to take advantages of the hotel’s seductive comforts. Jail, he knew, would be a stay in the reddest corner of Dante’s Hell. He’d had his fill of it, in his dungeon days.

Another insistent rappata…rap…rap…

Opening the hallway door, Dillon saw a stranger attired in a gray pinstripe suit, a pearl gray tie, a boutonniere poking its blue nose from one lapel, and a square of pinkish and blue-dotted silk nested in the breast pocket. A dandified gent. Tall, a smiler, tanned as a beachcomber, and with the mannered looks of a stage-actor.

Wrong room, thought Dillon, who simply offered, Yes, hello, can I help?

Well, probably you can. I’ve several questions.

There’s a concierge down in the lobby, if you’re lost.

My questions concern you, not the concierge. You’re Dominic Dillon, are you not?

I am, yes. Dillon looked again at the man. "Let me in on the secret, what questions are those?

They concern this unholy mess you’ve made for yourself.

Looking again at the stranger with closer interest, Dillon replied, And you are?

The stranger offered his hand. I’m Raney Corbert. I’m a London barrister. Here to rescue you and it’s possible you may find me a worthwhile ally. I specialize in criminal matters. Defense of the innocent, or the supposedly innocent. I’ve even had some success at it, so you might find me useful.

Murders?

No, no. I specialize in what you Americans euphemistically refer to as white-collar crimes. Lately, I’ve been busy with cases of sex abuse. The clergy, those pedophiliac monsters that’re costing the Church an Emperor’s ransom.

Unsure of what to say, Dillon anyway replied, How can you stand it? I mean the pedophiles.

Born with iron balls, you might say. May I come in?

Yes, of course. Sorry. And stood aside as Corbert entered.

Dillon pointed to the sofas and a circle of four chairs surrounding a coffee table. Sit wherever you’ll be comfortable, he offered. Like a drink of anything? Coffee, tea, single malt. I’ve some Glenfiddich on the bar over there.

Not yet, thanks the same. Bit early. A smile, easy and wide, teeth that revealed a run of hours in the dentist’s chair.

Okay, so you defend. The attorney I’ve got is a…is…well, he’s a threat to my existence. Probably been planted on me by the prosecutor’s office.

Not likely but always possible. They’re known to pull some slick stunts here in the principality. I’m here to see if we can put this entire business to sleep. Forever. Get you home and dry, you might say.

What I say is that’s great. They’ve got me trapped here in this Dante’s Hell on a murder rap. Child-sex has nothing to do with it. Nor am I a pedophile.

Nor did I ever mean to suggest you are. I’m quite certain I can regain your freedom. Not even a trial, I’d wager.

Hearing that, Dominic perked up. I’m not in much of a mood for jokes, Corbert. Corbert, is that right?

Yes. C-o-r-b-e-r-t.

Well, you’re right. I’m in a tight jam—

—yes, you are, and I’m here to unsnarl you. deMehlo wants you safe and sound. He’s sent me to arrange it.

You’re fooling. Why would he ever get involved in this muddle?

I didn’t ask him, and I wouldn’t. He’s no fair-weather chap, as you know. If you’d like me to handle your, ah, muddle…as you put it, I’ll have things put to rights in a week or so. I want to hear one thing from you, first, however.

Which is?

That you didn’t kill that woman.

Wanly, ruefully, said it for the tenth time. No, I didn’t. But no one seems to believe me. I’d not have been charged, if there had been any witnesses. But as there were none, I’m stuck with proving something I can’t prove. I will admit to a vigorous struggle between Jaggy Muldaur and myself, after she had pulled a gun on me. She’d left her senses. I tried getting control of a Beretta she sometimes carried, but the gun went off and you can guess the rest.

Bit of a bitch or so I’m told.

Fully-fledged, though she had her redeeming moments. Lost her way somehow.

Dillon had been watching Corbert watch him. The man’s earlier relaxed, affable demeanor had changed: suddenly he’d gone thin-lipped, steel-eyed, his jawline taut as a bowstring. Very well, then, and you should know deMehlo vouches for you. That’s quite good enough for me.

I’ve given away most of what money I had. You’d better be aware of that, right at the start.

Corbert’s face assumed the pose of a knowing, understanding soul, something perhaps like a bartender consoling a lovelorn customer at midnight. You needn’t be worried about money. I’m on retainer to the Jesuit Curia.

Are you? How nice. Handy, anyway. How is it you plan to keep me out of the hoosegow? Or will you say?

Yes, I will say. Over lunch, if you’re hungry as I am. I ‘ve not dined since yesterday and I must watch my blood sugar.

Sure. I’ll get my jacket…

Better that we have it sent up, if you don’t mind. Privacy is primary.

That’s fine. They do a great grilled steak here and the veal is excellent. I’ve a menu around her somewhere or other. Tell me your wine of choice and let’s damn the expense.



Over a lunch taking the better part of two hours, Raney Corbert filled Dillon in on some basics, allowing, however, that he could go only so far. The gist was that he was in Monaco to tidy up the details of a petition to the Vatican for a nuptial annulment by a Grimaldi daughter, a thirty-year old hell-raising, knock ‘em dead beauty bent on ridding herself of her spouse. The grounds, if they could be called that, for an annulment were, at best, dubious; moreover, she’d already had her first marital outing annulled and the Vatican was leery of being accused of showing favoritism. The delicacy of the matter was plain enough, at least to the insiders. It called for the silken touch. The forsaken spouse, a scion of Württemberg, one of Germany’s oldest families, having objected to the annulment, was digging in, vowing a stiff, no-holds barred fight to the finish.

The Vatican deplores the publicity, which, given the touchiness of the situation, is threatening to get out of hand, explained Corbert. I’ve been sent to douse the flames before they actually become flames.

Sounds not so easy.

I think we can arrange a meeting of the several minds.

I hope you do. How do I figure into it, if I do at all?

deMehlo says he’ll see to the annulment and the quieting of the Deuthchers, if Grimaldi will tell his Justice Minister here to quash the charges against you.

You think they can? Or will?

The Grimaldi family runs the show here. For hundreds of years they’ve been at the helm. They appoint the government council of Monaco. One way or another, it’s their fiefdom. Easily they can set you free, if they so choose.

"That‘s a big choose, I suppose," replied Dillon, his pulse quickening by a few beats.

We’ll see. They want a favor and that favor awaits a down payment. You’re to be that down payment.

"But how? I’ve practically been tried and convicted in the local papers. Not just the local ones, either. Le Figaro lambasted me last week in Paris. Lowering the noose another foot or so."

It’s what sells newspapers, yes? I happen to know the publisher, and I’ll let him know we’re considering a suit for libel. That usually hushes up the scribes of this world.

Won’t the government here be, well, embarrassed if I’m exonerated?

Perhaps so, but not for long. They’ll keep it quiet and run you out the back door in the middle of the night. Later, make some perfunctory announcement through the minister’s press office that there were grievous procedural errors in the handling of the evidence. Inexperienced officers at the scene and so forth. Or that the investigating magistrate said the entire matter ought to be reconsidered…and by then you’ll be free and far-off as the proverbial eagle.

You think so? Really?

I do, yes. Quite so or I’d not say.

I’d be forever in deMehlo’s debt. Dear God, I wonder what I’ll be doing for him next.

He asked me to convey there’ll be no strings. Not of any kind.

Dillon burst out laughing, his eyes watering. Excuse me, but I know the General too well. I worked for him for almost two years in Rome.

Thinks very highly of you, too. Says he does. Says you’re a bit stubborn but, all the same, sees possibilities for your salvation. He’s fond of you and obviously knows you’re no killer.

I wish I could persuade a few others about that notion.

I’m hoping you’ll leave that to me. I’m nearby at the Hotel de Paris, and I’m on my way there now. A few things to brush up on before a meeting tomorrow with a local Monseigneur. Get the lay of the land. When is the best time to call you?

"Between eight and ten in the morning, I go jogging or do Tai Chi in the park. Otherwise, I’m here or somewhere on the premises. The concierge will know. I can meet you any place as long