Chasing the Son (11 page)

Twenty minutes later, when Wing was done, Dillon didn’t know. The account matched what the three ring-knockers had said in the High Cotton. Despite the time that had passed, the kid was still shell-shocked by his rat experience. Dillon was sure he could tell Wing to open the window here on the fifth floor and step out and the kid would do it.

“You’re absolutely sure of that account?” Dillon asked. “Brannigan just went nuts and attacked Jenrette?”

“He was trying to help me, sir,” Wing said. “It was an unfortunate accident.”

“Then why did he run? Why didn’t he wait and tell his version?”

“He was scared, sir.”

“Of?”

Wing spread his hands, the first human sign since Dillon had entered. “Everyone and everything! And Jenrette. His family. They practically own Charleston. We all knew it. I was shocked when I saw him down there in the Sinks. They hazed him, hard sometimes, but we figured he was bullet proof.”

Dillon knew Wing was wrong. Sometimes the Corps went after the biggest names in the rat class. In a bizarre way, many upperclass knew it was the only window of opportunity in their lifetime to belittle and embarrass those powerful people. He also now knew that they were testing Jenrette for the Ring, a group Dillon had heard rumors of, but nothing more, while he was a cadet.

“Why are you doing this, Wing?” Dillon asked. He could see the question had confused the rat. “Why are you attending the Institute?”

“My father wishes it so,” Wing said. “He believes we must become part of our country.”

“The country is bigger than the Institute.”

Wing met Dillon’s eyes. “My father believes one must go through the fiercest fire in order to be accepted.”

Dillon noticed that Wing kept glancing toward the door. “What’s the matter?”

“Sir, I’ve got to get to—“

And then the door flew open and a half-dozen cadets dressed in grey, their heads covered with black hoods came rushing in. They had broom handles in their hands.

For a moment, an important moment, Dillon thought they were after Wing.

As the first stick came whistling toward his head, Dillon reacted as he’d been trained in the pits at Ranger School and brought his forearm up in a block. The stick broke on the bone. And then they were on him.

Another stick struck right behind his ear, a stinging blow, but Dillon lashed out with a side-kick, catching one of the cadets in the stomach, doubling him over. As more sticks bounced off his body, blow after blow, Dillon, arms up protecting his head, snap-kicked another cadet in the crotch. The cadet screamed and fell to the ground.

Dillon bull rushed, arms still over his head, knocking over the remaining four like pins, making for the door, when two men dressed in civvies and with the same hoods appeared in the doorway, one of them wielding an axe handle. Dillon caught a glimpse of it, the ring on the hand holding it, but at that moment the end of a broomstick jabbed him hard in the kidney and he saw stars as exquisite pain exploded from the spot.

And then he saw nothing as the axe handle struck him on the side of his head.

* * *

Charles Rigney, Attorney at Law, Institute graduate, scion of Charleston society, was not a pleasant sight to see in the raw. His arms and legs were scrawny, and his chest was almost sunken, the imprint of his ribs apparent. His skin, except for his golfers tan, was pale white. His chest hair was grey and uneven, the result of a treatment for baldness that had set his body’s natural hair-generating system out of whack.

He screamed as the whip lashed across his derriere.

“You can’t leave a mark!” he complained, which earned him a second strike.

The blows actually wouldn’t leave a mark, not even enough to earn the scream, but the intent was key here. The image.

Sarah Briggs knew about image and intent.

“Charles, Charles, Charles,” she said as she walked around to face him. He was tied, hands and feet apart with spreader bars, the top bar looped over a hook dangling from the ceiling; his feet on the cold, tile floor.

While Rigney was naked, Sarah was dressed in an incongruous outfit for the scenario. A gray business suit, white blouse and moderate high heels. Not the leather and thigh-highs one would expect given the whip, but Sarah liked to mix things up. Men were simple creatures and it paid to keep them off-balance.

Plus she hadn’t had a chance to change since flying in to Charleston this morning.

And she had other business that needed to attending to later in the day.

They were in the basement of Rigney’s home, in his wine cellar which doubled as his dungeon. His wife knew about the room and was quite happy to stay out of it and let him do whatever perverted little things he liked to do in there with whomever was willing to do it. It made her job being married to him that much more bearable. Not an unusual arrangement in Charleston’s high society.

“Mrs. Jenrette is focused on the boy?” Sarah asked.

“Yes.”

“Yes who?” Smack.

“Yes, Mistress.”

“And what are you going to tell Mister Fabrou?”

“That the deal is set, Mistress.”

The whip snapped and Rigney squealed.

“About the boys!” Sarah demanded.

“That all is as has been, Mistress,” Rigney said. “Harry Brannigan is still missing. That his mother is missing.”

“And if he gets wind of the boy’s father asking around?” Sarah asked.

“To let you know right away, Mistress.”

“Anything else?”

The silence lasted a moment too long. Sarah expertly snapped the whip, the leather tip hitting the end of his erect cock.

This time the scream was real, echoing off the racks of wine bottles that lined the room; Rigney’s wife wasn’t going to totally give up the room to her husband’s kinks. She mixed practicality with functionality.

“Tell me!”

“Mrs. Jenrette has brought in a new investigator.”

The news was so surprising that Sarah missed that he forgot the ‘mistress’.

“Who?”

Rigney quickly told her about Dillon.

“Damn it!” Sarah said when he finished. She punctuated the comment with a lash across Rigney’s back, which brought forth a real scream.

And left a mark.

“I’m sorry, Mistress,” Rigney said with a whimper, but Sarah’s brain was already racing.

Sarah went over to her leather bag and reached in. She put down the whip then pulled out a rubber glove and some lubrication. She squirted a generous portion of lube onto the glove then went to the strung-up lawyer.

“Very good, Charles,” she said as she took his cock, already hard from the whipping, in her hand and began to stroke him. She was off to his side, where he couldn’t really see her.

As she worked him, she had a phone in her other hand and was checking her text messages.

“You’re a good boy, Charles,” she said, almost as an afterthought as he moaned and squirmed and finally came. She finished checking her messages and arranging two more meetings.

Sarah tucked the phone away and ripped off the glove, dropping it to the tile floor. She hit the winch that lowered the spreader bar and unlocked his wrists and ankles.

“What are you going to do?” Rigney asked as he toweled off.

“Nothing has changed, Charles,” she said, as she looped the strap of the bag over her shoulder. “You just make sure everything goes as planned on Saturday.”

Then she opened the vault door and left the naked Mister Rigney behind.

She took the servant’s entrance out of the house, which really pissed her off.

* * *

Riley drove his 125cc dirt bike across the Cross Island Bridge to Sea Pines Circle. Then straight through the roundabout onto Pope Avenue. He cut left off Pope into a shopping center. He parked and then walked up to the blacked-out glass door to the left of New York Pizza, which was doing a modicum of business.

Riley opened the dark door and stepped inside. The guard who usually stood just beyond wasn’t there. Riley stood still, letting his eyes adjust to the relative darkness. The interior was decorated with mid-80s fashion; lots of leather, velvet and dark wood. It was missing the glittering disco ball, but Riley was pretty sure it was in storage somewhere in the back. It was technically a restaurant but unlike most restaurants went out of its way to discourage traffic. It was one of those places a person had to know existed, then know someone who knew someone who would let you in.

Riley looked toward the bar on the left. Farrelli was seated there alone, a bottle of water in front of him next to his cell phone. He waved Riley over.

“What happened to the muscle?” Riley asked as he took a stool one away from the mobster.

“I’m not expecting trouble,” Farrelli said. He had long legs and deep-set, almost hooded eyes, and a large Roman nose. His hair seemed sparser than last time Riley had visited. His scalp was covered by liver spots.

“What if trouble finds you?” Riley asked.

Tony ‘Can of Tomatoes’ Farrelli nodded. “That happens on occasion. But your taking out Karralkov made my position here on Hilton Head much more comfortable.”

“Nobody’s replaced him yet?”

Farrelli smiled. “I have.”

“Well congratulations to you,” Riley said.

“I’m sure some other Russian or Ukrainian or Latvian or ‘ian’ from Eastern Europe will try getting a piece of the action,” Farrelli said. “They’re criminal entrepreneurs who’ve survived Czars, Stalin, Hitler and communism. America looks like a squalling baby to them, ripe for the taking. I’ll deal with it when it happens.”

Riley reached into his pocket and drew out a thick envelope counted out from Sarah’s stash and put it in front of Farrelli.

“And what is this?”

“Paying off Detective Parsons’ note. With the vig.”

Farrelli slipped the envelope into the pocket on his sports coat without looking inside. “He give it to you?”

“What does it matter where it comes from?” Riley asked. “It’s paid.” Riley had met Parsons during his investigation into Sarah Briggs phantom child. He’d learned that Parsons was into the mob for twenty large-- $20,000. Some of it was a gambling problem, but some was also trying to get the best medical care for his son, an Army Ranger who was missing both his legs thanks to an IED. The VA only went so far and more importantly, so fast.

“Forgive my manners,” Farrelli said. “Would you like something from behind the bar? Feel free to help yourself.”

“I’m fine,” Riley said.

Farrelli indicated the bottle of water. “My doctor says I’m not sufficiently hydrated most of the time. I told him to choose his words more carefully.”

“You called me,” Riley reminded him.

“Ah yes. You done me a solid with Karralkov so I figure I owe you. That Briggs woman contacted me around a week ago. Asking me about that veterinarian, Erin Brannigan. And asked me to check into her having a son, named Horace or Harry. Whatever. Say, isn’t Horace the same first name as your buddy Chase?”

Riley didn’t answer because he knew Farrelli was playing.

“Didn’t really get anything on her,” Farrelli said. “And you and her and your other miscreants was buddy-buddy anyway, so you know more than I do.”

“And the son?”

“Nada.”

“So why am I here?” Riley asked.

“To pay me the money?” Farrelli laughed. “Something else, but I think it’s connected. Someone from the Quad came to visit me. Merchant Fabrou.”

“From Savannah?”

“From the Quad. They run Savannah.”

“Educate me further,” Riley said.

“Military Institute of South Carolina graduates who control a large portion of business in Savannah and outward from there.”

“Okay. And?”

“He wanted to know what I knew about someone named Harry Brannigan. Which is pretty damn close to Horace Brannigan, don’t ya’ think?”

“It is.”

“He heard I was asking around so he was asking around.”

“Lots of that going ‘round, it seems.”

Farrelli laughed. “I assume your friend Chase wants to know about this guy with roughly the same name?”

“Well, the second Horace would be a Junior,” Riley said. “Whom the first, the Senior, did not know existed until our recent expedition to the Caribbean.”

“Ah!” Farrelli soaked that in. “Must have been a bit of a surprise for Horace Senior, eh?”

Riley was playing connect-the-dots. “What does Fabrou want with young Horace a.k.a. Harry?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Farrelli said, “but he did intimate that any information would return a profit to the provider of said information. A profit to the tune of fifty large. I suppose that would be significant to some.”

“What the kid do, kill someone?” Riley meant it as a joke, but the second it left his mouth he had a bad taste.

Farrelli’s eyes peered out from their recesses in his skull. “I got the feeling that might well be the case. Fabrou is a careful man and a powerful one. For him to trek up here from Savannah, well he took his yacht, which is actually quicker than driving, but for him to come here, to talk to me, means someone more powerful than him is pulling his strings. Someone with an urgent need to find Horace Junior. And I don’t think it’s to tell him he won the lottery.”

“But you know nothing?”

“I didn’t say that,” Farrelli said. “I told Fabrou that.”

Riley waited.

“And I wasn’t lying,” Farrelli said. “I just didn’t know that Harry Brannigan was connected to Horace Chase. Now that I have those two pieces, things make more sense. Fabrou told me that, let’s call him Harry so we can skip the Junior and Senior stuff, Harry disappeared about eighteen months ago. Know who else disappeared around the same time?”

“Doc Cleary.”

“Right. Everyone thought it was ‘cause Lilly Chase died. The woman who lived with him the last several years.”

“And Horace’s mother.”

“Right,” Farrelli said. “But now we know she was also Harry’s grandmother. ‘Curiouser and curiouser’. That’s Shakespeare, right?”

“Wouldn’t know.”

Farrelli closed his eyes for a moment. “Nah. Alice in Wonderland I think.”

“Possibly,” Riley said.

Farrelli shrugged. “Maybe not. I get stuff confused sometimes.”