Chasing the Son (4 page)

Chase turned. “You know, if I can find you, so can someone else. And they’re looking. Hard. Karralkov had friends. And the bettors, those whose millions you took, they aren’t happy, either.”

He opened the gate and took the stairs down to the beach. He threw the USB key into the water, took off the running shoes, and retrieved his fins. He couldn’t see the
Fina
at this level, but knew it was just a couple of hundred yards offshore. He whistled, and heard Chelsea’s short bark. Chase whistled back, turned in that direction, and dove into the water heading toward his dog and his friends.

It was over, but it wasn’t over.

It was just beginning.

He had a son, and his son’s mother was dead.

It was all just beginning.

But once more, Horace Chase was heading into the murky future without much information.

He was going to have to correct that.

He began finning, heading toward the
Fina
and his teammates and his dog.

And his new future.

Chapter Two

Wednesday Evening

The balcony commanded a superb view of Charleston Harbor and the only complaint Mrs. Jenrette had about the view was that Fort Sumter was still out there with the flag of the Federalists flying high over it. The National Park Service lit it with a spotlight every single night, as if taunting the city that had taken it down by force so many years ago and replaced it with the Stars and Bars.

“Mrs. Jenrette?”

The grand dame lifted her right hand off the arm of her exquisite cane chair ever so slightly, a signal for the supplicant to proceed. He was a man in his late sixties, awkward in this subservient role, cloaking himself in it only on this balcony. To the rest of Charleston he was a ruthless lawyer with only one client: the most powerful family in the city.

Like many things in that rarified world full of secrets, that wasn’t quite true.

Charles Rigney walked up next to the wooden railing, smartly blocking Fort Sumter from view, a silent acknowledgement between the two of them. He was six and a half feet tall, had played forward on the Institute basketball team many years ago, and was bald as a billiard ball and lean as a cue stick.

“Yes, Charles?” Mrs. Jenrette said, a voice dripping in magnolia, Charleston, and age, swirled with the essence of power that came naturally from birth and exercised without restraint for decades. She had once been as physically commanding as the view, an inch shy of six feet, willowy and graceful, with long auburn hair. She’d broken many a beau’s heart when she was a debutante; as a young married woman, she’d brought attention to herself and her husband, as he escorted her about on his arm. Men envied him, women hated her, and the truly insightful knew she was more than beauty: she was the brains behind the throne. Even in her later married years, as her hair turned silver and she disdained coloring it and cropped it back, she was still a marvel. But now, in her early nineties, the realities of arthritis and age had worn her down, literally shrinking her a few inches and making any excursion out of chair or bed a painful endeavor. Only the voice and the surroundings reminded one of who she was.

“The invitation list for the Ball has been finalized,” Rigney said.

He didn’t have to specify
what
ball, as there was only one that mattered in Charleston: the St. Cecilia Society Gala, held once a year. Which evening it was held was a closely guarded secret and at the whim of Mrs. Jenrette, who’d reigned as president of the Society for eighteen years. It was never reported on in the local newspaper and spoken only of in whispers. No one got in unless invited and no one was invited unless they were a member of Society of St. Cecilia, a dwindling, but still very powerful social circle, the most powerful one in Charleston. Mrs. Jenrette had ‘come out’ at that ball three quarters of a century ago.

Mrs. Jenrette sighed. This used to be one of her favorite tasks, an annual display of power. Even she admitted, only to herself, that she dipped into the well of petty once in a while, scratching a line through this name or that, for some slight, real or imagined. There was no point being powerful without some of the perks. But now, implicit in it, was a deep pain. And the realization the odds were rather good it would be her last one.

“There are no other men in my line,” Mrs. Jenrette said. “It dies with me.”

“It need not,” Rigney said, daring an argument that she always shot down. But it was late, and the large glass carafe on the table next to his patron was two-thirds empty, indicating she’d imbibed more than usual. Perhaps, for once, reason might prevail in this matter. “No woman was President before you. Perhaps the rules can be changed. You have a daughter. And she has a daughter.”

“But no living son or grandson; no male heir to carry on the name.” Mrs. Jenrette scoffed: “The men did not elect me. It passed to me when my husband and son moved on from this mortal coil in the crash, since no one was willing to step up during a difficult time. When I move on, no woman will set foot in the inner council. And they will never allow me to change the rule: only direct male descendants of founding members of the Order of St. Cecilia may become members.”

“It is a dwindling pool, ma’am,” Rigney pointed out. “Half of the houses south of Broad are now owned by strangers.”

“Turncoats,” Mrs. Jenrette stirred angrily. “Youngsters selling out their family homes for money.”

“They
need
the money,” Rigney gently pointed out. “Their parents did not provide as well for them as they should have. As you have so generously provided for your own family.”

“Tread carefully,” Mrs. Jenrette said. “Those parents were, and those still alive
are
my friends.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Rigney said.

Both were silent, the only sound the waves breaking on the rocks lining the Battery. It was late and the park south of the house was empty of tourists. There were those wondered if that was why Mrs. Jenrette always chose the night to be out there. She would never be caught out on the porch during daylight any more, not when some yahoo tourist from Ohio with a camera could capture her image. Whether it was from a sense of privacy or vanity was up for debate. That and the fact that three years ago one of the tour guides who drove the carriages that clopped through the streets was regaling his captive audience with a tale of the Battery so inelegantly false in historical accuracy, belittling the bravery of the men who’d fired the cannon, that Mrs. Jenrette had gone inside and brought one of her deceased husband’s guns out and fired a load of bird shot at the poor young man. No one was hurt, but Mrs. Jenrette had begun a retreat into the cloak of darkness.

“What is the status of Sea Drift?” Mrs. Jenrette asked, touching on her final project, her legacy to the Low Country.

“It will be in three days, on Saturday. All is as I briefed you yesterday.”

“And the Bloody Point Course?” she asked, referring to one of the three defunct golf courses on Daufuskie Island.

“Ownership is still buried under several shell companies, but I’m getting closer to finding out the true owner so we can proceed.”

“It has to be completed by Saturday. You don’t have much time.”

“I know. But even if it isn’t completed, we can go to our alternate plan. Block off easement to the course, which will make it worthless. The owner will then have to show themselves and sell.”

“One would think so,” Mrs. Jenrette said. “But the true owner has not showed themselves yet, and we’ve put good money on the table. Perhaps this mystery owner knows more than they should?”

Rigney had no answer to that speculation.

Another silence played out.

“Mrs. Jenrette . . .” Rigney began, a bit uncertain, which he knew was a mistake as she snatched on that like a cobra.

“What is it man? Speak.”

“There’s been a development.” Rigney had thought this over on the short walk from his house (not waterfront) to her’s (owning the waterfront). “Someone has been making inquiries concerning the whereabouts of Horace Brannigan, whom we know as Harry Brannigan.”

“I assume you mean someone other than us,” Mrs. Jenrette said.

“Yes.”

“So what is the development?”

“It’s on Hilton Head. As you know, his mother, who had nothing to do with him since birth, disappeared a few months back. We checked into it and couldn’t track her, which is suspicious in and of itself. But now a man named Farrelli is making inquiries about both the mother and the younger Brannigan.”

He continued, not giving her a chance to ask questions, and knowing her dislike of having to ask.

“Farrelli has connections with New Jersey. Organized crime connections. He launders money for New Jersey through several restaurants on the island and has been trying to expand his operations as much as possible. Protection. Gambling. Escort services.”

“A gangster.” Mrs. Jenrette’s voice dripped derision for the criminal element; conveniently ignoring her own family history and the truism in America that behind every great fortune lay criminal activity somewhere in the past.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Why would he be interested in Brannigan?” Mrs. Jenrette asked.

“We suspect he’s asking on behalf of someone else.”

“Who?”

“We don’t know.”

Mrs. Jenrette tapped her finger on the arm of her chair, a sign of extreme agitation those who were close to her would recognize, except there were few of those. Rigney was one.

“We knew Brannigan was of poor blood,” she finally said. “Why the Institute would allow such a person in to the Corps, is beyond me. And, as usual, your news is not news. I also have heard rumors that someone is asking of Brannigan. I believe we must pursue that angle further.”

“Of course,” Rigney said, not surprised that she’d already heard. Whispers came to the old woman, even though she rarely left the house, creeping to it, like the vines which crept up the brick walls on the back of the house.

“I’m bringing in someone new. He’s an Institute man, class of ’08.”

“Young,” was Rigney’s immediate assessment.

“I thought that would be beneficial,” Mrs. Jenrette said. “Closer in age to my grandson’s classmates and those who were involved.” When Rigney didn’t say anything, she continued. “He’s young, but he’s sharp. Commissioned in the Army upon graduation. Branched Infantry. Airborne and honor graduate of Ranger school. Served with the 101
st
Airborne in Afghanistan for one tour; awarded a Bronze Star for bravery. Then into the Ranger Battalion at Hunter Army Airfield, outside of Savannah. Multiple short deployments to combat zones; awarded a Silver Star. He resigned his commission four months ago and moved back here.”

“’Back here’?” Rigney repeated. “What is his family name?”

“Dillon.”

“From Charleston, you say?” Rigney was running through the families of Charleston in his brain and coming up short.

“North Charleston,” Mrs. Jenrette amended. “He attended the Institute on a football scholarship. A good man. Tough. Single family home, raised by his mother who works as a paralegal, but he’s taken his opportunity and made the most of it.”

“How much are you paying him?” Rigney asked.

“I’m not,” Mrs. Jenrette said. “You are. If he succeeds, you will put him through law school and give him a place with your firm. Like me, you have no successor. If this young man works out, that might well be his position.”

“Mrs. Jenrette, that’s—“

She cut him off. “If he succeeds in this task he will be a valuable asset. He will be bound by spilled blood. Sometimes I fear that is a stronger bond than blood in the veins. He is waiting in the library. I have not met him in person yet.”

“If you’ve not met him,” Rigney said, “how do you know he is up to the task?”

“I did some research,” Mrs. Jenrette said, vaguely. “He’s waiting downstairs. Please bring him to me, Charles.”

Rigney disappeared through the French doors behind her. Mrs. Jenrette signaled and a silent figure who’d been practically invisible all this time appeared out of the shadows at the rear of the porch. The butler, an old black man, dressed in a white starched shirt with a bow tie, and black trousers, poured her another drink from the pitcher. Task accomplished, he faded back into the darkness.

Rigney appeared, accompanied by a younger man, three inches shorter, but broad and well built. He wore a suit much like Rigney’s, except purchased from a store much farther down the pecking order in men’s clothing. He had light-colored hair, cut short in the military way. There was a scar on the right side of his face, and a pockmark below and to the outside of the eye.

“Mister Dillon,” Mrs. Jenrette said.

“Ma’am.” Dillon stood near the railing, at attention, just short of the way a rat would be braced at the Institute. But his eyes were moving, shifting about, taking in his surroundings.

“Did you ever think you’d stand here?” Mrs. Jenrette asked. She didn’t wait for an answer. “I am sure you have walked the Battery. Looked at these houses. What did you think when you did so?”

“I thought they were quite magnificent,” Dillon said.

“An impersonal observation,” Mrs. Jenrette noted. “What did you
feel
?”

Dillon didn’t hesitate. “Ambition.”

Mrs. Jenrette laughed, a surprising sound. “Honesty. I so enjoy an honest man. Most use words to obscure the matter, but you cut right to it with a single utterance. Do you understand the situation I’ve explained to you over the phone?”

“You want me to find Harry Brannigan,” Dillon said.

“Then you
do not
understand.”

“Excuse me, Mrs. Jenrette,” Dillon quickly interjected. “I was not certain if you wanted me to speak plainly in front of others.”

Mrs. Jenrette cocked her head, confused. “But Mister Rigney already knows.”

“There is another present,” Dillon said, nodding toward the shadows.

“There is
not
,” Mrs. Jenrette said with the certainty born of centuries of slavery and servitude. For Mrs. Jenrette and her generation the ‘help’ was like the furniture. Something useful and functional but certainly not a concern in any other matter.