Bishop's War (Bishop Series Book 1) (22 page)

“It is time,” Omar said.

“Amir has Bishop’s woman.”

“I know. I saw her taken by Atal at the hospital.”

“They meet at midnight at the big Con Ed plant on East 14th Street,” he said quickly.

“Good,” she said.

“You gave your word.”

“And I shall keep it,” Omar said. Before he could flinch the sword whistled above his shoulders, cleanly slicing through his neck and spine. His head stayed balanced for several seconds before toppling to the floor.

She wiped the blade on his shirt, then stepped into the hallway. Omar ignored the sound of Khalid’s sobbing family as she closed the door. She was now completely focused on her next two targets.

The Upper West Side of Manhattan
Eighty Eighth Street and Central Park West

Bob and Karen Goldstein walked hand in hand down the street. After ten years of marriage and two children they were still very much in love. They were returning from a stroll through Central Park, which was a nightly summer ritual whenever their kids were away. A few feet from the entrance to their luxury building they were approached by a very distinguished looking man in his sixties. He had a thick mane of carefully coifed white hair, a thin white mustache dramatically curled at the corners, and wore a light blue seersucker suit accompanied by the mandatory bow tie. His broad smile completed the Colonel Sanders impersonation.

“Welcome home, Mr. and Mrs. Goldstein.”

“I’m sorry, do we know you?” Bob asked.

“It is me who must apologize, sir, but I have something extremely urgent and very delicate to discuss with you.”

“Is this about the case? Mr. Meecham said he’d be here at nine. You’re early,” Karen said.

“It is indeed, although I do not represent Mr. Meecham. Allow me to introduce myself, my name is Harvey Bascomb, Esquire,” he said, handing them each a business card.

“In that case, Mr. Bascomb, we can’t speak to you. Now, if you’ll please get out of our way,” Bob said sternly.

“As I said, this is a very delicate matter that deserves your complete attention,” Harvey said. “I was asked to deliver this to you.”

He handed Karen a plain unsealed white envelope. After pulling out a photograph, she tilted her head down and to the left as though the movement would help her to better comprehend what she was looking at.

“Oh my God!” she screamed. “Please! Please, don’t do anything.”

“Mrs. Goldstein, I assure you I am only a messenger. Would you be kind enough to invite me into your home so we can speak privately?”

“I’m calling the police,” Bob said.

“Of course that is an option, though I find it quite disagreeable.”

“Do as he says Bob. We don’t have a choice,” she said and handed her husband the photo.

“My associates will be joining us,” Harvey added, just as two huge and dangerous looking men exited a black Ford Explorer that was parked at the curb.

The Goldstein’s nervously greeted their doorman while Harvey Bascomb gave him a warm smile. The two killers offered only flat stares. After a silent elevator ride they all entered the plush three bedroom condo.

“Please don’t hurt our children,” Karen said. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she reclaimed the photo from Bob and firmly held it to her breast with both hands. Their sons, ages seven and nine, were at summer camp. The picture, taken from the woods, showed them toasting marshmallows with a counselor by their side. The time stamp in the lower corner showed the date and time of the photo. It had been taken less than an hour ago.

“I pose no threat to you or your family Mrs. Goldstein. As I said, I am merely here to discuss the case.”

“What do you want?” Bob asked.

“Let’s all have a seat,” Bascomb said jovially.

Bob and Karen sat next to each other on the couch and Harvey took a chair facing them. His gruff companions remained standing. They each unbuttoned their dark suit jackets revealing the pistols that were tucked in their waist bands.

“First of all, I have to ask you, have you made any written or recorded statements that can be used in a court of law?”

“No sir. As my wife said, Mr. Meecham is coming here shortly with a court officer to take my statement.”

“You are a lawyer yourself are you not?”

“Yes, I am.”

“You are far too modest, sir. An extremely accomplished and highly regarded attorney, as I understand it.”

“Let’s cut the shit Harvey. You represent Gonzalo Valdez right?”

“I have heard the name, but have never had the pleasure of meeting the man you speak of.”

“Look, we’re right here. Just get to it.”

“What are you going to say to Meecham?”

“That I can’t be a witness.”

“Could you elaborate as to why, sir?”

“Because I don’t have any clear recollection of what happened. I was drunk and stoned. We had been drinking all day and night and even smoked a little pot.”

“Is that all Mr. Goldstein? You seemed quite lucid in your original written statement,” Harvey said. He removed a copy from his jacket pocket and placed it on the coffee table in front of Bob. “Would you care to read it?”

“I don’t need to. It’s worthless. The police grilled us for hours and told us what to say. They even typed up the statements and had us each sign them.”

“I see. Anything else? There are many concerned parties that are very interested in the outcome of these proceedings. Any reassurances you can give them will be both welcomed and appreciated,” Harvey said with flair.

“Yes. You can tell the interested parties that Hugh Packard was a bully. We all thought he was cool because he was from London, but really he was just an asshole with a mean streak made worse by the booze. He was always starting fights when he drank. The one thing I do recall clearly from that night is that Hugh assaulted a young man who was walking down the street. It was unprovoked. He broke a bottle over the boy’s head. I moved away, wanting no part of it. The next thing I knew Hugh was dead and we were all being interrogated by the police.”

“Yet your signed statement paints Hugh Packard as the victim and Felix Valdez as the aggressor.”

“As I said, the police intimidated us, even threatened us with jail time if we didn’t play ball. My father cut fabric in the garment center for thirty years. My going to Yale was the highlight of his life. They told me I would lose my scholarship at a minimum if I didn’t sign.”

“I see. Did you see anyone else that night?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Even after all these years and in your admitted state of intoxication at the time, you can be so sure?”

“Yes. That I will swear to. Mr. Valdez was alone when he was attacked by Hugh Packard and I am very sorry that he went to prison. Mr. Valdez was defending himself. If I had been braver I would have testified on his behalf. He was railroaded by racist, small minded people, and it is my personal belief that it was also because of his last name. I heard the cops and the DA saying that they were finally going nail a Valdez, though I had never even heard of the uncle at the time. All I can say now is that it was a tragedy for everyone involved. Hugh lost his life and a young man was wrongfully incarcerated. It’s haunted me ever since.”

“Mr. Goldstein, it has been both an honor and a privilege to meet you, sir. I find your sincere remorse for your own inaction and your degree of empathy for the two victims here extremely refreshing. It reaffirms my belief in the good nature of mankind.”

“You will assure those concerned and interested parties you spoke of that I pose no threat to them. In fact, they should consider me a staunch ally.”

“I will assure them of exactly that. These are difficult times. Those small minded people you spoke of are still hard at work. They bend the truth without calling it a lie and create fear in others to mask their own evil intentions. At times like these, good God fearing people like ourselves need each other more than ever. I’m glad you are on our side Mr. Goldstein.”

“Me too.”

“You are clearly astute and I mean you no disrespect by asking, but do I need to caution you about making any written statements at this juncture?”

“You do not Mr. Bascomb. And if ever I do, it will be in your presence. I will rely on your guidance to ensure that none of us, as allies, could ever be injured as a result of such a statement.”

“Excellent. Excellent. Thank you for your hospitality.”

Bob handed Bascomb his business card. “Take this in case you don’t already have it. My mobile number is on it. And please, call me night or day. I am always available to assist a friend.”

Karen ran into her husband’s arms the moment Bascomb and the killers left. She was shaking like a leaf and Bob held her close.

“I did all I could do, baby. They have to know that I’m no threat to them,” he said.

“You were amazing. Bascomb was convinced. He knows you’ll never testify.”

“I just hope Gonzalo Valdez sees it the same way.”

“What are we going to do?”

“We go get the boys, then come back here and wait for the phone to ring.”

“And Meecham?”

“Fuck Meecham.”

Michael Meecham’s son, Caleb Meecham, walked into the Goldstein’s building with a police detective and a court stenographer in tow. The doorman picked up the house phone and called to announce them.

“Mr. Goldstein says he can’t see you.”

“We have an appointment. This man is a police officer,” Caleb replied. “I’ll get to the bottom of this.” He snatched the phone from the doorman’s hand. Bob informed him that on advice from his attorney he would not be making any statements at this time.

“I can have you arrested,” Caleb threatened.

“Really? Are you an officer of the court or in any branch of law enforcement?” Bob asked.

“I represent…”

“You represent your daddy, you little shit. Tell him to buy a warrant for my arrest if he can, otherwise leave me the fuck alone.”

The line went dead in Caleb’s ear. He put the phone down on the counter just as the ever smiling Harvey Bascomb and his stoned-face entourage exited the elevator and strolled passed the front desk.

“Who are you?”

Ignoring him, they continued on their way.

“Hey you! I asked you a question.”

Stopping in his tracks, a slight nod of the head instructed his escorts to keep going. Once they were out of the building Bascomb spun on one heel with a flourish.

“Young man, are you ill?” His mocking tone conveyed contempt rather than concern.

“What? No, of course not.”

“Are you quite sure? The lack of skin color, the degree of physical emaciation, coupled with your extremely rude behavior would indicate otherwise. Perhaps a brain tumor is responsible for your sickly appearance and this psychotic episode?”

“I’m asking you for the last time. Who are you and what are you doing here?”

“For the last time? Hmmm. That statement implies a threat. Young man, may I offer some advice?

“What?”

“Tanning salon. You really do need to pink up a bit,” Harvey said. He raised his hand, waved a pinky and said, “ta ta,” then again turned elegantly on his heel and confidently strolled away.

“Why didn’t you do something?” Caleb asked the detective.

“There was nothing for me to do, kid, except watch you make an ass of yourself.”

Caleb watched Bascomb leave the building before turning to stare at the detective. He wanted to make sure he remembered him.

He got on his cell phone and said, “They got here first, Dad.”

Trappe, Maryland

“We anticipated that some of the witnesses would not cooperate,” Mike Meecham said to his son. “We only need one to swear he saw Bishop there and it’s over. Don’t worry, Caleb, we’ll get him. I’m pulling up to the house. Call you later tonight,” he said.

The silver Rolls Royce Phantom glided to a stop in front of the ornately carved wooden doors that were the main entrance to the Meecham mansion. He had fallen in love with the doors when he toured Europe as a teenager. One of his first actions after his father died was to hire a team to steal the doors from the French castle they had been attached to for the last six hundred years. He simply had to have them.

His house servant, an elderly black man dressed in the mandatory butler’s uniform, opened the rear door of the Phantom. “Welcome home, Mista Meecham, sah,” he said. Meecham stepped out without replying.

An assistant immediately fell in beside him and began updating him on the events of the last two hours that he’d been away from the command center.

“Unless there’s something new or urgent, you can save the update for later. I’m expecting someone.”

“You’re guest is here Mr. Meecham.”

“Where’s his car?”

“It’s uncertain how he arrived, or how he entered the house. He tapped me on my shoulder in the hallway and said he would wait for you in your office, sir.”

“And you let him?”

“I couldn’t stop that man from doing whatever he wanted without an army behind me. Maybe not even then.”

“I see,” Meecham said. He walked down the long corridor decorated with priceless paintings and sculptures, then cautiously entered his own private office.

“Your security is for shit, Meecham. I hear you’re going after some pretty nasty people and I just waltzed right in.”

“Thank you for your concern.”

“I could care less, pal. I just don’t want you getting zeroed out before I get paid in full.”

Mike Meecham carefully examined the man that was sitting in his chair blowing smoke rings from one of the fine Cuban cigars that were always locked in the humidor behind his desk.

As if reading Meecham’s mind he asked, “I just broke into your house undetected and you’re wondering how I got into the fuckin’ humidor? You better get some focus or you’re not long for this world.”

“I plan on being around a long time and to outlive all my enemies. That’s why you’re here.”

Constantine Bellusci stood up and stretched. He was half Greek and half Albanian, a massive man at six-six and two hundred-eighty pounds, none of it fat. He had a bald head, a crooked nose, the ancient facial and knuckle scars of a onetime brawler, combined with the stealthy movements of a trained soldier, which he once was. Now he was a full-time mercenary, an elite killer for hire, and anyone who came in contact with the man simply known as Connie instinctively gave him a wide berth. There was no disguising that he was one extremely dangerous and deadly human being.