Killing Chase (10 page)

“You certainly took your sweet time,
but I figured you would make it out here eventually,” she began in a halting,
we’re gonna be here awhile
kind of voice. I could just make out her shape in the darkness of the cabana, and I assumed this made her more comfortable. She could hide whatever guilt she felt in the foggy blackness, and I would imagine that she had gotten ugly and bloated these last seven years. A win-win.

“Hello, Bailey. Why are you here? You don’t owe me anything.”

“We need to talk, Chase.”

I took a seat in the chair across from her and sat my glass and the bottle on the small table in between us. “I’ve been available for seven years, yet your shadow never darkened a single prison entrance.”

“It’s not exactly the kind of conversation you have during a prison visit.”

“You know, I don’t seem to recall receiving a single letter from you either. But you had college and law school to worry about. Football games and pep rallies and keg parties, exams . . . life.”

“How did you know about law school?”

“A little birdie told me and its name wasn’t Hank Hampton.” There was a palpable silence as she processed this information.

“Anna,” she said, more a revelation than a question.

“Didn’t think it through all the way, huh, counselor?”

“Guess not,” she admitted.

“It doesn’t matter anyway,” I said as I finished my glass. “Where are my manners? Would you care for some of the Hampton’s finest twelve-year old whiskey?”

She reached over, picked up the bottle, and took a healthy glug-glug before placing it back on the table.

“You work for my father. I don’t know why he would keep this from me, but you and I will stay out of each other’s way, and life will go on.”

“It isn’t that simple, Chase.”

“Tell you what, Bailey, if you will answer one question for me, truthfully, I promise you’ll never have to hear my voice again. What happened to our friendship? What did I do that caused you to hate me? That’s all I want to know.”

“You’re right. I did hate you. With every fiber of my being. You had it all, Chase. The big house, money, anything you wanted, and I had to make do in a roach-infested, shit hole of a trailer that was hot in the summer and freezing in the winter.”

“But you had a mother that would walk to the ends of the earth for you. That’s worth its weight in gold,” I interjected.” But I didn’t have a father.”

“I can relate,” I said. “Some might even say I was lacking a mother.”

“Yeah, but you knew your father.”

“Bailey, what does this have to do with our friendship? What I had was never an issue before between us.”

“Nothing, until I found out who my father was, in exchange for my silence and a nicer place to call home. I was mad at you because you were the reason we had to leave.”

“I don’t understand.”

She reached over and took another healthy pull from the bottle.

“Chase, Hank’s my father too.”

It got quiet. I didn’t hear birds, waves, or wind.
Hank’s my father too.

“Bullshit,” I said quietly, but in the back of my head I knew it sounded just screwed up enough to be true.

“I’m not lying. He’ll tell you himself,” she said calmly. “He had an affair with my mother. He would stop in from time to time at the Three Sisters for breakfast on his way to work, and one thing led to another, which led to me.”

“My father . . . excuse me, our father, had two women pregnant at the same time, in our small town, and managed to keep everything hush-hush. That’s just too rich. Epic Hank Hampton.”

“He paid mom to keep it a secret.”

“You’re my sister,” I said, still not believing what I was saying.

“Yes. Half-sister.”

“Do we have any other half-brothers or -sisters running around the world that you know of? Have you asked him?”

“I think we’re it.”

“When did you find out?”

“As soon as we unloaded the moving van in Atlanta. He sat me down on our small patio out back and told me. I was sweat-soaked and dog-tired from the trip and the unloading, and I couldn’t muster a fight. Plus, he had an endearing way about him that made you not want to hate him. He helped us pack the night before we left Foggy Harbor, but I didn’t think anything of it. He said you had asked if he could help get us out of the trailer park, so he called in some favors and got mom a job working at a big law firm. Just like that, new school, new place to live . . . a new life. And I hated you for it. Yes, we were poor, but Foggy Harbor was home, and it was my life and I had no say.”

I was dumbstruck. Bailey Masters, my half-sister.

She continued, “Later, I understood why they did it. You and I were becoming too close, and they could see where things were headed. They couldn’t have you and I fall in love as brother and sister; so a separation was needed. Plus, it kept the scandal away from Hank.”

“Yes, how convenient for him. Pack away your troubles in a U-Haul and move it to another state. What an ass. It was true, Bailey. I was developing a different kind of feeling for you. Still, you never wrote or called that whole year you went missing.”

“They convinced me not to. Said it would just complicate things. He was socking money away in a retirement fund for mom in exchange for her silence. He didn’t have to do that. I stayed quiet for mom. We could have threatened to go public, but what good would that have done. I regretted it every day, and then we moved back and I had to play the role of first-class bitch to you.” She flicked a lighter and lit a cigarette. I could see from the flame that she had not gotten ugly or bloated.

“So my father, dammit, our father, let his daughter and the mother of his child live in that squalid excuse for a home for God knows how many years?” I asked. She took a deep drag.

“Welcome to my world,” she said as she exhaled.

“You know, I could almost feel sorry for you, but you’re a Hampton and no one feels sorry for the Hamptons. I’m guessing no one outside the family knows your Hank’s daughter.”

“We haven’t advertised it.”

“I can imagine.” The whiskey was loosening my lips, and the thoughts were careening and pinging off the walls of my brain. It was then that I realized how I’d been abandoned. And I began to speak without thinking.

“Why’d you and Crystal move back?”

“I’d rather not talk about it,” she said icily.

“Fair enough. How old are you now, Bailey?”

“You know how old I am,” she said cautiously.

“Right, twenty-five, like me. So let me get this straight, because I’ve been drinking with our ninety-three-year-old grandfather and I may be a little fuzzy on the details. Seven plus years ago, I defended you, my half-sister, from a surly and drunk Cam Tanner and went to prison, and not a damn one of you saw fit to bring this sordid but important fact to light. Not you, my sister, or that piece-of-shit father of ours, because you had an agreement! Did it ever occur to you two that maybe this little imperfect fact would’ve helped me out during sentencing or that maybe we would’ve taken this to trial instead of pleading?”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’d take it all back if I could.”

“I went to prison for seven years and you got to go to college and enjoy life, so you don’t get to play the poor, poor Bailey game anymore. You’re a grown-ass woman, yet you turned a blind eye to me, and stayed silent for seven years. I don’t have a college degree, a job, or anything resembling an identity. People know me as either Inmate 0513717, the man who killed Cam Tanner, or the son of the fine, upstanding, All-American, good, Foggy Harbor citizen and businessman, Hank ‘I fucking cheated on my wife and had an illegitimate child’ Hampton. Thanks for nothing, sis, and welcome to the family. Looks like you’ll fit in just fine.”

I stood, grabbed the heavy tumbler, and sent in crashing into the back wall of the cabana, and walked off toward the sound of the crashing waves.

“Chase, come back. Where are you going?”

“To call my parole officer and request that I be put back in prison. Who knew I’d have more people that I trusted in there. Then, I’m going to try to convince myself that I shouldn’t strangle our father.”

Just before I was out of earshot, Bailey yelled as I reached the ocean’s edge. “Chase, he’s dying. He has maybe nine months,”

“He’s been dead to me for about a minute,” I said in a whisper Bailey couldn’t hear.

Nine months. Damn.

Monday, March 19, 2012

“You are a good friend
, Hank,” Sergei lied, from the bed of his Nassau hospital room.
Stupid American
, he thought,
just because we share similar family issues does not make us brothers in kind.
Your country stole too much from us during the Cold War. Pride for starters.

Now the America was busy with its newest enemy, crazy Muslim fundamentalists, and so Sergei would strike while America had its eyes focused elsewhere.

He went through the timetable in his head once more while he listened to Hank drone on. In four days, a cargo ship would depart from the Port of Genoa, bound for Savannah. Money, life-altering sums already deposited into numerous accounts, would ensure safe passage of the cargo. Inspectors would look the other way, and records would be altered. Halfway across the Atlantic, at the appointed time, cargo from an intermodal container would be tossed overboard. A Broadcom GPS chipset planted inside the canister would allow one of his ships to track it and snatch it from the water. If all went according to plan, America would be in chaos two weeks later. He called his plan
Grom
, Russian for “thunder.”

“Sergei, I think we should postpone our upcoming training run, in light of what you’ve gone through and what you’ve lost,” Hank suggested. “You need to rest and recover, my friend.” He noticed that Sergei didn’t seem to be his normal self today; he seemed detached and distant, but then he’d also taken a bullet to the chest and lost a wife in the past forty-eight hours.

“Hank that will not be necessary. I will go home to London, bury Viktoria, and then return. She would want that. I would like to express my sincerest appreciation for all you’ve done for me. I will let the authorities do their job of finding the killer, and you and I will maintain our schedule.”

“Are you sure? Your boat will not be ready for a year, perhaps as much as eighteen months?”

“I am sure. I want myself and my crew trained on your special feature, and I want to be able to test them on it throughout the build-out. What you’ve done to the
Anchor Management
is amazing, Hank.”
What I will do with her will shock the world.

***

I woke surprisingly refreshed and ready to tackle the day ahead. A long walk north along the beach last night to clear my thoughts and let my low-grade buzz wither had been the perfect elixir. One hundred-percent, grade-A pissed-off was how I began the walk, and by the time I made the turn two and a half miles later at the Walnut Island Pier, my mood had changed completely. I was at peace. It would be me against the world, and although I had told Bailey I was calling my parole officer, that couldn’t have been further from the truth. Going back was no longer an option I even considered. I’d made a deal with the Feds and I would follow through, damn the consequences.

It was a perfect morning for a run and a drive in the Mustang. I felt alive and empowered, and grateful. It was a Chamber of Commerce kind of day in Foggy Harbor. The fog from last night had burned off, giving way to bright blue skies and temperatures in the mid-sixties. I put the top down and drove the five miles to Pampas Park, situated adjacent to the broad Cape Fear River. Today would be a busy day. After the run, I would drive back home, shower, and begin to follow through on the plan Schmidt had laid out. I had no idea who I would run into, but by the end of the day, the word would spread. Chase Hampton was back in town.

After stretching, I began the first of five, mile-long laps around the picturesque park. Geometrically placed in the middle were baseball, soccer and football fields along with two playgrounds and four refreshment stands. The parking lot was only a quarter full as I started jogging on the crushed gravel path that paralleled the river. After a quarter mile, the trail angled inward into a sea of tall pines and short, vine-choked trees. It was wide, much like a road, with two designated lanes. Bright-orange reflective poles planted in the center of the path about every fifty yards reminded people of this.

I took a left at the first feeder loop trail, increased my pace, and bounded over the small bridge at Jebsen Creek. To my left was Cotton Slough, a wide-open, marshy wetland with the creek snaking through it. A Sandhill crane stood stoically in the middle, a lone sentinel watching for danger or an unawares salamander or tadpole. A cacophony of smells assaulted my senses: the decaying stench of something organic mixed with the sweet smell of honeysuckle and other swamp flowers. Bumblebees gorged themselves on nectar and pollen, flying from flower to flower haphazardly. Spring in coastal North Carolina is nature’s coming-out party and you could feel the forest coming to life and shaking itself from its winter slumber. With the current scene imprinted in my mind, I could’ve run forever. I felt born again.

I finished the first mile in a rather pedestrian nine minutes and thirty seconds and decided to run the upcoming mile hard. Another runner was halfway down the parallel, and I challenged myself to overtake him or her before the first feeder trail sign. I spied a blond ponytail swishing back and forth behind a black ball cap, and as I made up ground, I could see lean, tan legs moving with a purpose.
Graceful
, I thought, until she stumbled and went down in a slow-motion tumble of arms and legs. I sprinted to her to offer my assistance.

“Ma’am, you okay?”

She turned and looked up at me with big, emerald eyes. “I was hoping to run into you here. Now help me up and walk me slowly back to my car.”

Special Agent Jenna Brighton. The leading lady in our two-person production.

“You didn’t have to bust
your ass to get my attention.” As I noted earlier, Jenna is a single brilliant ray of sun in a year of cloudy days. We put our arms around each other’s shoulder and she fake-limped as we chatted, and as much as I tried, I couldn’t help but admire the way she filled out her Nike Dri-Fit running shirt and shorts.

“Actors on a stage, Chase. Never know who’s watching. Besides, it was a controlled fall. We have a lot to discuss.” She spoke in short, crisp,
let’s get down to business
sentences.

“Any leads on Viktoria’s killer?”

“Nothing I can share. Were you able to switch the key on your father’s laptop?” I’m pretty sure she knew I didn’t. This was more of an honesty question, a deal-breaker if I decided to lie.

“No, things got a little crazy after Viktoria’s murder. And he’s still in Nassau as far as I know.”

“He’ll be back tonight. A flight plan was filed for his private jet. A simple hop down to Nassau and back. You’ll be happy to know that Anna is flying back with him.”

“Why’d you say it like that?” I said, amused. Jenna didn’t strike me as the catty type.

“Well you two seemed to be enjoying each other’s company in the hot tub Saturday night,” she offered.

“That was a fact-finding mission, Special Agent Brighton. Did you enjoy the performance?”

She blushed, “Part of the job, but I must say you seemed to take a lot of pride in your work. And by the way, it’s Jenna.”

“Right, Jenna. Viktoria said she thought Anna could be trusted?”

“Again, I can’t comment on that.”

“Is Bailey Masters a target of the investigation?”

“Why do you ask?” she said curiously.

“She blindsided me last night with something. Can you at least tell me what you know about her?”

“She’s the lead legal counsel for Aquatic Expeditions, graduated top five in her law school class at Stanford. She turned down offers from big firms in Atlanta and San Francisco to work with your father. Is there something I should know, Chase?”

“According to her, she’s my half-sister, but it’s just her word. She said Hank could corroborate it.”

“Hmm,” mumbled Jenna, “we didn’t know that. Makes sense though on why she would rebuff the more lucrative job offers.”

“Side note, Jenna. If they had disclosed that Bailey was my sister during my legal troubles, do you think I would’ve been given such a long sentence?”

“Well, you found out about it after the fact, but had you known before the fight and if she truly is your sister, then yes, you would have stood a good chance of getting a better deal.”

“Another thing . . . She said my father is dying.”

“We all are, Chase. Have you seen the statistics? They’re pretty alarming.”

“An FBI comedian, fantastic.” We were back to the parking lot.

“I’m the gray Civic,” she said. She turned and looked at me before getting in and gave me her most alluring smile. “Chase, this is gonna be a whirlwind romance. I’ll be at Shooters tonight. Try to bring your sister and some game. It takes a lot to get me interested in a guy.”

“You need your ego stroked.”

“No, we just need to convince people that I could possibly find you attractive enough to take home.”

Ouch.
“Just to make sure things are clear between us, I don’t screw around on the first date,” I said in mock seriousness.

She looked away, laughed quietly, and looked back. “Chase, if you can’t give us what we want, I guarantee you’ll be fucked.”

“Where did such a sweet and pretty girl get such a potty mouth?

“It’s called growing up with two older brothers,” she said, though for some reason, I didn’t believe her.

“How’s Agent Schmidt doing?”

“He’s antsy and wants information.”

“Viktoria thought her husband was on to her. Do you think there is any way possible she could have been the real target?”

“We’re looking at all possibilities. Fortunately, we were able to retrieve the listening device she was to install on Sergei’s computer, before he could find it. Listen, Chase, I know you want to fulfill your end of the bargain, but I need you to understand that information flows one way, and that’s from you to me. Understand?”

“You might just be the bossiest girlfriend I’ve ever had,” I deadpanned.

She handed me a pink sticky note, her name written on it in cutesy print, the “e” a heart.

“See you at eight; don’t be late. And pack a toothbrush; you’re spending the night,” she advised before driving off.

As if I would be late for a date with Jenna Brighton.

***

After the impromptu meeting with my potty-mouth FBI girlfriend, I went home and showered, and changed into jeans, Cole Haan loafers, sans socks, and an untucked, light-blue dress shirt. Clothes, new ones with trendy names, somehow found their way into my bedroom-sized closet. I pictured a man frantically moving my clothes from one location to another, hoping and praying I’d decide on one permanent location. His wish would be granted tomorrow, unless Jenna put the kibosh on my plan to get my own apartment.

I went into the wall safe, retrieved a couple hundred dollars from the ten thousand my father gifted me, and headed out for a few hours of job hunting. The first stop would be the Grind, a doughnut/coffee shop located on Broad. It had been a Foggy Harbor staple for close to two decades. I had dated the owner’s daughter, a prim and proper gossip named Jill, for about six months during my junior year. Her parents hated me.

A ringing bell announced my arrival, and a few heads turned or looked up from newspapers or the latest Pat Conroy novel. The interior had undergone a complete renovation. Gone were the standard white walls and cheap linoleum flooring. In its place were solid-wood floors and dark, earthy-toned walls with stone accents. The heavy smell of stale grease was replaced with the intoxicating scent of a dark roast. A short, chunky man with an acne-scarred face stood at the register awaiting my order.

“Good morning, I was wondering if I could possibly fill out a job application. I am in need of employment,” I said in the most well-mannered voice I could muster.

“We’re not exactly hiring,” he said, confused, as if someone had never come in looking for a job.

“Okay, well, could I at least put in an application? See, I was just paroled after spending seven years in prison for manslaughter, and I have to seek gainful employment or they’ll toss me back in. Tell you what, are Bill or Marie available to talk?” Heads turned upon hearing this.

His face went white when I said the word manslaughter. “Let me, ah, check for you,” he stuttered.

“Just tell them Chase Hampton is here.”

Two minutes later, he returned, trailing the walrus-like Bill Dougherty.

“Chase, I didn’t realize you’d been released. I’m sorry, but we aren’t hiring.”

“I understand, Mr. Dougherty, but may I at least fill out an application. My parole officer needs to see me putting forth the effort.” This was true, though who my state-appointed parole officer was remained a mystery to me.

Two tired eyes evaluated the situation from the small, square windows of the swinging double doors that led to the back of the store. I waved like a goofy five-year-old, and they quickly withdrew from sight.

Hello, Marie. Calling Jill in 4-3-2-

Wordlessly, Bill produced a simple application and retreated to the back.

“Thank you, sir,” I said enthusiastically as the double doors swung wildly from his departure. “Please give my regards to Jill.” I purchased a bear claw and a medium coffee and took a booth near the door.

The actual filling out of the application took two minutes from start to finish. Under job history, I dutifully listed library associate and dishwasher for the North Carolina State Department of Corrections. That was the extent of my work experience. I honestly couldn’t even note that I’d attended a “Take your son to work day” on the application. I listed my address as Foggy Harbor Marina,
Anchor Management,
Slip 15, Junior Suite.
Chew on that Bill
.

The same scene played itself out at the next two locations: The Hilton at Foggy Harbor and a dive on the waterfront, Aquaholics. I did manage to run into a former classmate at the Hilton.
Allison Rivers, Restaurant Manager
, it said on the card she handed me, complete with her personal number scribbled on back. She was cute and had a nice smile, but there were already too many women taking up space in my life. I made a show of entering her number into my phone, but deleted it when I left. No need to complicate matters further.

Three applications completed, and one to go. I’d saved the best for last. I strode into the Foggy Harbor Municipal Complex with an air of superiority and announced in a louder-than-normal voice to the receptionist that I wished to fill out an application for employment. A middle-aged clerk with curly brown hair and oversized glasses, who didn’t recognize me (
damn
), handed over a three-page application. I sat down at a small school desk and scanned over it: General Info, Work History, Consent to Background Check.

Back to the counter I went. “Excuse me, ma’am. In order to be hired, must I consent to a background check?” Three heads in the office turned in my direction.

“I killed a man here seven years ago and was just paroled. That’s probably gonna throw a red flag up on my application, huh?”

“Mr. . . .” she began.

“Hampton, Chase Hampton,” I said. There was name recognition now.

“Mr. Hampton, I appreciate your forthrightness regarding your past, but yes, we would need your consent. It’s policy for all applicants.”

I sat back down, outwardly appearing defeated, while inwardly I smiled. I turned the doomed application in and made my way back to the parking lot.

A lean man in a gray suit and a military-style buzz cut was leaning on the Mustang by the driver’s side door. His arms were crossed.

“Hello, Chase,” he said as I approached.

I looked him over, and there was a vague familiarity. “I know I’ve seen you somewhere, but I can’t place you.”

“How about a night on a beach, next to a fading bonfire, as one of your classmates lay dying from two kicks to the head. Does that ring a bell?”

Loudly, so fucking loudly, it rang that bell.

“You were the detective who questioned me. I apologize, but I’ve forgotten your name.”

“Jay Reigart.”

“What can I do for you, detective?”

“Just stopping by to say hello.”

“I get it. You’re upset I’ve been released. I can understand that, but I want you to know, you’ll have no trouble with me.”

“That’s a good attitude to have, Mr. Hampton. There are people in this town, some on the force, who would like nothing more than to see you sent back to prison on a parole violation.”

“Would you be one of them?”

“As long as you follow the law, I have no quarrel with you.” He moved off the car.

“Thank you for the heads up. Feels like I’ve got a big, fluorescent-orange crosshair on my back.”

It was time for my last stop of the afternoon.