The Golden Years of Virginia Morgan

By Steven M. Moore

But is it really the government conspiring? A shadowy group led by a man called Raven lurks in the wings, manipulating events for his own benefit.

This sci-fi thriller is a bridge between the author's "Detectives Chen and Castilblanco Series" and the "Clones and Mutants Trilogy." In the novel, Agent Scott is witness to a nurse's murder. Ortega was supposed to meet the nurse for a story. The two connect and soon have people pursuing them as part of a cover-up to the murder. Scott had already decided that she'd be spending her retirement days alone, but Ortega creates another option, as they draw close for protection and make a desperate attempt to figure out what's going on.

Scott is another example of the author's ability to create a conflicted woman who is smart, determined, and good at solving problems. She appeared in several of his detective books, but this is her show now...and she will make the most of it, as she unravels the whole conspiracy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Steven M. Moore
• Release date: Feb 9, 2013
• ISBN: 9781927114551

Steven M. Moore

If you’re reading this, thank you. Not many people find me...or recognize me as an author of many genre fiction novels. Maybe it’s because my name is too common—I thought once about using a pen name...and probably should have. Maybe it’s because I don’t get many reviews. (It's not hard to write one once you've read one of my books: just say what you like and dislike in a few lines, and why.) I know you have many good books and good authors to choose from, so I’m honored and humbled that you are considering or have read some of mine.You’re here on Smashwords because you love to read. Me too. Okay, maybe you’re here to give someone the gift of an entertaining book—that’s fine too. I love to tell stories, so either way, you’ll be purchasing some exciting fiction, each book unique and full of action and interesting characters, scenes, and themes. Some are national, others international, and some are mixed; some are in the mystery/suspense/thriller category, others sci-fi, and some are mixed-genre. There are new ones and there are evergreen ones, books that are as fresh and current as the day I wrote them. (You should always peruse an author's entire oeuvre. I find many interesting books to read that way.)I started telling stories at an early age, making my own comic books before I started school and writing my first novel the summer I turned thirteen—little of those early efforts remain (did I hear a collective sigh of relief?). I collected what-ifs and plots, character descriptions, possible settings, and snippets of dialogue for years while living in Colombia and different parts of the U.S. (I was born in California and eventually settled on the East Coast after that sojourn in South America). I also saw a bit of the world and experienced other cultures at scientific events and conferences and with travel in general, always mindful of what should be important to every fiction writer—the human condition. Fiction can’t come alive—not even sci-fi—without people (they might be ET people in the case of sci-fi, of course).I started publishing what I'd written in 2006—short stories, novellas, and novels—we’d become empty-nesters and I was still in my old day-job at the time. Now I’m a full-time writer. My wife and I moved from Boston to the NYC area a while back, so both cities can be found in some novels, along with many others in the U.S. and abroad.You can find more information about me at my website: https://stevenmmoore.com. I’m also on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/authorStevenMMoore; and Twitter @StevenMMoore4.I give away my short fiction; so does my collaborator A. B. Carolan who writes sci-fi mysteries for young adults. See my blog categories "Steve's Shorts," "ABC Shorts," and the list of free PDF downloads on my web page "Free Stuff & Contests" at my website (that list includes my free course "Writing Fiction" that will be of interest mainly to writers).I don't give away my novels. All my ebooks are reasonably priced and can be found here at Smashwords, including those I've published with Black Opal Books (The Last Humans) and Penmore Press (Rembrandt's Angel and Son of Thunder). I don't control either prices or sales on those books, so you can thank those traditional publishers for also providing quality entertainment for a reasonable price. That's why you won't find many sales of my books either. They're now reserved for my email newsletter subscribers. (If you want to subscribe, query me using [e-mail].)My mantra has always been the following: If I can entertain at least one reader with each story, that story is a success. But maybe I can do better than that? After all, you found me!Around the world and to the stars! In libris libertas!

Book preview

So foul and fair a day I have not seen.—Shakespeare

Chapter One

Gun! I took steps toward the woman in a futile attempt to protect her. I saw the shooter’s arm twitch. No sound—or, maybe a pfft! lost in screams of children at play.

Jeez, Ashley, he shot her! Robertson had also seen the body jerks and spurts of blood. He ran toward the victim.

I was on the move again, now running toward the shooter.

I had studied the woman on the park bench. She crossed and uncrossed her legs, tapped her feet when they were on the ground, fiddled with her earrings, and rearranged her long, black tresses. Her gaze followed the perimeter of the quay and its boardwalk, starting at her side, crossing the end facing the mighty Hudson, and moving along the other side to dwell on the street and sidewalks of Frank Sinatra Drive. She periodically hugged herself, although it was a warm spring day.

She looks like she expects a herd of water buffaloes to run through, said Robertson.

I smiled at my bench companion. I tried to decide if he was politically incorrect—the woman looked Indian—or just good at metaphors. I let it slide.

You noticed too.

Pretty obvious, and inappropriate behavior for this place on a lazy Sunday afternoon. I don’t need to be a federal agent to figure that out.

I’m a born people-watcher. As a young girl, I’d watch grownups and try to imagine what they did for a living, what kind of personality they had, whether they were in a relationship, and so on. I used to think I’d be a writer. I knew watching people was a good way to develop characters. Now I study people for a living.

I’m an analyst and profiler, Matthew. My life is pretty mundane. I tilted my sunglasses up. I observe people, though. This woman has a shitload of problems. The question is: What are they?

A man had sat on a bench across the quay opposite to the woman and a bit nearer us. He rose to his feet. I had thought he was with the woman and child who enjoyed the new grass in front of him—the bored family father reading his paper. He stood, took some twenty steps toward the woman, stopped, and planted his feet in an assassin’s stance. That’s when I yelled my warning.

The woman had turned to face her assailant. I will forever remember her expression. Fearful, yes, but also resigned. I saw her body jerk with the impact of the bullets. I knew even the first had been a kill shot. The other three were insurance.

Gun in hand, I tried to close the gap enough for a moving shot. The gunman sprinted toward his edge of the quay. He had longer legs and was younger and faster. He also had been closer to us, so the wrought-iron fence in his path was only a half meter above grassy riverbank. He hurdled it. As I arrived at the same fence, frustrated and out of breath, I saw a 2020’s vintage motorboat complete with two outboards, enter strong current.

The assassin looked back briefly. I tried to burn his face into my memory.

***

You couldn’t have done anything, Robertson said. Didn’t the guy have an automatic?

We relaxed at a local watering hole on Washington not far from Hoboken’s police station, located between 1st and 2nd on Hudson—also not far from where I lived. We had spent several hours with two detectives. I contributed a description of the killer and probable gun type. The two of us studied mug shots on their huge smart screen, in an attempt to identify the shooter.

DHS and other federal agencies have a bad rep for being abusive, fascistic organizations. We deserve some of that, I suppose. On the other hand, local police departments don’t have that rep and often deserve it. The two Hoboken detectives might as well have worked for the Gestapo. Their merciless grilling annoyed me because they already had acknowledged we were innocent bystanders.

The experience left us exhausted.

No, I couldn’t, I thought, in reaction to my friend’s comment, and that’s why I’m also depressed and frustrated. I had known as I gave chase that I wasted energy—the killer was a pro, we witnessed a hit, and the woman had expected it.

The gun he used was not much different than mine, I said. Although we could do a lot more about gun culture in this country, what we witnessed could happen in Trafalgar Square. We do a good job of licensing guns and keeping them out of the hands of mentally ill people, yet criminals and crime-fighters are everywhere. Moreover, the former are so empowered they can overwhelm the latter in many cases. It would be safer for innocents like our victim if crime-fighters were better armed, in fact. We still have work to do on that.

Robertson nodded. He probably realized my litany was partially a way of mitigating my frustration.

***

Dr. Matthew Robertson’s practice serves the local and crumbling area hospitals of Mountainside in Montclair and UMC in Hackensack. Their poor conditions are local examples of America’s deteriorating infrastructure. Other hospitals in the tri-state area are often worse, especially in rural New Jersey, upstate New York, outer Long Island, and rural Connecticut.

The U.S. of 2030 reflects roller-coaster years for national priorities, mostly descending, with ultra-conservatives in control of both houses of Congress more often than not and progressives becoming an endangered species. When there is more balance, partisan politics and obstructionist antics rule the day. One can hope things start improving, but light at the end of the tunnel often appears to be only from a candle about to flicker and die.

The media’s talking heads, strident on both sides, focused their attentions on a populist conservative, if there is such a thing, as candidate for president. Her name was Sheila Remington. I admired her, although I didn’t agree with many of her ideas. She was more middle-of-the-road than usual and seemed to have some good common sense. Still, one never knew how she’d be as a leader. As a DHS agent, I tend to keep my mouth shut about politics. Don’t bite the hand that feeds you, my mother always said.

Robertson has a private practice in Glen Ridge, but he lives in Montclair. We dated a bit years ago. A chance encounter as matinee attendees to a Broadway show led to his invitation for Sunday brunch. Yes, there are still shows, and, yes, I can raid the cookie jar and sometimes afford to buy one of those cheap tickets they put on sale in Times Square at the last moment. It’s easy for me to do because my workplace is in the city.

I know doctors have it as bad as any professional. A once caring albeit lucrative profession has turned into an exercise in futility under the chokehold of greedy health insurance and drug companies and, yes, those same Congress people, who have healthcare for themselves but don’t care if anyone else does. Those companies’ bloated bureaucracies, never controlled, charge more for fewer services and pass little profit on to medical personnel. Mind you, my opinion—again, I keep it to myself most of the time, because I am now in the minority, and I work for government.

Doctors, nurses, and pharmacists are more likely to have English as a second language as health services turn to non-U.S. citizens who want to work for less and aren’t burdened with humongous student loans used to finance their education. They are nice, compassionate people in general, yet their language skills often make bedside interviews a challenge. Again, my opinion. Most people think they’re lucky to receive any kind of care. I understand that. I can only see it worsening.

***

I had enjoyed the quiet bustle of a Sunday morning and afternoon in my adopted hometown. Sunday brunch at the old standby, Trinity’s, was trendy, ethnic, and tasty, but I was bored—until the incident on the quay.

Most Hoboken residents call them jetties or piers. I like the word quay. There are several. Each one is a 25 meter-long stretch perpendicular to Frank Sinatra Drive and runs level for about 50 meters into the mighty Hudson. A wide boardwalk runs along the perimeter and they filled the centers with grass. They are a nice addition to the park—old now, but still a lovely place to sit and let life roll by with river waters.

Does it take a killing to bring excitement to my life?

Matthew didn’t do it for me. I like him. He’s easygoing like the city—polite, responsible, and paying the entire bill, instead of going Dutch—all qualities my ex never had, while dating or married. Still, the good doctor is a pedantic bore.

I knew my friend might have ulterior motives. He lost his wife in a car accident in Newark three years earlier. She was white too. As New Yorkers (he did his internship in Bellevue and I did mine in public service), we both are colorblind. Our breakup years ago had been amicable.

I never met the wife. Years ago, the woman earned her PHT degree—that’s Putting Hubby Through—many times over as Robertson specialized in his chosen field, struggled with a new practice in a white-dominated profession, and paid back his outrageous student loans. She was luckier than many doctors’ wives because my friend took his marriage vows seriously—again, unlike my ex. The latter tried to dominate our relationship while he turned philandering into an art form. That was years ago too.

I turned the big five-oh recently and faced that ubiquitous middle-age crisis that affects women as much as men. Some years ago, people said sixty is the new forty as Baby Boomers started retiring. I knew that was bunk. Fifty is the new sixty. Some days, early retirement looks like a good thing. This was one of them.

I consider myself a top DHS analyst, but I’m tired of battling egotistical and often misogynistic men. They come with the job, of course. Every branch of law enforcement has them. Whereas men might be called strong and forceful, I’m called a ballsy bitch. Nevertheless, for the most part, men I work with respect me. I’ve earned that respect, though some of them might still be intimidated.

I grew up in Hackensack and studied criminal justice at John Jay and psychology at NYU. Both study areas have come in handy during my career. Nevertheless, experience is the best teacher. Intuition, experience, guesses, hunches—the words are irrelevant. I try to do my job well. The silly, skinny, stringy-haired girl I once was became a petite brunette who still receives glances on the downtown Path train even though I have to color my hair now in order to remove strands of gray.

Unlike Matthew, though, I wasn’t looking for companionship. At least, that wasn’t my main emphasis. My mother had passed on and my daughter had her own family in Summit, New Jersey. I was in planning mode. What to do with the rest of my life? Retirement from the government job was an option—I imagined starting a little boutique on Washington Street. Then I would remember all the bureaucracy and paperwork (they still called it that, although it was done online) as I signed my life away, promising to never divulge any of nasty government secrets I knew.

I coasted and knew it. Procrastination and laziness kept me from making a decision—I wasn’t sure which of them it was, but it didn’t matter.

***

I think she expected to be killed, I said after our beers came.

She was nervous, agreed Robertson. I don’t know if I’d go as far as saying what you said, though. Woman’s intuition? Or, professional insight?

I popped beer nuts and thought a moment. Robertson’s stare told me he wanted an answer.

I could do worse, I realized. I would have a comfortable retirement and an attentive companion if I let myself become involved with him. He was in good shape—not a hunk of a man but more like an ex-quarterback. His hair was thinning. He used reading glasses for menus. He was affable. Do I need a man or do I need a dog?

After all these years, I thought it was anti-climatic to have a relationship with this man. I expected him to be attentive to my needs. But, even if I married him, would he ever be more than a friend? And why am I having these thoughts?

For me, maybe they’re the same. Let’s say we connected. My old degree from NYU isn’t useless, you know. I don’t think she expected the threat to come from the quay.

Who would? I hadn’t noticed the shooter. You say he was reading a paper?

I nodded. My friend downed a third of his beer. After he put the glass down, he drew doodles in the suds on the table. I felt his knee jumping up and down underneath. I gave him time.

We were there for a while. He must have been on that bench before we arrived.

That’s what I told the cops. The shooter was waiting for her.

It’s as if he knew she’d be there, I said. She focused more on the street, though.

Maybe she was waiting for someone else?

Yes, but why there? And how did the shooter know where she would be?

I accompanied Robertson to the train station, a beautiful refurbished relic from the 19th century. I glanced several times at videocams busy in their surveillance of street and quays. Inside, they were like snipers that lined borders between walls and ceiling. They were now standard features in most big cities in the world. People didn’t notice them much.

It was possible cops could zoom in on the shooter and make an ID. I hoped so.

Robertson was soon on his way home to Montclair. As I wound through streets back from train station to my apartment, I made an honest attempt to put the day’s events out of mind.

And Matthew Robertson. My old friend had his own life. I saw no place in it for me.

Chapter Two

Do you know who she is? The assassin held cell phone with left hand and opened and shut a switchblade with his right. Swoosh-click-swoosh-click. The client is always right, but I did my job, he thought. He was only interested in the answer to his question if it led to another assignment.

A Fed, said Hawk. We identified her immediately. The consensus is to eliminate her.

The assassin smiled. He didn’t give a shit about their consensus. Do we have a contract or not? For a real Fed, my price is double.

He waited a few beats as the person at the other end of the conversation pondered his price.

That’s a bit steep, said Hawk. She’s only an analyst—just another fragile woman.

She knows my face, and fragile? She knows how to use a gun. Please tell me she was there by accident.

She was there by accident. She’s old too—not a problem. We can’t control random events.

I’m still alive because I leave so little to chance. You know that. Do I have a contract or not? Twice the price.

You’re crazy. For that kind of money, I’d do it myself, and then retire.

Nevertheless, that’s my price. I have plenty of work, you know. I can afford to be picky.

And I work for taxpayers, so I have to be frugal.

Although there was no video, the assassin knew the other man appreciated his own joke from the laugh that came through, even with encryption. Again, the assassin didn’t care.

I can recommend someone else, he said.

Not necessary. We have our own list.

Then our business is finished. It was fun working with you again.

The assassin clicked the OFF button, threw the phone to the floor, and stomped on it. There was always the chance some techie might glean something from it. He didn’t worry though. He picked up the larger pieces, examined them, and threw them in a dumpster.

He grabbed the handle of his carry-on and headed for the line at Port Authority where he’d find a taxi to take him to JFK. By morning, European time, he’d be in Paris. Dijon was only a short drive away.

In a restroom at the airport, he removed blue contact lenses, eyebrow thickener, and padding from his cheeks. He flushed those items down the toilet. After he splashed some water on his face and combed his hair, he was ready to proceed to the Air France gate.

Home. Can’t beat it. A soak in the tub with a nice glass of red wine and an imported cigar.

***

He’s a dangerous person, said Owl. You might want to eliminate him. He knows too much about you.

Hawk leaned back in his desk chair and put his expensive size 12 tasseled loafers on top. The arthritis in his knee bothered him, so one leg was crooked. He brushed back his thinning hair and considered the idea. No, the assassin might be useful on other projects.

Cold, blue eyes focused on the blinking green light. He annoys me.

Owl was a part of his life now, an immediate but shadowy superior that Hawk, agent-at-large, had never seen. Smug bastard. Hawk scratched chin stubble. He knew the unshaven gray stubble aged him. He didn’t care. He was not a recent business graduate trying to climb the corporate ladder, even though he still had to kiss ass.

We’ve done business before. And good luck trying to kill him. He tossed his keys into the air and caught them. How do I get this jerk off my back? He’s out of our hair until we need him again. He knows me but no one else. I’m more worried about the woman who saw him. I meant what I said about consensus.

Raven doesn’t have all the data. I do. The assassin is a non-entity, although he can identify you. She will never be able to find him.

He pondered Owl’s confusing words. Long ago, he stopped worrying about who the SOB was, yet he was often hard to understand. So, do you want her dead or not?

And if she becomes interested in the victim? he said.

In that case, you’re right, we might have to kill her, said Owl.

Yes or no? Have you thought this through? Events can snowball. Our asses are on the line.

I always think things through. Don’t ever forget that.

Hawk reflected on that comment as he took the elevator to the parking garage. After thirty years of government service, he had ways to cover his butt. He decided to put some of those into play now. You just never know.

***

Halfway around the world, another man took an encrypted call via his smart phone. After typing in proper security protocols, he waited for the link.

Raven here, he said.

The threat has been eliminated, informed Owl.

Tell Hawk to commend Molly—that was a good catch.

I understand you reached a consensus with Hawk to eliminate the Federal agent. Why didn’t you consult with me? I would have told you, considering data I alone possess, that such action would be ill advised. She’s well connected.

Raven smiled. There’s always a critic. "Don’t take it personally. I thought we might as well do it because the assassin was already