A Lethal Partnership

By Michael Segedy

This thriller begins with Special Agent Rick Clark recovering from a traumatic loss that has turned his world upside down. Determined to discover the truth behind the grisly murder of his dear friend, he departs for Peru where his key witness has mysteriously fled. With the help of the Peruvian intelligence services and a beautiful Peruvian special agent, Clark hunts down clues that bring him into direct confrontation with those who possess the means and the will to crush any opposition. Mercilessly and completely.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Segedy
• Release date: Aug 13, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310058615

Michael Segedy

Michael Segedy is an award winning author. Over the years he has lived abroad in faraway places such as Taiwan, Israel, Morocco, and Peru. His life overseas has inspired him to write thrillers that include scenes set in foreign lands. Several of his works have won recognition in international book awards contests. Novels to date: Hampton Road, young adult thriller In Deep, a political thriller Cupiditas, a political thriller Evil's Root, includes In Deep and Cupiditas EMMA: Emergent Movement of Militant Anarchists, a terrorist thriller Our Darker Angel, a political, psychological thriller The Bed Sheet Serial Killer, crime thriller A Lethal Partnership, political thriller Sanctimonious Serial Killers, includes The Bed Sheet Serial Killer and A Lethal Partnership Why Blame the Stars? young adult thriller mystery Into the Twilight, social science fiction Apart from writing novels, Michael has published three non-fiction works: A Critical Look at John Gardner's Grendel Teaching Literature and Writing in the Secondary Classroom Winesburg, Ohio by Sherwood Anderson with Introduction, Notes, and Lessons by Michael Segedy He's also published numerous academic articles about literature and writing in various scholarly journals. Gwendolyn Brooks, former poet laureate of Illinois, presented him with Virginia English Bulletin's first place writing award.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE: RECOVERY

A little more than a month after Agent Marty Robin’s funeral, Rick Clark was on a jet about to touch down at Jorge Chavez International Airport in Lima, Peru. After his angioplasty, his doctor had prescribed 75 mgs of clopidogrel to combat stent rejection and 40 mgs of celexa to help him fight his depression. He’d finished his thirty capsules of celexa more than a week before and thought he might be beginning to feel the somber effect of being off the drug. As he fidgeted in his seat, he regretted not having asked his doctor to write him another prescription—just in case.

The night before, he’d had little sleep, awakening twice in the middle of the night. Part of his restlessness had been a result of having to leave early for the airport at five o´clock in the morning. During his layover in Miami, he’d fallen asleep for a couple of hours in the departure lounge. He’d hoped to sleep some on the flight down, but with all the activity in the cabin and the air turbulence over the equator jolting the plane every few minutes, he’d given up on the idea.

Rick took the small pillow—squeezed between his body and the armrest—and placed it securely behind his head. He then leaned back and closed his eyes.

At Marty’s funeral, after the services ended, Special Field Agent Sorenson, his boss, met him outside in the parking lot and recommended that he take a couple of weeks off. Rick’s cardiologist had also insisted that Rick avoid any stress, that he needed to rest and give his body time to recuperate. He ended with the caveat that it would be foolish to tempt fate.

No doubt, he’d had a couple of close calls. Two attacks within a year. Lucky for him, the paramedic had been experienced at applying CPR and knew how to use a defibrillator.

For the first week, he stayed at home, taking his meds daily, but he couldn’t motivate himself to get out of bed until noon or do much else. Once up and about, he had to talk himself into taking Thomas for a walk, an activity he had once looked forward to. When he visited the clinic, the doctor increased his antidepressant dosage to 40 mgs. A few days later, he was feeling much better but had trouble focusing on anything, which was probably the purpose of the drug. He mentioned this to the cardiologist, who persuaded him to see a psychiatrist, but after the third session, he decided not to return. The shrink had started delving into murky waters, and he was beginning to feel uneasy about what he might dredge up.

Having his pit bull Thomas around was his best therapy. As the heavier celexa dosage kicked in, he worked himself through his doldrums and then began taking Thomas for longer and longer walks and having long monologues with him when no one was around. Because of the medicine, his mind had a few lucid moments, and the dark funk he’d felt before was now converted to a lighthearted insouciance that had him lecturing to Thomas daily about the absurdity of life. High on the meaninglessness of existence—he celebrated a new kind of freedom in which he believed he was responsible to no one or no thing, excluding Thomas. Ultimately nothing mattered anyway, and this thought provided him with precious moments of absolute calm.

Back in high school and college he’d refrained from taking drugs, and now he was almost regretting it. Using celexa daily, he rejoiced in feeling nothing strongly. Except the need to babble. And since Thomas was a good listener, he felt comfortable expounding on any theme that came to mind, and Thomas never seemed bored.

Although he now felt edgy, he was happy to be off the drug. There were things he needed to do, and staying on celexa would impede getting them done.

Rick was about to ask the flight attendant for a newspaper in English when he heard the overhead speaker announce that the plane would be landing in ten minutes.

Early last week, he’d decided to pick up where he’d left off on the disappearance of Aaron Mast. He was the only link to the murder of Chloe Sisley, his deceased daughter’s best friend and his surrogate daughter. Although he still hadn’t come to terms with losing Marty, in his mind, if not in his heart, he had resolved that she wasn’t coming back. It was a tragic fact he had to accept. And though he missed her terribly, he knew that if she could speak to him from her grave and ask for anything, it would be for him to find Chloe’s murderer. To do that, he had to dispel his dark thoughts over losing her, set aside brooding about cosmic inequity, and focus exclusively on finding Aaron.

Three days before, when he’d talked over the phone to the Peruvian general, Jorge Morales Pereira, the general had once again graciously offered him his home and to help him with whatever police matters he could. Rick had tried to convince the general that he would be fine staying in town at a hotel, but the general wouldn’t listen and insisted that Rick be his guest. He informed Rick that he’d have someone at the airport to pick him up and take him directly to his house.

Rick liked that the general had not tried to pry information out of him when they talked over the phone. The old gentleman seemed perfectly satisfied that Rick would fill him in on a need-to-know basis. The general’s behavior had been very different from what Rick had expected. If he’d contacted a high-ranking American officer for help, there would have been a flood of questions asked. The officer would want to know exactly what he was getting involved in and, in particular, if there were any risks to him or to anyone else.

General Morale’s graciousness, congeniality, and totally unobtrusive nature genuinely surprised him. Over the years, he’d heard many loose comments about Latinos. How they were less uptight, less demanding, less suspicious and mistrusting than their gringo neighbors. The general certainly fit that stereotype. At the same time, he’d heard that Latinos were less organized, less disciplined, and far less successful in completing anything. He hoped that characterization proved wrong.

A crackling sound suddenly shot out from the overhead speakers interrupting Rick’s reverie and asking all passengers to fasten their seatbelts and put their seats in an upright position. About the same time, the flight attendants began passing by the seats for their last-minute inspections.

As Rick looked out the small oval window at the vast Pacific Ocean glimmering under a bright moon, the plane banked to the right, and the dim lights of Lima, a sprawling, treeless city of ten million people, immediately came into view. The pale streetlights made Rick think that maybe the city’s power generators were overloaded or the country couldn’t afford to pay its electric bill. Part of the dimness was due to the light fog that painted the urban landscape in a misty gray.

Moments later he heard the running gear groan and felt the plane slow in midair. Right away, the roar of air striking the wing flaps filled the cabin as the plane began its descent into Jorge Chavez International Airport.

The plane slowly taxied to the gate. A few minutes later the airport crew secured the stairs and Rick disembarked, following an ant-like procession of passengers across the tarmac into the terminal. Once inside, he was instantly struck by the modern appearance of the airport. Everything around him looked new and clean and expertly designed and decorated. For the last three years, Peru’s airport had been chosen as the best airport in South America, and he could see why. Everywhere signs were displayed in Spanish and English, while airport personnel stood ready nearby to assist passengers. It took no time at all to clear customs. Probably the greatest surprise of all. Of course, this hour of the night, his plane had been the only incoming flight.

After picking up his luggage and passing through the baggage area into the lobby, he saw a beautiful young lady with a bright smile, beautiful dark eyes, and jet black hair holding up a card with his name printed on it. As their eyes met, she called out to him, Agent Clark.

As soon as he freed himself from the stream of folks dragging bags and pushing carts towards the exit, the young lady approached him, said hello, leaned forward, pressed her cheek against his, and kissed the air, all in one fluid movement. Since it had all happened so quickly, he kind of stiffened like the Tin Man in the Wizard of Oz. He’d remembered seeing strangers on TV from Latin countries greeting each other with kisses on the cheek and warm hugs, but still her greeting overwhelmed him, leaving him nearly speechless.

Welcome to Peru. I’m Neva, and I’m pleased to be your driver, she gleamed. Then she motioned to a man dressed in a black suit. Alfredo will take your luggage.

Thanks.

You’re welcome. Please, just follow me.

Rick couldn’t help but notice several men eyeing her up and down as she strutted in the direction of the exit.

As soon as they were outside, he breathed in the thick ocean air. Unlike Miami, it was warm, but not muggy. There was humidity, but it didn’t cling to you. And although it was a little after midnight, early March was still the peak of summer in Peru.

They pushed past a throng of dark-skinned men yelling out, Taxi! as they headed toward a large asphalt parking lot packed with all makes of cars, many of them fancy new ones.

Your first time in Peru? Neva asked.

Yes. First time.

Rick wondered why the general would have sent this beautiful young woman to pick him up, especially so late at night. But then he realized. It was her English. It seemed nearly flawless, except for the trilling accent, which struck him as cute. Apparently the general wanted him to feel comfortable when he arrived and not have to struggle with the language.

Well, I hope you like my country, she said, as Alfredo stopped behind a black Mercedes and opened the trunk.

I’m sure I will. Rick immediately reflected on how clichéd his reply had been. But then, what was he supposed to say? I hope I will. No, that wouldn’t have come off well.

So, I take it you’re not really the driver, Rick said jokingly, as Alfredo opened the front car door for her and then the rear one for him.

No. Just teasing you. My assignment was to meet you at the airport and assist you. The general told me that you do not speak much Spanish.

Just a few words. Only enough Spanish to confuse anyone who really speaks Spanish.

Well, if you stay here for a while, you’ll be speaking like one of us. But maybe with just a teeny, little accent like I have when I speak English. She pronounced little, leetle. Rick found her accent quite charming

Fifteen minutes later, the black Mercedes was cruising down what looked like a freeway, but the heavy traffic and exits every couple city blocks gave Rick the impression it was more like one big fast-moving thoroughfare. Mammoth billboards advertised the latest in women’s and men’s fashions; perfumes and colognes; jewelry and watches; concerts and shows; spiffy cars; new apartments; cable channels; and Internet and cellphone packages. The plethora of advertisements heralded an economic boom. On each side of them a stream of fancy, expensive cars of every make and model moved like glittering fish. And the folks with money all seemed to be moving in the same direction.

This side of town contrasted greatly with his first glimpse of Lima. Out by the airport everything had a different color. The main boulevard coming into the city had a definite grunge painted over it. It was nothing like the glamorous world he was now glimpsing outside the tinted car window. Near the airport, they’d passed by countless casinos, banged up cars, shoddy restaurants, old battered minibuses, and groups of short-skirted women with tight fitting tops, hanging out on dimly lighted corners. If they weren’t street whores, they were certainly great impostors. Lima, like most huge cosmopolitan cities, had many faces. And not all of them pretty.

Is there always so much traffic this time of night?

Usually, Neva said, turning around in the front seat and addressing Rick who continued to stare out the side window. "But it’s far worse before ten o’clock in