Chain Reaction

By Bill Johnstone

The disappearance of a top criminal DC lawyer on vacation in Daytona Beach, Florida and the discovery of a dead girl on the banks of the Potomac in Washington, DC set the scene for an intriguing thriller involving the DC Homicide Police, the Cuban and the American security services among others.
Investigative reporter Mike McCabe is on the case.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bill Johnstone
• Release date: Jun 28, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310345807

Bill Johnstone

The author has been a journalist for more than 30 years and has taught the subject in the USA and the UK.He was born in Glasgow, Scotland and lived in London and Washington where his novels are set.He is an avid animal lover and a trusteee of a cat sanctuary in Somerset, England.He travels frequently between the UK and the USA.

Book preview

Preface

It was early morning in the Churchill Hotel, Washington, DC. A man in a dark suit, white shirt and gold-rimmed glasses, looking ready for a day at the office, took a seat by his bedroom window, overlooking the garden and the fountain. He opened the complimentary Washington Post and began to read, occasionally glancing at the service menu.

He put down the paper for a moment, picked up the phone and ordered scrambled eggs, toast and coffee then smiled contentedly. He returned to the paper and peered at the editorials in the central section. He read them avidly, shook his head in disapproval at a few of the opinions and dropped the journal as he heard his breakfast arrive.

He tipped the waiter generously after he’d laid out the breakfast on the table by the window. He sat down and seemed to stare at the plate in front of him for an unusually long time. He didn’t touch his eggs or drink his coffee. If he’d been watched carefully, it would have been noticed that he hadn’t moved a muscle for several minutes.

A small trickle of blood was now visible above his right eye, as was a hole where a bullet had pierced his skull just above it.

The bullet had penetrated the window at supersonic speed, accompanied by the slightest of sounds, shortly after the breakfast had arrived. The man at the table hadn’t heard or felt a thing. He died, instantly, and remained staring at the now cold breakfast.

Two blocks away, guided by an uninterrupted view through a rifle’s telescopic sight, the shot had been fired by a professional gunman who now carefully packed away his weapon.

Eventually the corpse was removed and the mess cleaned up. Not all of those involved knew what had happened.

Five years have passed.

Chapter 1

Mike McCabe was half asleep as he listened to the voice-message on his cell-phone. The images it triggered flitted across his mind like a high-speed slideshow. The attenuation, the nuances and the east-coast American accent were unmistakable. So was the personality of the voice’s owner; a man so unusual, once met never forgotten. With him came the most outrageous amount of baggage that it was difficult to imagine they belonged to one person. But that was the nature of this unusual beast. Dead bodies, crime, gangsters and shady compromises were all part of this lawyer’s pedigree and peculiar client list; the ubiquitous backdrop to a wildly eccentric lifestyle.

Austen Dorman had been a contact for well over a decade. In most circles he would, without challenge, be described as a fine and upstanding ambassador for his profession known by the best people from any elite social set, the cream of the Washington country-club circuit. He was equally well known among those of lesser social rank and credentials who were more likely to rob the country-club and its membership than to be applying to join. Such was the paradox of Austen Dorman.

McCabe smiled at the playback, as the images flashed in his mind. There weren’t many voices that would do that but anyone who knew the lawyer would respond the same way. This was the voice of a man whose behaviour was so uniquely unconventional as to be bordering on the bizarre; an individual who in his own quiet way stood out from the pack.

Dorman had earned his legal stripes in the Department of Justice; his sharp mind brought many an adversary to heel. Whether he was seduced by darker forces or preferred the excitement away from the daily routine of government, the inevitable and sometimes turgid diet of DC politics, McCabe didn’t know. Unquestionably the financial rewards in the private sector were considerable. Whatever the reason, one day Dorman had resigned his government post, and the next day he’d embarked on his remarkable new career, collecting the criminal flotsam of Washington.

McCabe busied himself eating his breakfast, as he looked out over the Potomac River that flanked the US capital. Smoked haddock, orange juice, coffee and toast were the orders of the day. He was ravenous; the predictable aftermath of an evening of over-indulgence. The fish, from the market two blocks away on the quayside, couldn’t be bettered by any five-star signature restaurant in the city. The fruits of the river were one of the many joys of living on the water and a reliable antidote for the morning after the night before. He finished the meal and the last cup from his first batch of coffee.

He’d moved into the houseboat, two blocks from the Washington Yacht Club, several months before. Posted from his British newspaper the London Daily Herald he’d just about got used to the vagaries of living in a houseboat on the Potomac. He’d first sampled houseboat living in London, where he’d bought a derelict coal barge, in the wake of a painful divorce. It was a new beginning for both him and the boat.

He loved the life and decided to do the same, if possible, when he was posted to the US. Although it had its trials, like irregular power supplies and fresh water, it gave him a lifestyle that was different and challenging, far from the routine. It appealed to some covert bohemian idea that said he wasn’t conservative and was reaching for something beyond the banal. On reflection, the explanation was way too pretentious. Basically, he was comfortable in the small floating community whose members looked out for each other.

McCabe checked the voicemail phone message again while bringing his laptop to life. There were no corresponding emails, nothing that would give him a clue to its purpose. The voice had sounded anxious but gave no hint. McCabe hadn’t heard from the lawyer for some time and certainly didn’t mix with his moneyed brotherhood. The same was true of Dorman’s alternative social fraternity, who lived outside the law, as if their raison d’etre was to test any inherent ambiguity or weakness in the US justice system. Everyone has their part to play in life; perhaps that was theirs?

Why had Dorman called? The voice certainly sounded fraught and his delivery was far from casual. This was a man on a mission with a message to deliver. Its tone was urgent, that much was obvious. Its purpose he’d yet to discover. The lawyer’s disappointment in not finding McCabe at the end of the phone was stark, as was the obvious missing message. He could speculate all day as to its purpose. He guessed it wouldn’t be social and if it was for help, it was for something his elite contacts couldn’t provide. Whatever, he wasn’t trusting it to voicemail. That told McCabe something in itself.

Normal rules didn’t apply to this lawyer. That was as much an understatement as it was to describe his clientele as unusual; a curious assortment of criminals, corralled as if for some freak road show. Indeed they were peculiar clients, but that wasn’t quite the description either, more a litany of oddballs and misfits.

The lawyer was certainly a curiosity among the straight-laced confines of the legal profession. His appearance was unusual too, not for any outlandishness reason but the opposite. He could easily have been taken for a clerk, a bank manager or a junior accountant. His clothes weren’t ostentatious or even fashionable. They weren’t dowdy, just plain. They never looked threadbare just well-worn, the perfect disguise; a small man whose appearance was never striking, who blended into the crowd, a social chameleon who could disappear into any backdrop, into any company.

Perhaps his clothes were part of that camouflage, McCabe wondered. Curiously though, it wouldn’t take much for the unconventional to emerge. Scratch that languid veneer and an adventurer lurking beneath the surface would appear.

On one side he was a predictable product of Georgetown Law School while on the other he was as cavalier as some of the people he represented. McCabe wondered if the lawyer liked to be able to walk away from sampling the macabre, like adoring grandparents returning the children after an exhausting day, able to enjoy the tranquillity of their own company and its silence. It was as if his adventures were on loan.

McCabe picked up his cell-phone, checked a number from its directory, selected it and waited as it rang three times after which it too clicked into voicemail. He swore quietly to himself and tried another number. This time the recording was so real he began to talk before he realized he was talking to a machine. He swore loudly this time, pressed the red button on the phone and threw it onto the sofa in frustration.

He typed a few instructions into his computer archive file and watched the result on-screen. He read the article that had introduced him to the lawyer many years before. The story was characteristically strange and involved one of Dorman’s clients, a supposed financial adviser who had disappeared without a trace. There were no clues to the disappearance, no footprints –electronic or otherwise – no letters of explanation, no clothes left on a deserted beach and no last-minute anxious conversations with anyone; nothing! He’d just disappeared.

There was also another story which had attracted McCabe’s attention. One grateful client had given the lawyer a pink Porsche. Dorman never drove it, disposing of it to a classic-car dealership fairly promptly. Whether that was because he didn’t like the type, the style, the colour, or he had doubts about its provenance was never disclosed. One day it was there and the next it was gone. It was a subject Dorman never discussed. No one was ever sure of the truth. But the Porsche disappeared and was never referred to, ever.

McCabe checked his contact book again and flipped through every entry that might give him another telephone option for the lawyer. He was trying to avoid the obvious: phoning Dorman’s secretary. There was a history there. He read her number from the notebook, although there was a time when he could have recited it backwards.

McCabe pressed the digits on his cell-phone slowly, agonisingly, almost reluctantly.

As expected, she answered. He would recognise her voice anywhere. His mouth seemed to dry a little and the sound that came out was more of a squeak than a voice. He cleared his throat and started again.

Dorman’s secretary, Kristin Divine, responded in her usual emotionless tone. He knew that well too. There would be no indication that she’d recognised him, whether she did or not. That was her style. He wondered if she’d even remember him.

‘No,’ she said tersely. ‘I haven’t seen him today.’

He recognised the reflex. It was predictable. There was something wrong. But she wouldn’t tell him. It was obvious she was alarmed too. ‘I had a call from him but I was away from my desk. It sounded urgent. I mean, he sounded anxious. No message.’

‘Do you know where he was phoning from?’

‘I have no idea where he is,’ she said abruptly. ‘I’m sure he’ll phone again.’

Her response didn’t sound right. She was clearly concerned.

He knew her next move. He’d go there too.

Chapter 2

Austen Dorman lived in a trendy part of town, popular with the gay community and becoming increasingly more fashionable as a result. The bars, hotels, art galleries now reflected the residents’ legendary excellent taste and artistic vision. Some of the restaurants were among McCabe’s favourites.

Unfortunately, a few bookstores had paid the price of online shopping and closed. Otherwise there was still an air of prosperity and confidence in the neighbourhood.

A plethora of breakfast bars and take-out businesses meant the area was buzzing from dawn until dusk with every day as busy as the last; no austerity here.

McCabe walked across the main part of Dupont Circle into the small park that dominated the area. The homeless and the affluent shared this local amenity; the better-off for recreation, the others because they had nowhere else to go. Open-air chess was also a regular feature, with permanent tables constructed for that purpose, while fitness enthusiasts ran constantly around the periphery. For whatever the reason, and despite their varied circumstances, the locals shared this popular neighbourhood space.

He crossed the traffic lights as he exited the park, straight ahead an expensive apartment block; home to Austen Dorman.

McCabe knocked on the caretaker’s door. It flew open quickly, held by a large beaming man in overalls. He shook his head and extended a hand. ‘Mike McCabe! Well, I’ll be! It’s been a while,’ he said with a grin. ‘Still living in that floating trailer park,’ he added before bursting into laughter.

McCabe grinned in return and tried to pretend he appreciated the joke. It was mildly funny the first time he’d heard it. He’d lost count how many times he’d heard it since.

But the caretaker was a jovial man, nevertheless, despite his irritating love of his own banter. ‘After Dorman are you? He’s a popular guy this morning. His cute secretary is on her way up to his apartment at the moment. Or are you after her?’ He chuckled again, pleased with the jibe. ‘After her,’ he repeated, laughing even louder.

McCabe had guessed right. Dorman had gone missing and his ever-faithful secretary had obviously been unable to raise him by phone or email and had run out of places to look. He knew she wouldn’t rest until she’d tracked him down. He slid quietly out of the elevator on the fifth floor and met her just as she was fiddling with a bunch of keys trying to find the one to open the apartment door.

Kristin Divine hadn’t changed a bit in the two years or so since they’d last been together. On reflection, ‘together’ wasn’t quite the right description. It was a little more testy and fractious than that portrait might suggest. The relationship was not devoid of passion but he felt it was too much like hard work. He hadn’t really decided what their relationship had actually been.

A blonde, Polish, American with French antecedents were the fundamentals in the makeup of this sharp, striking and focused woman. He found in her efficiency a basic ruthlessness. She was the ultimate contradiction; charming but occasionally caustic, almost on demand, but always under her control. She served up vitriol with little inhibition and in a frightening number of varieties, although most of the time she reserved her gentler side for him. But that was far from guaranteed. She had come from a family where women dominated through necessity more than by choice. That edge to her personality would always cause him problems.

‘I remember the night she threw my father out,’ she’d once confessed, referring to her old man’s ignominious exit at the hand of her frustrated and despairing mother. It was the end of a selfish marriage, evidenced in the neglect of family and his personal indulgence. There was to be no more. Her mother had reached the end, her limit. The effects of the incident and the father’s behaviour remained; an indelible imprint on the daughter’s future response to men.

‘He’d set fire to the house while smoking in bed, drunk of course,’ she’d said without sympathy, as if talking about a total stranger.

Her mother had started their lives again.

Divine not only distrusted men, she didn’t need them and she took any opportunity to tell them so. There were no men of any prominence in her family. With the father gone, there were two uncles and a younger brother left. But none seemed to play any significant part in her or her family’s life. It disturbed McCabe then, and it still did.

Dorman depended on her too. Overshadowed by her efficiency and handicapped by his own organisational ineptitude, he seemed incapable of running his life without her.

She liked it that way.

For McCabe playing that role could never have worked. Perhaps they were two alphas fighting one another other in a rival ritual or maybe he didn’t have the sensitivity to deal with it? He didn’t know. Obviously, his efforts failed. He found her difficult to handle, on edge every time they spent time together. But that was his short-coming. He knew that now.

She wore a man’s signet ring on the little finger of her left hand. When she made some aggressive statement, she would rub it as if it was a talisman, a magic source from which she could conjure any acerbic response. He was sure there was some story behind it. One rumour said it belonged to an ex-lover, another said the opposite. Long ago, he had decided not to go there.

She rubbed the ring as she smiled at him. ‘Still drinking, too much, McCabe?’

‘Is there any other way?’ he joked. It fell a little flat. There was no mistaking her look of disapproval.

‘Are you still with the Swedish girlfriend?’ she said quickly. There was a raw edge to the question.

He was surprised she knew about her or even cared. It was none of her business, he thought. ‘She’s gone home for a visit,’ he answered bluntly with one of his forced smiles. It wasn’t meant to be sincere. It didn’t sound it.

She looked a little uncomfortable. ‘What’s your interest in this, McCabe?’ she asked suddenly.

‘I could ask you the same question.’ He knew there was something wrong. He didn’t need to be a genius to work that out.

‘He didn’t turn up for a court appointment. It’s unlike him,’ she said.

‘I’m as mystified as you,’ he replied trying to get a feel for her mood. ‘I haven’t spoken to your boss for months, possibly longer. As I told you earlier, he rang me out the blue, I didn’t speak to him and he didn’t leave a message, other than saying he’d called. I know no more.’

She looked concerned. ‘You must have an idea what he was calling you about?’

He didn’t answer immediately which made her even more anxious. If he’d had something to say, she would have been uneasy no matter the content. Saying nothing, she’d be even more suspicious. He sighed a little then shook his head. He wasn’t going to win this round. ‘I’ve told you. I know nothing, really; nothing,’ he emphasised, giving her another broad smile. That didn’t look genuine either.

‘I’ve heard him talk about you. I know you don’t write stories about church socials. What did he want?’

He laughed and tried to avoid her gaze. ‘There’s always the first time,’ he joked.

She didn’t laugh. She hadn’t lost any of her cynicism, he thought. Some things don’t change.

‘I know nothing,’ he repeated.

Eventually she did smile in response. ‘I’m really worried,’ she said quietly. It sounded genuine.

He said nothing, intentionally letting her open up.

She didn’t need any guidance.