Capitol Murder

By Steve Orlandella

Intrigue! Florida’s favorite Private Investigator Vic Landell, and his favorite attorney Marcia Glenn, are back on the job - this time landing a case in the nation’s capital. Orlandella makes Washington D.C. come alive with his cast of characters - and throws in background that makes it all very real. A television assignment takes TV Anchor, Marcia Glenn to Washington D.C. Landell goes with her. With a little assistance from the FBI, the crime-fighters go on the offensive, hunting for a cold-blooded killer, attending high-life parties, and encountering low-life crooks. House Subcommittees, corrupt congressmen, and scheming lobbyists are all part of their search for an assassin. They don’t look for trouble – trouble finds them. Romance and danger! One reader said “It's very reminiscent of Dashiell Hammett. The plot is intriguing, and the dialogue is crisp and hip – and a whole lot of fun!”

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jay W. MacIntosh
• Release date: Jan 28, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370173068

Steve Orlandella

Steve Orlandella (1950 - 2016) spent his career working in television, most of it in baseball. He studied broadcasting, history, and theatre at California State University, Northridge. While working on his degrees, he joined the University staff as Producer-Director of Educational TV. In 1979, he joined KTLA Channel 5 in Los Angeles as a news producer, senior sports producer, and director of "News at Ten". In 1985, he was promoted to KTLA's Supervising Producer/Director. He produced and directed entertainment programs, Angels baseball, and Clippers basketball games. In 1987, he worked for MCA/Universal as Producer of Media for the Merchandizing/Licensing Division, later becoming an independent producer/director. He produced winter and summer Olympic specials, Kings hockey games, promos and commercials for Z-Channel and Sportschannel, and directed boxing, pro and college basketball. In 1993, he became Producer for Dodgers Baseball for nine seasons. He won Golden Mikes, Associated Press Awards, and was nominated for Emmys twelve times. He received two Emmys for his work with the Dodgers. In 2005, he launched Steve Orlandella Productions and Ormac Press. His published works include "Burden of Proof", "Capitol Murder", "Marathon Murders", "Dance with Death", "Midtown Mayhem", "Titanic", "The Game", and "Stevespeak".

Book preview

Chapter 1 – 09/06/14 Homecoming

There is something about this town. If you tell a stranger you live in Bradenton what usually comes back is a vacant look. Mention Clearwater and you are most likely to get a blank stare. But if you say the word Sarasota all the lights instantly come up. Of course, Sarasota on the Gulf Coast. I have no explanation.

It’s been a lousy week. I had been hired by a woman, Mrs. Eileen Koontz to find her husband. She had not heard from him in three days and was now frantic. Fearing the worst, she called me. I ran all the basic checks, called the morgue and the Police to see if they had a white male in his forties with brown hair and brown eyes they couldn’t identify. No one fit that description – all present and accounted for.

All right, if your husband disappears and you don’t think he’s dead, where is he most likely to be? Ask any private investigator and the answer is always the same, Las Vegas or Atlantic City. Fortunately, I have contacts in both cities and the calls went out. An hour later I heard from my New Jersey source. Sure enough, Michael A. Koontz has checked into a suite at the Trump Plaza and has been there for three days. So, is he there to do some gambling? Perhaps see a show, or maybe just maybe to get a little sumtin-sumtin on the side? If his friend turned out to be a working girl, the police would be interested. So, here we go, time for a little private investigator razzle-dazzle. I called the hotel and got Koontz on the phone.

I told him I was a P.I., knew what he was up to and would notify the authorities if he were n0t on the next plane to Sarasota. For all I knew he could have been playing Keno and not shacked up with some pavement princess. My investigator intuition was confirmed the next morning when Mrs. Koontz called to tell me her husband had just walked through the front door with his luggage and his guilty conscience. I may not be the highest card in the deck, but I can always find a guilty hubby.

The chief source of my bad mood can be traced to something called the S.P.J., the Society of Professional Journalists. Every year the Society gives out awards for excellence in Journalism. See if you can guess who is getting one? If you guessed the redhead with legs for days you would be correct. That’s right, the award goes to Marcia Glenn for her outstanding coverage of the David Murdoch murder case. That’s the upside; the downside is you have to spend three days in Nashville to receive it. Now my Texas goddess is, as down home as they come, but I just don’t see her on a bus tour to Dollywood.

Back to the upside – there is a Delta 737 turning final over the Wal-Mart inbound for the Sarasota Airport and seated in 1A is the looker. Yes, she always flies First Class, it’s article one in her contract. Besides, where would she stow her legs in Coach? The Volkswagen R32 and yours truly are on The Trail abeam of the high school. If we time this right I will pull up at the curb just as she walks out of baggage claim. Baggage claim? She doesn’t use a carry on? Are you kidding? Hannibal went over the Alps with less luggage. Now past Marina Jack’s, the Van Wezel Center where the redhead first dropped into my life, to the corner at University Avenue. Only in Florida can there be an elegant museum on one side of the street and a dog track on the other.

Ahead is the Sarasota-Bradenton International Airport, SRQ to the locals. The folks in the Sunshine State are ever aware of the fact that tourism is their chief source of income. To that end the airports are all bright, efficient and wonderful. All save the Miami Airport – which is a pit. Nonetheless, there is a flight restriction that prohibits aircraft from taking off to the southwest. Why? Just beyond the end of the runway are the homes of a Senator and an ex-Governor. This too is Florida.

A left off University brings us to Delta arrivals. A SUV moves out of the way, leaving me a spot right in front of the door. Now we start the count, 1, 2, 3. On 4 the doors open and there she is. The redhead appears in a white sundress and low heels. I always check her shoes because the 5-inch stilettos mean I’ll have to be on tiptoes to kiss her.

Along with her are three men each pulling one of her suitcases. The entourage reaches the car.

Thanks guys, I’ll take it from here.

A troika of total strangers is left to watch as I take her in my arms and plant a big one on those pouty lips. Heartbroken the three men disappear while I proceed to squeeze the redhead’s traveling circus into the VW.

Welcome home.

Did you miss me?

No, I called all my old girlfriends. Are you kidding?

Just every moment of every day. Does that answer your question?

Well, Lefty, you were smooth when I left, and you haven’t changed a bit.

Now to do a little fishing.

How did your speech go?

"You mean did I mention you?

Guilty as charged.

Well…yes.

Profusely. I spent most of my time telling them what a great P.I. I get to work with.

You left out my other talents?

Do you have plans for the rest of the day?

Seriously?

Besides watching my girlfriend undress…err…unpack?

It’s nice to know that nothing has changed since I left.

You have no one to blame but yourself.

And I’m to blame how?

Have you looked in a full-length mirror lately?

Assuming there’s a full-length mirror that can accommodate her.

I’m a woman, of course I have.

The Defense rests.

You never change…

Oh-oh.

…and if you ever do, I’ll never forgive you.

Thank you.

Now, would the girl I took to the airport four days ago be ready for lunch.

Don’t you recognize me? I’m that girl.

Just checking, what do you fancy?

Besides you, a big juicy cheeseburger from the Hob Nob.

If Marina Jack’s is the one place in Sarasota that everyone knows a close second would be the Hob Nob. It’s just a drive-in at Highway 301 and 17th Street, but the food is quite good. I myself am partial to the patty melt.

So, I understand the barbeque is really good in Nashville.

Memphis is the city famous for barbeque, Nashville is famous for music…

…boy, those Jesuits sure left some big holes in your education, and besides…

Here it comes.

…there is just one kind of barbeque in this whole wide world, Texas Barbeque! Everything else is just meat with sauce on it.

Like I’ve never heard that before.

When we go visit my folks, I will take you to the best barbeque place there is…bar none.

In any other part of the country a discussion about the local barbeque becomes an argument – in Texas it becomes a fight.

Where in Texas?

Leon Springs. It’s not really a town, more like an exit off the highway, twenty-five miles north of San Antoine. Across from the off ramp is a general store and on the side of the store is a big shack, and that is Rudy’s Barbeque.

That good?

Oh, baby backs that fall off the bone, prime rib that melts in your mouth, I get excited just thinking about it.

Looks, legs, brains, and she knows where to find good barbeque. How can you not love this girl?

You are so on.

From there it’s a short hop to the redhead’s townie. Since the Marce would say, strong back, so-so mind I get to move the luggage into the bedroom. Now open on the bed are three large Tumi suitcases. Remember, she was in Nashville for three days.

How many outfits did you pack?

For three days, same as usual, eight.

She continues putting items back in the closet.

Eight? Correct me if I’m wrong, you did say three days?

Yes, three for daytime, three for evening and two for emergencies.

Clothing emergencies?

You can’t be too careful.

I guess that makes sense, after all she keeps two spare bikinis in her car. Now I am safely ensconced in the swivel rocker next to the bed. The looker is rummaging in the closet.

Baby, I’ve got good news and bad news.

Now what?

I know you like the bad news first so here it is. I have to leave town next week. Congress is taking up the Florida Wetlands Bill and the station wants me to cover the hearings.

Why can’t they send that clown Dishman? He’s got nothing better to do. Or how about Botula? He’s a good reporter.

What can I tell you, ‘mine is not to reason why.’

I suppose Tennyson is as good an answer as any.

OK, so what’s the good news?

I am.

The redhead steps out of the closet in a virtually sheer white babydoll, strikes a seductive pose and then strolls over and sits in my lap. Friends, I know good news when I see it and this is most definitely good news."

Is this the part where you make it up to me?

I love this part.

Yup.

Normally, the sight of the looker in a little number like this would turn my brains into week-old chocolate pudding, but for once a few of the cells and a couple of synapses are still working. But trust me, it is all time sensitive.

I know that look. You have a plan?

Don’t I always?

OK, Lefty, let’s hear it.

It’s simple but brilliant. I make a call to Diane Kallan, your News Director and make a deal. In exchange for a week off, I promise not to let you interview with the any of the Washington Stations. Then we leave a few days early, notice I said we. There is no way I’m letting you spend a week in D.C. without me. And we golf our way up the Atlantic Coast and back down.

Let me see if I got this right, I get my hunky boyfriend and golf? I need to think about…that’s long enough, I’ll take it.

Wait, there’s more.

Now I’m just dreaming up reasons for her to remain on my lap. Keep talking before the last of your brain cells fall on the floor.

Plus, we can meet with your guy at the EPA, my friend at the FBI, and then write the whole thing off.

Your tax dollars at work.

Anything else?

Nothing, except I get to spend several nights in a hotel room with an ocean view and a smoldering redhead.

Sure wish I had a lobster to go with all this butter.

There’s an old song that says, flattery will get you nowhere, well maybe, but I can show you a long list of the places it’s got me with the redhead.

Can you get away that long?

Unless Mike Koontz decides he wants to see Las Vegas.

But how am I going to make it up to you?

Think of something and bring those pouty lips over here.

We never left the chair.

Chapter 2 – 09/07/14 Getting out of Town

It’s the next morning. While other couples are engaging in pillow talk or a re-cap of the night before, here off Fruitville the subject is, what else, golf. Not exactly Mr. and Mrs. Romance.

So, are we ready for breakfast?

Breakfast can wait.

I had never heard that before.

Are you feeling all right? Do you want me to take you to the Emergency Room at Sarasota Memorial?

I want you to tell me all about our golf trip…and then take me to breakfast.

That’s a relief. I thought there is something wrong with her.

Ok, first we play at Sawgrass, a no-brainer since our membership at Prestancia gets us on all the TPC courses. Next stop, Hilton Head. It just so happens that the club has reciprocity with the Harbour Town Golf Links, and finally I know an agent at the FBI who says he can get us on at…wait for it…Congressional.

I may faint.

Steady.

I knew I was dating you for a reason.

I can set the wheels in motion right after breakfast, so let’s get along little dawgie.

I’m with you, Lefty.

First Watch has surpassed The Serving Spoon as our favorite breakfast place, principally because it’s a five-minute walk from the redhead’s townhouse. Two orders of Eggs Benedict later we are both off to work – right after a knee-buckling kiss good-bye. The guys in the newsroom don’t call her the stunner by accident. Note to self: Food always works, and golf always works.

So, let’s set up a trip to Washington. First the easy stuff, cut off the Sarasota Herald and hold the mail. Now it gets a little tougher. I am trying to get an extra week off for the station’s undisputed MVE – Most Valuable Employee. Standing in the way of the back nine at Harbour Town is the News Director.

Diane Tallulah Kallan was born and raised in Alpharetta and graduated cum laude from the University of Georgia with a degree in Journalism. After tours of duty in Biloxi and Nashville she landed as a producer at Ted Turner’s WTBS in Atlanta. Eight years ago, she moved to WWSB as their Executive Producer. Four years later she was promoted to News Director. After a year on the job she was faced with a boorish anchor and dreadful ratings. A colleague gave her a heads-up about a reporter with the face of an angel and a mind like Edward R. Morrow working in Idaho Falls. She rolled the dice. Now three years later, the ratings are through the roof and Diane is a hero. She’s forty-five, married and has an accent as Southern as biscuits and gravy.

Her assistant puts me right through.

I do declare, Vic Landell. How you doin’, Sugar?

Hello Diane.

Although the staff hates me, the News Director loves me – thanks in no small part to the Murdoch case. The night after we solved Davy’s murder, my live shot brought in the biggest number in the history of WWSB News.

Let’s see how she feels about me in thirty seconds, when I lay this one on her.

Diane, I have a favor to ask.

The last time you asked for a favor, I wound losing up my anchor for two weeks.

Well, this is much better, I’m only going to ask for one week this time.

Oh, Vic.

In a flash I have gone from being this Georgia peach’s favorite to less popular than William Tecumseh Sherman.

Come on Diane, she is sitting on a pile of vacation days and as much as you would like to, you’re not allowed to chain her to the anchor desk. I would think a girl from Georgia would know all about indentured servitude.

Very funny. What’s in it for me.

Spoken like a real News Director.

Gosh, I don’t know.

Oh, put a sock in it. You forget that I work with her every day and that she loves to gush about her boyfriend. Can you guess the very first thing she taught me? That you always have a plan.

That’s it, no more pillow talk.

OK, I’ll cop to it. She is going to be in Washington for at least a week covering the Wetlands Bill. All I’m asking for is a few days before and after the hearings.

And who is going to break it to the men in Sarasota and Manatee Counties, you? Do you know how many angry letters I got when you took her to France for two weeks? This time they’ll probably burn the station down.

And who would know more about burning buildings than a girl from Atlanta?

Diane, we both know that the ‘Nets’ have their eyes on her.

What she doesn’t know and will never hear from me is that The Marce is quite happy, at least for now, in little ‘ole Sarasota.

It’s only a question of time before Roger Ailes calls from Fox and offers a bundle to slip her between Bill O’Reilly and Megan Kelly. Then for three hours in prime time the other Networks will turn off their cameras. Since no one will be watching any of them, they can all go out for a nice dinner.

"You don’t think I have nightmares about that? My viewers tuning in and seeing just Hal Dishman?

If it’s just Dishman there won’t be any viewers.

Now we start working the program.

Diane you may not realize it, but we are on the same side. Do you think I want the redhead to leave for New York, or worse, to become a Foreign Correspondent?

I never thought of it that way.

Working, working.

We both have a vested interest in keeping her happy and if a few days off makes her happy, where is the harm?

Now to close the deal.

You know I won’t let her out of my sight and I’ll be there to chase away any network guys who look like they are walking around, ready to offer her a contract.

OK, you got your week off…

Sold!

…but all the death threats I get from men 18 to 49 I’m forwarding to you.

The scary part is that she would.

Thank you, Diane.

For once, I wasn’t lying. Time can be measured in days before Fox calls and makes Diane Kallan the second most unhappy person in Florida. And the most unhappy? That would be me.

Now to break the news to the redhead.

She went for it.

How did you do it?

I don’t know, something about a first-born male child.

Mine, yours or ours? Still, it’s sad really.

Say what?

What could possibly be sad?

I was just thinking about all the money you’re going to lose.

Is that a fact?

Sure is. Listen carefully, that thud you hear are my gauntlets hitting the floor.

In that case, I had better call Switzerland and move some money around.

Wheels up in forty-four hours.

Both the R32 and yours truly will be ready.

According the owner’s manual with the back seat down the VW has a generous 43.4 cubic feet of cargo place. Using my rough calculations two golf bags and my suitcase and computer bag should take up about eighteen cubic feet. That leaves twenty-five for the redhead. Pray God that’s enough. Thankfully in addition to her Tumi’s she has a collection of soft bags with which we can fill every nook and cranny. The most important luggage is already on board. Yesterday afternoon I visited Prestancia to get my clubs out of my locker and the redhead’s Pings from the guest lockers. What good is a golf trip without golf clubs? One last task is a visit to the offices to see Gerry Hawkins, the Club Pro.

A major part of the local currency around here are baseball tickets. In exchange for four box seats to a Rays’ game, Gerry has taken care of the arrangements at Sawgrass and Harbour Town. That’s a bargain.

And while we are making our plans, a thousand miles away other preparations are going forward. Space is ordered in a Committee Room. The United States House of Representatives is ramping up for a rather contentious battle.

A bill is a proposed law under consideration by a legislature. A bill does not become law until it is passed by the legislature and, in most cases, approved by the executive. Once a bill has been enacted into law, it is called an Act or a statute. The redhead and yours truly are headed to Washington in the hope of seeing the Wetlands Bill become the Wetlands Act.

Chapter 3 – 09/09/14 Interstate 4

The big day has arrived. Phones have been forwarded to cell phones and copies of our itinerary have been e-mailed to the newsroom. One last call to Eileen Koontz to make sure Mike hasn’t left town and we are good to go. For the past half-hour I’ve been trying to see just how much I can jam into the R32. Remember when you were a kid and your folks took you to the circus? And you sat there in amazement wondering how thirty clowns came out of the Volkswagen? This is akin to that, in reverse. Eventually the clubs, my bag, soft drinks, munchies and the road company of Saks Fifth Avenue all make it in to the VW.

It’s 10am, and we are off. Our first stop is Ponte Vedra on the Coast near Jacksonville, according to the nav 272 miles from my front door. There are three ways to get there. We’ve opted for the scenic route, the longest but the most interesting. It’s our salute to the Interstates, I-75 to I-4 to I-95. I’m driving the first leg and as we approach Tampa reduce our speed.

What’s the problem, Lefty? Is your right foot asleep? Have you forgotten how to drive?

Oh, do I have some bad news for you.

Don’t tell me we are of gas? That last time that line worked I was seventeen.

Well my darling, there was a very interesting story online…

…yesterday that you obviously missed.

And that would be?

They published the list of the top ten speed traps in the United States.

I don’t think I’m going to like this.

Three of them in are in Florida.

If this is a joke, I fail to see the humor.

Wish it was. Tampa came in at number seven and Orlando landed at number three. I guess Disneyworld isn’t pulling in enough tax dollars.

And what’s the third one?

Are you sure you want to know.

I’m a big girl, I can take it.

You asked for it.

I reach into the side pocket and pulled out a tissue.

Here, you might need this. At number ten is a little town on the Gulf Coast, they call it…

Click.

Sarasota?

Yes ma’am.

It takes her a moment to recover.

Well, as my English Professor used to say, This is most disquieting."

Disquieting? Seriously?

Maybe for you ‘disquieting.’ With that winsome smile and those killer legs no one is going to pull you over except to try to get your phone number. What about me? I’m defenseless.

How’s that for heartbreaking?

Jeez, I never thought of that. For the time being I think you better let me do the driving.

With the redhead showing a modicum of restraint and the help of God we make it through traps seven and three. We traverse about sixty miles of Interstate 4 and then stop for lunch. Our next stretch of road