Clandestine Rendezvous

By Joel Goulet

A missing inmate. There's something about the inmate that has raised red flags within several clandestine branches of government, and has drawn  the attention of two assassins to him. Caught between government agents and assassins, an investigative reporter can't help but wonder, why all the attention to a missing inmate?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Jul 26, 2023
• ISBN: 9781590882269

Book preview

Joel Goulet

A Wings ePress, Inc.

General Fiction Adventure Suspense Novel

Edited by: Linda Ingmanson

Copy Edited by: Lorraine Stephens

Senior Editor: Marilyn Kapp

Executive Editor: Lorraine Stephens

Cover Artist: Christopher Swan

All rights reserved

NAMES, CHARACTERS AND incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Copyright © 2003 by Joel Goulet

ISBN: 978-1-59088-226-9

Published In the United States Of America

Wings ePress Inc.

3000 N. Rock Road

Newton, KS  67114

Dedication

To my brother, sisters, in-laws,

nephews and nieces,

and my dog.

And a special thank you for the years

of love and devotion

to my dog Squeaky,

gone but never forgotten.

One

Ihave connections .

My name is Ethan Ross. I would hate to think what my job would be like without them. I’m an investigative reporter, though at times I can’t imagine why I’m still doing what I do. I’ve come to depend on outside sources for piecing together information. I’m well aware that, just as there are contacts I would trust with my life, there are also those that are no more than bullets waiting for a place to strike.

I’ve been known to do some bizarre things. Back in 1990, I was working out of a Washington news service as a free-lance writer. One day I received a tip over the phone. I had heard the caller’s voice before, but couldn’t place it. The voice was deep, monotone with an occasional quiver to it.

The caller told me where I could pick up an envelope containing hot information about one of the Senate candidates. At first I figured there was enough hot gossip about the candidates circulating already, that nothing new would surprise anyone. Still, the word hot tripped my inquisitive trigger. A flood of questions began forming upstairs in the old thinking mill. But before I had time to ask any, the caller hung up, never to be heard from again.

The caller turned out to be right. The information in the envelope was hot, hot enough to boil water in an aquarium.

What I read didn’t surprise me any, but who I was reading about did. There it was in black and white staring me in the face. Information about an impassioned love triangle involving a senator, a reporter, and a Secret Service agent assigned to protect the senator. I figured if the information was true, it was going to blow the front pages off every major newspaper. The tabloids would have a field day with it. I would get a hefty bonus on top of it all.

I went about my business asking pointed questions. Opening doors that were never meant to be opened. Getting plenty of them slammed shut in my face. Prying into private lives with a magnifying glass. Digging into every crack, every crevice, coming up with more garbage than I could imagine. Up to that point, there hadn’t been much that surprised me.

With the help of one of my contacts, during the next few weeks that followed, I took on the roles of a Senate aide, a newsroom assistant, and the hardest, most delicate role of all, a Secret Service agent.

As things turned out, having done my research well, I was able to uncover the hottest scandal of the year. It was a scandal right under the noses of Washington’s elite. The story sent shock waves rumbling through several branches of government, right up to the big house at the end of Pennsylvania Avenue.

Ten years have passed since then. I’m still digging up garbage, making a living off of other people’s twisted lives.

I’ve got a story to tell here. At first I wanted to keep it to myself, to protect some innocent people who have been kicked around enough. But then I realized it was just as much about my being kicked around as it was about them. I’m not sure how they feel, but I’m mad as hell at being used, set up, lied to, shot at, and damn near killed.

I was working in my south-side Washington office, which was hidden within the towering valleys of steel and concrete structures. I found it hard to keep from laughing when I thought of the space I was renting as being an office. It was little more than a ten by ten foot room, single window with eight tiny panes of glass, one of which was broken and covered by a piece of cardboard, and a frosted door with my name painted on it in large, bold letters.

There was barely enough room for my desk, an antique built of cherry wood, which had been handed down to me by my father, and his father’s father before him, and God knows who before that. In addition to the desk, I had to squeeze in room for a dented metal filing cabinet, cupboard and an armchair.

I leaned back in my leather desk chair and took a breather. My bloodshot eyes gazed around the tiny cubicle as they had a thousand times before when I was searching for the right words to make a story come together. I stopped at a small, chipped mirror three feet from me. My mother once told me that I had the brightest blue eyes she had ever seen. They looked tired now, dark. I had not been sleeping well lately.

My whole face looked weary and drawn. I ran a finger along deep furrows spanning outward from the bridge of my broad nose. Some people have called it an overly large nose. I couldn’t see it myself. My thin lips, hidden slightly by my beard and mustache, looked dry and lifeless. The cool weather lately was making them chapped.

I had a full shock of brown hair, starting to show a touch of gray, mostly visible at the temples. So many times I have thought about using one of those hair gels that cover the gray. My thick, full beard met bushy sideburns. My beard was, in a way, a trademark. It seemed most of my journalistic colleagues, when describing me, made mention of the beard. I’d feel naked without it.

A forceful gust of wind howled past the small window. Outside, the weather was turning its shoulder on summer and was looking toward autumn. An unseasonable chill was in the air cutting clean through a person, roughly reminding all that Old Man Winter was packing his belongings and heading that way. I hated winter and everything about it. I was born in Wisconsin, and had toughed out thirty-six winters already. I’d be the last one claiming to like the cold.

So there I was at my desk working on a story about a preacher and a prostitute, when I happened to glance up at the door. Beyond the pane of frosted glass, there stood the shadow of a person. The indistinct image moved past, on down the drab hallway in need of paint, not to mention the worn-out carpet which needed replacement. I continued with my work. Momentarily, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the shadow had returned.

The doorknob of my office door turned, ever so slowly, as if whoever was on the outside was checking to see if the door was by chance unlocked. It was early in the morning, just past seven. I was alone in a building, which I knew was void of any other living thing, except maybe scavenging rats in the unkempt basement. No one else usually showed up until well past eight. I wasn’t aware of there being any added luxury such as a security guard.

Alarming thoughts raced through my mind. If I needed to defend myself, I hadn’t been in a fistfight for over a year. Being an investigative reporter had its lesser moments, and not all of the people I came up against took a liking to me. Some, like in the particular instance when I got beat up, took a mighty dim view of someone prying into their private affairs.

I’ve made my share of enemies, from jealous husbands to overzealous public officials. That was the reason I stuck myself into an office out of the mainstream of things—to be alone, and to be left alone. I didn’t even want my name on the door, but was told it came with the rent. After all, I should get something for the rent I paid, high as it was. Office space was scarce in this city that catered to world figures and was run on paper.

There was no place for me to go and nothing I could do. I would have to take whatever was coming, and if it was bad, hope to be able to live to regret it.

The door slowly swung open. There in the opening stood a woman, a tall, beautiful lady. A wave of odoriferous delight swept across the room’s span and tickled my nose. The young woman’s photogenic face could have graced the cover of a fashion magazine. Bright with eyes well accented by thick, long lashes, and moist lips. Her long blonde hair cascaded over thin shoulders.

She was dressed in a red jump suit , the trendy color and fashion those days, bold and crisp. Knee-high black boots, so tight they looked like they would cut off her circulation, encased her great-looking legs.

The woman glanced around the room. The blank look on her face suggested she had expected something different, considering my reputation and all. Instead of the dingy surroundings, I should have had a large office with maybe even a secretary, in at least a more dignified building.

She stepped up to my desk, throwing her hips from side to side like a bell in a belfry. She looked down at me. Her lips parted and caused impersonal thoughts to flood my brain. Funny how all my fears had suddenly vanished.

Hello, Ethan, she said, sounding as though she had known me long before then. Even her voice sounded beautiful.

I found myself looking at things I shouldn’t have been looking at. When she spoke I didn’t consciously hear her at first. When I finally looked up, our eyes met in a wide, captured embrace.

Do I know you? I asked, remembering my unpolished manners and standing.

She smiled slightly. No, she replied. She sat down and daintily crossed her long, slender legs. We both know the person who sent me here though.

And who might that be?

Once we get to where we can talk, you’ll find out.

I sat down and leaned back in my chair, taking a quick inventory of her features as I did. Why should I go anywhere with you? I quickly realized it was perhaps the dumbest question I ever asked. l would follow her through a burning building.

Because you can’t resist a chance to break a story, she said quietly.

She nailed that fact on the head. And you have a story?

Something big.

How big? Somehow the word big was conjuring thoughts of something other than a story. I took another quick inventory.

You might say it could make the events of nineteen ninety look like a back page story.

I shuddered at the thought of doing a back page story about anything. I leaned forward and rested my arms on the desk. She had said enough to gain my complete interest. That was a big story, I said. It would take something really big to top it. Every once and a while a person is lucky enough to have a startling revelation dumped into their lap. Maybe it was going to happen again to me.

I feel confident in saying this would. She looked as calm and confident as she sounded.

Could I ask what your name is?

Mrs. Warren. Holly Warren. She smiled again and stretched out a dainty little hand to shake hands with me.

The last name was a familiar one. Warren had been a friend’s last name. Brett Warren had died a few years past, so I heard. There are lots of Warrens, just as there are lots of Smiths and Johnsons. Brett had always been a ladies’ man, managing to latch on to the prettiest women. But if it were true this time, he would have outdone himself with Holly. I thought it was best to dismiss the whole idea.

Brett’s wife, Holly said, perhaps reading in my eyes the thoughts of my old friend.

I’ll be damned, I said, half choking on the words. Brett, the sly devil, should have written a book on how to catch women. No doubt it would have been a best seller. I’d be in line to buy it. I heard he died in a car accident some time back.

Holly shifted in the chair. A slight smile parted her moist lips. He’s very much alive, I can assure you. He’s the reason, or shall I say, the why for, that I’m here. He sent me to find you.

Find me? Why didn’t he come himself?

He’s in prison, Ethan. Holly lowered her gaze as if ashamed of something. Then, like a bolt of electricity, her eyes again met mine. He has been for some time now. What you heard about his being in a car accident is partially true, but he wasn’t the one that got killed. A pair of teenagers were killed when Brett, drunk at the wheel, ran into their car head on. He was hospitalized for three months, tried, and sent to prison.

How long ago was that?

Five years.

I don’t know what to say, I admitted. I was at a loss for any comforting words. My mind raced, searching for something appropriate to say. This kind of news doesn’t make a guy’s day. Brett and I were pretty close years ago. You say he sent you here? Is there something I can do for him?

"Probably not for him, I’m afraid. However, there is something he feels you should look into."

Such as?

I’m afraid I don’t feel comfortable talking about it here, Holly said coyly. I have a place more intimate. What I’ve got to tell you is sort of, well, it’s sort of hard to believe. Both Brett and I need to know if it’s true or not. That’s why I’m here. You’re the best at uncovering things.

I’ve had some success in the past.

I said that as if bragging, but perhaps I had bragging rights. Some of my accomplishments were more than just successful, they had gained worldwide acclaim. Fact was, though, I always felt humbled when receiving praise for my exploits. Even with all the recognition and pomp, I still felt inferior to the greatness of my peers.

Two

We ducked out of my office and slipped into Holly’s small, red sports car, a foreign make with rich leather seats, convertible roof, the most advanced stereo system I’d ever listened to, and she had the volume turned up high. The music raced past my ears, out the open windows and into the wind.

I could tell she knew her way around Washington as well as I, perhaps even better, since she zipped down some streets that I never knew existed.

So, I take it you live here in Washington? I asked.

As of two days ago.

I waited for her to follow up with something else; perhaps something about why she moved to D.C. Obviously, though, she was a woman of few words. I, on the other hand, was a man with an insatiable appetite for knowledge. Right now I wanted to know more about this lady in red.

From where? I continued.

Tennessee.

I recalled wishing I had moved to the South to get away from the cold winters. Why the move North?

She glanced at me. Her eyes suddenly looked cold, distant. You’re not shy about prying, are you?

I didn’t think I was prying by asking a simple question. I was only trying to be sociable. It’s part of my journalistic personality.

Your overrated journalistic personality, Holly said. Her words stabbed at me like the cold steel of a knife. I prefer a less aggressive style of journalism.

This woman in red had a stinging way with words. You can’t argue my accomplishments, aggressive style or not. I do get results.

Your accomplishments go beyond what I feel should be the personal involvement of a journalist.

Which is to say what?

You get too personal with your work. A journalist needs to be more focused, more detached. A journalist should merit an article for the newsworthiness of the story, not for what personal gain one might derive from doing the article.

And you feel my work is based on personal gain?

It could be argued that your success itself is evidence to the fact.

It could also mean I’m doing something right.

She looked at me again and grinned ever so slightly. To each their own.

If you feel this way, why did you come to me? For the life of me, I couldn’t understand the sudden change that had swept over her.

Because, like it or not, you find the person for whom you are looking, and Brett insisted I talk to you. That doesn’t mean I approve of the way you get things done.

No, heaven forbid.

It means I have faith in your abilities, without agreeing about your methods or motives.

I grabbed the leather-padded dash as Holly steered the car sharply around a corner. It was as though I could feel she was agitated by the way she handled the car. I thought if she held the steering wheel any tighter it would crumble beneath her grip. Her foot slammed the throttle pedal as if stamping on an insect. Her whole body seemed tense.

You sound learned in journalism, I said. It was meant to be a compliment that would ease her frigidness and perhaps keep us alive while we were speeding along

"I have a master’s degree in journalism. Holly beamed. It sounded as though I was suppose to know that. You and I shall be colleagues."

Back at my office, the thought of us being colleagues would have been good news, that I would see her around, that I would get to know her, be her friend. But now, after seeing a different side of her, I wasn’t sure it would be so entertaining. Mentally I pointed out to myself that she did obviously have something troubling her, and her sudden cold personality might be as a result of those troubled thoughts.

So, how did you and Brett meet? I asked hesitantly. In a way, I wanted to catch up on my old friend’s life since last we had written to each other. I was not sure, though, if Holly would shoot another lightning bolt at me for prying.

By accident, Holly said. She swerved the car around a slow car with out-of-state license plates, an obvious tourist. She glanced at me. Her eyes had warmed somewhat. Quite literally, we did meet by accident. I rear-ended his car. He claimed he fell in love with me on the spot. At least I know I fell in love with him right then and there. We saw each other for a week and had dinner at a Spanish style restaurant on a Saturday night. It was there that Brett got on his knees, while three men playing violins stood nearby, and with everyone in the place watching. He proposed and I said yes.

It sounded like something the Brett I knew would do. I take it this happened in Tennessee?

Yes.

Again I waited for her to follow up with something more. It was obvious, however, that she was a woman of few words. If she was to have a newspaper column of her own , it would be of short substance, no doubt. What I didn’t know at the moment was that she was like a video game on tilt, and when she began a new round she turned out to be quite long winded.

As if someone slipped a week’s pay into her, Holly suddenly began to relate to me what seemed to be her life story. She told me that she came from a wealthy family. Her father owned a construction company that built expensive homes in California. Her mother was a doctor and operated a private practice in Los Angeles. A trust fund had been set up for Holly from which she was now drawing funds.

Holly told me that her writings had gained the attention of a Tennessee newspaper and then the Washington Post. It was while we were driving along Benson Drive that she replayed the weeklong romance between her and Brett. Very mushy stuff. But not surprising for Brett. She talked and talked. God, I thought, doesn’t she ever come up for air? And I had thought her to be quiet.

Before long, we were on the outskirts of Washington, passing row upon row of apartment buildings, which stood like sentries guarding the entrances to the capital city. There were buildings of every size and shape, modern, award winning architecture that had, at one time or another, challenged an engineer’s whimsical resourcefulness.

They were painted every color under the rainbow, red, orange, passionate pink, colors which would have turned stomachs years earlier, but the colors of the future now. Loud colors turned me off. White or even a light blue would be satisfying.

Holly pulled up in front of a small two-story, four-unit apartment building, which was pleasantly painted white. It was a new building as were several more like it stretching down both sides of the street. Each building had been personalized with a name. Wood carved name plaques hung over their entrances. Holly’s building bore the name Thornwood, next to which stood Hedgewood, then Brierwood and so on down the line, all with some kind of wood in the names.

Landscapers were busy installing artificial grass and shrubbery, transforming bare ground into eye-pleasing landscape, adding a needed touch of charm to an otherwise bare terrain. I wished my apartment building had artificial grass. I could get to like not cutting the lawn.

We entered through an extra wide oak door. Holly stopped just inside the doorway, opened an in-wall mailbox and took out a single envelope. She looked at it briefly before handing it to me.

It’s for you, Ethan, she said.

My name and Holly’s address shared the front of the envelope. I didn’t have to