June 2013 Issue of The Scribblers Newsletter

Welcome to the June issue of the Scribblers.  We are continuing the progressive story "In the Line of Duty" in this issue and subsequent issues until the story is completely told.  We hope you enjoy it.

A reminder From Writer's Digest:

 

It's the last week to enter the 82nd Annual Writer's Digest Writing Competition! You'd better act fast if you want a chance at nabbing the amazing prizes that come along with winning this prestigious competition.

You could gain national exposure for your work and:
• $3,000 in cash
• One-on-one attention from four editors or agents
• A paid trip to the ever-popular Writer's Digest Conference in New York City
• A one-year subscription to Writer's Digest eBooks
• A 30-minute Platform Strategy Consultation with Chuck Sambuchino
• A feature about you and your winning story in the December 2013 issue of Writer's Digest magazine

Don't miss out on the opportunity of a lifetime. The deadline for entry is Monday, June 3, 2013, but why not submit your work here today?

June Writing Prompt:

Playing in the hallway one day, your kids accidentally bump into your grandfather clock, which has been in the family for years. As it smashes into the ground, you find a note hidden inside from your great grandfather, who died two months after you were born. Strangely enough, the note is addressed to you.

Write a story or a scene (500 words or more) using the above WD writing prompt.  And be sure to have fun with it.

In The Line of Duty

 A new Progressive Story continued 

Part 4                                                                                                      John Matthews

     In the world of public and private security, investigation, and espionage, everyone was your partner and everyone was your enemy.  That’s how a person had to think.  Jack had speed-dialed Kelly’s number but if he thought she was going to answer he was mistaken.  In the clingy gown she was wearing for the Petraeus reception she couldn’t have hidden a sheet of Saran Wrap, much less a cell phone.  Jack hung up as soon as he heard her voice mail kick in.  He didn’t like listening to Kelly’s voice mail message which was not her voice.  She had chosen a threatening Tony Soprano to tell her callers to wait for the beep. 

     He tried Dewey Lubuck’s number.  But Dewey never answered his phone.  Ever since he discovered voice mail, Dewey reasoned it was more efficient to let everyone leave a message and he would call when it was convenient for him.  He never stopped to reason that if everyone did this, nobody would ever talk to anybody else. 

Jack hadn’t figured out Dewey’s strategy yet, so he hung up again without leaving a message.

     He hit the “Try all” button which would just dial every number on his speed dial list until someone answered.  Finally a tired, scratchy voice answered, “Yeah?”

     Jack had no idea which of his contacts had answered.  Cheap cell phone.  No caller ID.  “Who’s this?” he asked.

     “You called me, ya idiot.  And you know I can’t say who it is. Whadayawant?”

     Good, thought Jack.  It was his anonymous FBI contact.  Probably the most useless number on his speed dial but he kept it there ever since his parole agent days as a status symbol because most private eyes didn’t have FBI access. 

     “I need the latest status on the Petraeus-Blackwell affair,” he said.

     “It’s Broadwell, not Blackwell.  It should be easy to remember.  And it’s not an affair.  Why do I hafta keep tellin’ ya that?  They’re at a formal reception at location F5.  If ya don’t know where that is, I can’t tell ya.” 

     Of all the agencies in Washington dealing with sensitive, secret information, the FBI was the most incompetent.  Kelly and the Secret Service agents referred to the FBI as “Fucked up Beyond Imagining.”  Jack only had to look at the key on his AAA map to see that F5 was the home of Secretary of State Hillary Clinton and her husband who had been some big political figure when Jack and Kelly were only kids, before they were interested in all this government stuff.

     His self-imposed mission tonight was to keep an eye on Kelly and see how serious this thing was between her and Petraeus.  He had hoped that Dewey would help him stake out the reception so he called him back and left a message for Dewey to meet him at the Clinton mansion.  He knew if Dewey didn’t check his voice mail, Natalia Bronski would.  She’d be a better backup anyway.  Then just to be sure, he mentioned that it was at location F5 on the AAA map.   Dewey Lubuck didn’t have an FBI connection and Jack liked to rub it in.

     Meanwhile, at the Clintons’ party, Kelly was circulating and keeping an eye on things. Peaches and Broadwell were the center of attention.  She stuck to the general like pond scum.  A simile that Kelly thought fitting.    Petraeus’ wife Holly was there too, bearing up bravely as the faithful wife who was being betrayed by her husband.  Of course it was all an act.   Petraeus and Broadwell didn’t even like each other.  The CIA had written Broadwell’s book and laced it with language that hinted she was blind with hero worship.  Holly Petraeus was in on the act, and she played her part well.  The purpose of the charade was to lure some terrorist organization to try to blackmail Petraeus with doctored photographs and threaten to expose him unless he provided requested secrets.  This would provide the CIA with the perfect conduit to feed false information to the terrorists.  The information would cause them to destroy themselves by means they would not even recognize.

     Kelly admired Holly Petraeus.   She didn’t want to hurt her.  She didn’t want her to ever suspect what was going on between her and Peaches.  Kelly was smart enough to know that these affairs weren’t permanent.  Peaches’ heroism was a great turn on, but he was sixty years old, for crying out loud.  More than twice Kelly’s age.  Sure he’d been able to outrun Broadwell on the C&O Canal trail and beat her on the obstacle course at Camp Buckner.  (See the video on YouTube) But when he and Kelly had gone head to head on those same challenges, without the same publicity, of course, she had left him in the dust.  She’d had to slow down to allow him to look respectable.

     So it would be a few nice rolls in the hay and then she could go back to pursuing a guy who could really be her life partner.  She could return to the simple life of being a young, attractive woman with a top secret security clearance and the knowledge of twelve ways to kill a person with her bare hands.  Life was good.

     Back at his apartment, Jack was strapping on his stakeout gear.  Wilson wagged his tail.  He knew this meant they were going to have some fun.

Part 5                                                                                                       Colleen Weikel

            His phone chirping as he tried to get Wilson to stand still long enough to clip his leash to his collar, Jack snapped up the phone, wiped dog slobber off his hand onto his pants and wheezed, "Yeah?"

            "Nice Greeting, Porter," Dewey whined.  The thing he disliked most about the Dewster was his whining.  It's so girlie.

            "Damn!” Jack thought, "It couldn't be Natalia.  Shit, shit, shit!!" But, since he didn't have a choice, Dewey would have to do.

            "Yeah, well, you should be wrestling a fat dog to get his leash on."  The phone was dead silent.  "You there Dew?"

            "Just waiting to hear something interesting.  The dog story was ok, but tell me why you called.  You said it was urgent."

            "It is.  I need you or Natalia to snoop for me tonight.  A party at the Clinton residence.  Can you do it?"

            "Bill and Hillary's place?  Sure!  No problem."  Dewey hesitated, then said, "What the hell are you talking about?  The Clintons?  Like the former President and First Lady?  What is wrong with you? Give me a break, Jack."

            "I'm serious. Hell, it's a huge party for Petraeus' and that chick who wrote the book about him.  Blackwell, Broadwell, whatever.  But forget them.  I want you to watch Kelly.  I think she's gettin' it on with Petraeus and I've got to know for sure."  Before Dewey could say anything, Jack said, "In that crowd, no one will notice you for a minute.  Especially since you're going to be serving hors d'ouvres for the caterer."

            "So I'm checking out your girlfriend?  That sounds safe enough.  What will you be doing while I'm having all that fun?"

            Jack blew out a breath, "I'll be on a rooftop across the street watching what I can of the action inside.  I especially want to see who leaves with whom.  So can ya do it, Dew?"

            From the rooftop Jack watched Dewey circulate among the guests and Kelly schmoozing with the former President.  The old guy didn't look too bad for his age.  "Must be all that white hair", he thought, adjusting his binoculars.  Damn if the old Prez wasn't flirting with her!  And she was looking like she was liking it, too.  And Dewey was standing right behind them.  Jack was wishing he could get a better view.

            Dewey was doing ok serving hors d'ouvres, chatting with the other servers now and then and staying as close to Kelly as possible without her noticing him.  He was standing behind the Clintons who were entertaining Peaches and his wife as well as Kelly. 

            Jack could see that the party was ending, people were leaving.  The General and his wife left together and were ushered into a waiting limo. Paula Broadwell, looking forlorn, was helped into another car that drove off in the opposite direction of the Generals'. 

            Through the window, Jack saw Kelly shaking hands with the Clintons and exiting the building.  Her car was in front of the building.  She got in and drove away in the direction of her apartment.  Maybe he was wrong.  Or not.  Dewey came around the building from the back and looked right at Jack, but Jack knew Dewey couldn't see him.  He dialed Dewey's phone.

            "Good evening!  How may I help you?" Jack answered cheerfully, then added, "That's how you should answer a phone, Porter!"  The emphasis on Porter made Jack think Dewey'd just stepped in something stinky.

            "Fine, sure, whatever you say.  So what did you find out?"

            "I think she's fooling around with the General.  Never saw anyone try so hard not to look at another person.  It's a dead giveaway, don't you think?"  Dewey ran his hand through his thinning hair.  He was tired and sweaty and wanted to get home.

            "Yeah," Jack sighed loudly, "yeah, I think so.  What about Clinton?  She looked like she was playing up to him pretty good, too."

            "Nah, his wife was right there.  You probably couldn't see her from where you were.  They seemed to like her.  Both of them, that is.  I heard something to the effect that they may want to hire her for their daughter's security detail.  She's close to the same age and they thought she'd get along with Chelsea."

            "Ok, Dew.  Go home.  Thanks, I owe ya."

            "You sure do.  Don't you forget it."

            In a hotel suite in Annapolis, Peaches and Kelly were enjoying room service Champaign before bed.

           

Part 6                                                                                                             Jamie Baker

Jack sat on the rooftop, starring into the apartment across the avenue, watching the catering staff dump watery drinks and half eaten food into garbage cans.  He continued sitting long after all the lights had been snapped off. 

When his cell phone rang, he wasn’t surprised.  He picked it up from where it lay on the roof top beside him and heard Kelly’s whispered voice.

“Hey, baby, it’s me.”  Jack’s own breathing stopped while he listened. 

“We did it in the shower, you know, how we do sometimes.  It was good.  Really good.  Even the second time was good.  Are you at home?  Jack?  Are you listening?”

“Yes,” he answered hoarsely.  “Yes, I’m listening.”

“Go home Jack.  Right now.  I’ll meet you there.  You’ve got something I want.  Something I need.”

……………………

Dewey Porter was asleep only a couple of hours when his phone woke him.  He recognized the number that glowed on the screen.  Pushing himself up to sit on the edge of his bed, he blinked through the window at the dark grey sky.

“Shit,” he thought, “it’s not even day break yet.”

            Twenty minutes later, after taking a shower and dressing, he was shoving his feet into a pair of worn construction boots when his phone rang again. 

            “Yeah, what’s up, dog?”

            “I’ve got a job for you.  I need you to find a car, a 2012 Cadillac Escalade, pearl grey in color.”

            “What’s so special about it?” Dewey said through a deep yawn.

            “Well, it’s special to the government because it belongs to the son of the Thai ambassador.  The car disappeared from their 6-car garage over the weekend.” 

            “I still don’t get what’s so special about it.”

            “Well, for you, what’s special is the reward.  The insurance company is offering a finder’s fee of 25%.”

            “A quarter of the sales price?”

            “Yes, and this very special vehicle has deluxe everything.  Rolled off the lot for $100 grand 4 months ago, the kid’s birthday present.”

            “What’s your cut?”

            “You take the whole fee from the insurance company.  My reward is, well, let’s just say it’s contingent.”

            “Well alrighty then.  Meet me for breakfast and bring my usual advance.”

            The Donut Hole in the Wall was too small to offer much in the way of eat-in convenience for its patrons, but the donuts were so good that most days there was a gaggle of people on the sidewalk eating out of the distinctive green and purple bags and licking sugary remains off their fingers.  A single server raced back and forth behind the counter, packing donuts into bags and boxes with lightning speed for the morning customers who stood 3 deep.  Often there was a line that snaked out the door. 

            The baker was Carlotta Pope, Dewey’s longtime girlfriend.  In a corner of the flour-dusted kitchen, Dewey sat at a small table, across from Walter White, a thin man in a dark suit, who was hopelessly trying to brush flour dust off the cuffs of his jacket.   Dewey finished his 2^nd donut before reaching across the table and taking one of Walter’s.

           

“The ambassador’s name is Xuto, Kasit Xuto.  He’s been over here for years.  Before he was ambassador, he worked on a bunch of trade commissions between the US and Thailand and a bunch of Asian conglomerates.  He has 3 kids.  The oldest one, Krit Xuto, has dual citizenship.  He’s the registered owner of the car.”

“And the Escalade just disappeared from their garage?  No signs of forced entry?  And GM lost the tracking signal?”

            “It went off the radar last night at 2:37 AM.  The family was out of town.  They don’t have any live-in help, so there was no one at the house. “

            “The kid, uh Krit, what’s he do in life?”

            “He’s a student.  Third year at Julliard in New York City.”

            “What, he’s a ballet dancer or something.”

            “No, he plays the cello.”

            “The cello,” Dewey repeated with the last swallow of his 3^rd donut.  “You mean a big violin?  Like Yoyo Ma plays?”

            “This kid might be the next Yoyo Ma.  He’s a genius, at least that’s what his father thinks.”  Walt took a sip of his coffee. 

            “I thought you said the family was out of town.  How’d they find out the Escalade was missing?”  Dewey eyed the donut that was still sitting, untouched, in front of Walt. 

            “The story I got, was that Mr. Xuto hired a car and driver to bring him back early.  He didn’t say why, but it I got the feeling there was some kind of tension.  It was just a vibe I got, you know.”  Walt took another sip of coffee and pushed the lone donut across the table to Dewey.

“The father said the house security panel showed the garage light was on, so he went in there to shut it off.  That’s when he saw that the kid’s car was missing.  That was around 3:30.”

“You talked to the father?”

“My boss called me; I went right over to the Xuto’s house.  It’s in Langley Park.  I got there around 4:15.  Mr. Xuto showed me the garage and the security panel and then he took me into what he called the family room.  It was like a shrine.  There must have been 300 photographs on the walls, family members and VIPs from all over the place.  Anyway, he shows me a picture of the kid, Krit, standing in front of the Escalade with his cello.”  Walt takes another sip of coffee.

“Then he tells me how the car was retrofitted with a special security compartment to hold the cello.  It’s made to look like the rear seats are folded down, but there are no rear seats, just the hidden cello compartment.  Mr. Xuto made it sound like it was not only burglar proof, but even fire proof.  Maybe even bomb proof.”

 “Christ, all that for a big fat fiddle.  I mean, how much could that be worth? They must have insurance on it.”

“The cello might be worth more than the car, but this is where Mr. Xuto got a little, I don’t know, hinkey maybe.  He said the cello was locked in the compartment along with some special sheet music, some of Krit’s original compositions.   The only copies.  Mr. Xuto really wants them back.”  Walt laid some heavy stress on the word really.

“Well, I don’t know how I’m going to find them,” Dewey washed the last donut bite down with coffee. “I don’t have one clue as to the whereabouts of the vehicle let alone whether the fiddle music is still in there.”

“Not quite true.  I saved the best for last.  My boss made some phone calls right away and 2 leads have come in.   Thirty minutes after the GM signal was lost, a pearl grey Escalade was photographed running a yellow light.  Photo enhancement might give us some information.  And then, 45 minutes later, the Escalade we’re looking for went thru EZ pass on the Fort McHenry Tunnel.  The thing is outfitted with a toll transponder, which apparently, the thief, or thieves, overlooked.”

            “That’s I95.  Heading north?”

            “Yes, northbound.  And that was only,” Walt glanced down at his watch, “an hour ago.  Where do you think they’re going?”

            “New York City?  Where the kid is?”