Patriot Lies (Jack Widow Book 14) Page 4

  “I don’t think so.”

  Aker’s grin flattened out, and he looked at Widow in confusion.

  “I never knew my father. Doubt it was him.”

  Aker said, “Oh. Then you were friends?”

  “Nope.”

  “You military?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ah. So, you were in Eggers’ unit or something?”

  “Doubt it. I have no idea what unit you’re referring to?”

  “You weren’t in the Navy?”

  “I was in the Navy.”

  “What did you do?”

  Right then, Widow told the truth before he realized it. When it came to lies, he had been out of practice for a while.

  He said, “I was a cop and a SEAL.”

  Suddenly, Aker’s eyebrows furrowed, and an expression of intense interest came over his face.

  “You were a cop? Like a military cop?”

  “I was in the NCIS.”

  “Wow! You must have a lot of stories.”

  Widow stayed quiet.

  “Did you know Eggers?”

  “No.”

  “Huh. Why are you here? You hear of him or something?”

  “I read about him in The Post. This morning. It said he didn’t have any known family or friends. Said he was in the Navy. I had to come. Couldn’t let the man who served in uniform not have a single visitor.”

  Suddenly, Aker’s grin completely vanished, and his cheeks fluffed out.

  “I see. You came out of obligation?”

  “Duty. I came because it’s not right for a vet to not have a single person come to their funeral or wake.”

  “So, then you’re just a stranger?”

  “More like a brother.”

  “I don’t understand. I thought you said you weren’t related to him.”

  “I didn’t say I wasn’t related to him, but I’m not.”

  “Still not understanding.”

  “I’m not related to him. Never met him. Don’t know him. But he served, and therefore, he was my brother.”

  “I see. That’s cool.”

  Aker paused a long beat. Then he said, “Thank you for your service.”

  Widow just nodded.

  Aker asked, “You know of anyone who did know Mr. Eggers?”

  “I don’t. Like I said, I never heard of him till yesterday. What about you? Why’re you here?”

  “I’m Mr. Eggers’ lawyer.”

  “Don’t think he needs a lawyer now.”

  “I’m his estate lawyer. That’s what I do. Estates. Remember?”

  “Why does Eggers have an estate lawyer?”

  “Everyone needs one. Someone should handle your affairs when you die. Someone should make sure your will is legal and carried out after you die. You know? Someone has to make sure your estate is divvied out to your inheritors as you’ve requested in writing.”

  Widow said, “And you’re here to do that for Eggers?”

  “That’s right.”

  “But I read he was a homeless man.”

  “Yes. Unfortunately, he lived an empty lifestyle. Sad, really.”

  “Sad for anyone. No one wants to be homeless.”

  After Widow said this, it dawned on him that technically he was homeless, and he chose to be.

  Aker cleared his throat.

  Widow asked, “What? You disagree?”

  “Mr. Eggers wanted to be homeless.”

  “How’s that?”

  “He chose to live this way.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Eggers chose to live on the street.”

  “He did?”

  Aker shrugged and said, “I assume he did, because he was a multimillionaire.”

  “How’s that?”

  “That’s why I’m here. I told you I’m an estate attorney. I’m here to make sure that Eggers’ heirs and not the government get his fortune.”

  “His fortune?”

  Aker swallowed and glanced back over his shoulder like he was making sure that the pastor couldn’t hear what he was going to say next. He leaned into Widow and motioned for Widow to do the same.

  Widow took a step forward and listened.

  Aker whispered, “Mr. Eggers had fifty million dollars in stocks.”

  Five

  Fifty million dollars.

  That was more money than Widow had ever seen in his life. He tried to imagine it. What could be bought with fifty million? Anything. A mansion on the sea. A huge yacht. A small fleet of yachts. A used third-generation F-35C fighter jet. Hell, maybe a used fourth generation. A brand new, off-the-line, fifth-generation would cost more. Widow recalled seeing data where the Navy spent more than eight million on a new fifth-generation F-35C Lightning.

  Widow said, "Fifty million dollars buys a lot. Why the hell was the chief sleeping on park benches?"

  "Chief?"

  "Eggers."

  Aker nodded and said, "That's the fifty-million-dollar question, isn't it?"

  "So, you're here looking for his heirs?"

  "Yeah."

  "If that's true, then he must have an heir?"

  "He does."

  "The Post said he had no family."

  "None that they know of. But he does—a daughter. I came here hoping someone would show up and know her whereabouts. When I saw you, I was hoping you were a relative."

  "Sorry. I never met Eggers."

  Aker stared down at the floor.

  Widow asked, "No idea where the daughter is?"

  Aker looked back up at him.

  "None."

  "Did Eggers not leave a clue?"

  "He didn't know where she was. They haven’t spoken in years."

  "What's her name?"

  "Maven."

  "That's uncommon. It'll narrow your search. Did you try an internet search for Maven Eggers?"

  "Yeah. I tried everything. Facebook. Google. All that stuff."

  "Background check?"

  "Of course."

  "Where from?"

  "Internet service."

  "You're not going to get much from those."

  "Really?"

  "Probably not. Those services usually don't offer any special techniques beyond doing a public register search, something Google would've done when you searched her name anyway. They're just glorified search engines that comb all free public databases."

  "So, how can I find her?"

  "Lots of ways."

  Aker asked, "Like what?"

  "FBI, for example."

  "Will they help me?"

  "No. Probably not. Not unless you know who to ask."

  Aker said nothing.

  Widow asked, "Don't you have a PI on payroll?"

  After he asked the question, Widow remembered that Aker’s business card didn't list a firm or his title in a firm. There was nothing like: Michael Aker. Associate Attorney. Smith and Smith, which made him think there was no official PI, but he was wrong.

  “Yes. I have a guy. Other than that, I'm a one-man show. I do also have a part-time secretary."

  Widow said, "You should get your PI on the case."

  Aker nodded, and Widow watched as the expression on his face turned to one a person might get when a light bulb goes off in his head.

  He grabbed Widow by the shoulders—excited, as if they were old friends.

  Widow looked down at Aker's hands.

  Aker said, "Oh!"

  Then he saw the look on Widow's face and jerked his hands away.

  "Sorry. I just had an idea."

  Widow stayed quiet.

  Aker asked, "Why don't you join my guy?"

  "You want me to work for you?"

  "Sure! Why not? Two heads are better than one. Or three heads, in this case."

  Widow thought about the question for a moment.

  "Nah. I'm sorry. I don't live here. I'm moving on. Tonight."

  "I can make it worth your while."

  "It's not about the money. I don't need money. I don't stay in one plac
e very long. I've got no investment in what happens here."

  "But don't you want Mr. Eggers' estate to go to the proper heir?"

  Widow said nothing.

  Aker said, "I'm sure his daughter will appreciate it! We can charge a finder's fee."

  "Like I said, it's not about the money."

  Widow paused a beat, and then he added, "Where did he get these stocks?"

  "I can't divulge the company they're in. Legal thing. Not unless you were a relative or on my payroll. Then I could tell you."

  Widow thought for a moment, and he thought hard about the offer. Fifty million dollars in secretive stocks was an intriguing mystery that he'd like to solve. But what he wanted more was to take a shower and be on his way, get the grime of DC off his body and his soul.

  He reached out his hand to Aker. They shook.

  Widow said, "Sorry, but I'm not for hire. Good luck."

  Widow pulled his hand away and turned and walked back through the church and into the lobby.

  Pastor Richards came out of the shadows once again and stepped out in front of Widow.

  "Are you leaving already?"

  "I am. Thanks for what you do here."

  Richards offered a hand to Widow. Widow took it and shook it.

  Richards said, "Sorry for your loss."

  "Thank you."

  Widow pulled his hand away, and Richards stepped aside and back into half-shadow.

  Widow walked back out through the church's heavy opened door and down the long drive, back to the street. He needed to hail another cab but saw none.

  He looked right and looked left. The street was one-way, coming in from the right. He turned in that direction and walked on, into the direction of oncoming traffic flow, hoping he would run into another taxi.

  Six

  The guy with the forgettable face sat in the passenger seat of the Escalade parked down the street from the church.

  In the driver’s seat was another one of his guys, a thick bald guy with a long beard. He had a little gray and a lot of auburn in the beard.

  He lifted a cold cup of coffee from out of the cup holder and drank from it, set it back into the cup holder. Behind the cold coffee cup, rested a Glock 34, which belonged to the driver. He liked the Glock 34 issue because he preferred the longer barrel. Plus, he had large hands and felt the handgrip was better for larger hands. It wasn’t true, not necessarily, but he liked it for that reason—true or not.

  The two men were both armed. The guy with the forgettable face had his Glock 19 in its holster.

  They both watched as a tall stranger whom they’d never seen before came strolling out of Eggers’ wake and down to the street in front of the church.

  They had watched him pull up in a taxi, get out, and walk the perimeter like he was casing the neighborhood.

  The guy with the forgettable face held up a smartphone. He had the camera app on. He pointed the camera at the tall stranger. He watched the screen and saw the tall stranger as a small, out-of-focus figure onscreen. He switched to video mode and used the fingers on his free hand to zoom in all the way until he could get the best angle on the stranger’s face. He recorded the whole thing as a video.

  He tried to get the stranger’s facial features on camera as best he could.

  The stranger was his complete opposite in many ways—especially his face. If anything, the stranger’s face was very memorable. It was rugged as all hell—unshaven, ungroomed, and defined. Beyond the face was a different story altogether.

  The stranger had thick, dark hair that fluttered in the wind like a thick forest of bamboo trees. With the hair, and the ruggedness, the stranger fit all the designations of a pretty boy, only he wasn’t. That was obvious. He was too rugged, too weathered, too rough. The stranger had jagged edges. He carried himself in a way that kept him from being anybody’s ideal target.

  If the guy with the forgettable face was in the business of mugging people, the stranger in front of him would’ve been the last victim he would ever pick. If a client came to him with a bag of cash and a photo of a target to assassinate, the man with the forgettable face would’ve asked the client to double the money. The higher the risk of danger, the higher the fee.

  The stranger knew how to handle himself. There was no question. He had a specific kind of swagger. It was the same as the best Special Forces guys he’d ever met had.

  Not to mention, the stranger was big. He was tall and lean but had broad shoulders and thick, long arms. The stranger was built somewhere between an NFL linebacker and an ancient Viking.

  The driver stared at the stranger.

  He asked, “Who you suppose that is?”

  The guy with the forgettable face said, “No idea.”

  “He’s at the guy’s funeral. He must be somebody.”

  “It’s a wake. The funeral comes after.”

  The driver said nothing to that.

  He asked, “What do we do about him?”

  “Nothing. Let him go. He’s probably nobody.”

  They watched as the stranger stopped outside the church’s driveway and looked to their left and then right. Traffic came in from their left. They watched as the stranger made a decision and turned to their left and walked against the grain of the road traffic.

  The guy with the forgettable face turned off the camera. They both kept their eyes on him, watched him as he walked back up the street and was lost to sight.

  The two men turned back to the church.

  The driver looked at his watch.

  “I don’t think anyone else is going to show up.”

  The guy with the forgettable face said nothing.

  “How much longer is this going to go on?”

  “Are you bored?”

  “I’m starving.”

  The guy with the forgettable face ignored that.

  He said, “We need to find out who the other guy is.”

  “I can just go ask him.”

  “Don’t be stupid!”

  “I’m sorry. Just hungry.”

  “You mentioned that. You can eat after. Just pay attention.”

  “Don’t worry. I wrote down his license plate.”

  “We stay put. Till it’s over.”

  The driver crossed his arms, stared straight ahead, and said nothing more.

  Seven

  Night rolled around. Widow sipped a fresh cup of coffee that he’d purchased at a service station across the street from the bus depot. He watched the attendant make a fresh pot. At first it was too hot to drink, so he left the lid off and watched the hot steam rise, leaving brief contrails hanging over his cup like the back of a flying jet. After a couple of minutes, he replaced the lid and sipped from the cup.

  Widow sat on a bench near the street, but far from the other passengers waiting for the same bus to arrive that he was. He bought a one-way ticket to Pittsburgh, a straight shot in terms of not having to make a transfer to get there. That was good. The only problem was the bus didn’t leave for another ninety minutes, giving Widow extra time to kill.

  The one thing about military life that Widow did not miss was the copious amount of downtime. Much of a military person’s life is spent waiting around for something to happen. He was grateful for the skill of patience that all the waiting around had instilled in him.

  Widow would’ve bought a paperback book to read from the gas station, but he perused their selection and found nothing but trashy romance novels, which wasn’t his thing. He didn’t like to fantasize about romance just before a seven-hour night ride on a public bus. It just didn’t seem like a good idea.

  He considered buying a magazine. He even picked up a copy of a gun magazine and flipped the pages, looking at the new models of handguns coming out. This entertained him for a total of ten seconds before he got bored with it.

  Widow knew weapons. He liked weapons, but he had never been a gun nut. He couldn’t imagine reading a magazine dedicated to the next generation trigger of a whatever. For him, a gun needed to fire
when prompted and wait safely until needed. A trigger needed to trigger a reaction causing a bullet to fire out of the barrel when squeezed—and nothing else.

  Salivating over photos of weapons in a gun magazine wasn’t his thing. He wasn’t the target audience for that.

  Of course, he skipped right over the Hollywood magazines. He had no interest in which celebrity he didn’t know was dating another celebrity he didn’t know.

  He did pause over the trashy tabloids. It was hard not to. The tabloids had figured out how to grab attention long ago. One was titled: Is the US President Really a Secret Alien?

  And it had a photo of a little green man, an alien with big bug eyes and green skin, dressed in a suit and tie with an America flag pin on his collar.

  How does anyone buy these? he thought.

  He sped past the women’s magazines like Cosmo. He definitely wasn’t the audience for those.

  He examined the newsworthy magazines for a good while, but they were eighty percent articles about politics, and he wasn’t in the mood to read about how one side was right, and the other was wrong. He liked having a sunny disposition, but these articles were often designed to infuriate.

  These days everyone seemed on edge about something. Widow preferred to stay out of it all together. He focused on his daily life. Let the pointy heads in Washington worry about the political mess of the world.

  Widow picked up a copy of the New York Times for a moment. But then he saw a copy of the same Washington Post he had seen at the coffee shop earlier. He felt compelled to read the article about Eggers again. Maybe he’d missed something.

  Fifty million dollars. That was a lot of money. The whole thing gnawed at him like a pest. Some part of him couldn’t let it go. It was more than honor. It was his sense that something wasn’t right.

  Widow couldn’t shake it.

  He had picked up the Post instead of the Times and paid for the paper and the coffee. Now he was seated, waiting for his bus.

  The Post was folded flat on the empty bench space next to him. He angled it close to the edge to get the most light, which shone down from a vapor lamp, high up on a pole in the depot’s parking lot.

  He held the coffee in one hand and laid a flat hand on the bottom of the paper to keep the night wind from blowing the pages up.