Midnight Vigil -Chapter 1

[Welcome readers. This writing is not designed to be a literary work. It's just a little story of intrigue about relationships that sometimes take us to places we don't want to go. It's for entertainment and (I hope) enjoyment while you're waiting on your song to download or for your microwave popcorn to finish.] 

Chapter 1

Vincenzo Parelli saw the long dark sedan parked in front of his daughter's house. Without thinking about it, he drove past her house, made a u-turn and parked across the street and half way down the block. He dialed her number to see tell her he was bringing the car home. After four rings and no answer, he got out of his car and walked casually around the side of her house.

He peeped in the window and saw them and stepped back out of sight. Through the kitchen window he could see Carla sitting at the table with a man he didn't know. He was eating and she had a cup of coffee in front of her. He frowned as thoughts of his son-in-law Mitch, ran through his mind. He was off fighting in Afghanistan and his daughter was entertaining another man.

His stomach suddenly felt queasy. This was his only daughter who loved her husband, but what was this? Was she cheating on him? He didn't want to believe it, but there she was having coffee with this unknown man. As he watched them, he dialed her phone again. This time he saw the glint of the gun as the man signaled for her not to answer. He froze and for a moment in time, he was back on the police force faced with a dangerous situation. But there was no back-up to call this time.

The phone kept ringing until her voice mail clicked on.

"Hi, this is Carla. I'm not available right now. Please leave a message."

Vince moved away from the window and gave her this message. "Hi Carla, dad here. I hope you have my laundry all done and folded because I'm on my way over to pick it up. See you in about 15."

Carla looked up at the man with a puzzled expression. He took her phone and threw it across the room. 

"Your old man is coming," the man said wearily. "Let's go wait for him by the front door. Bring his laundry and get rid of him as fast as you can. "

"But I didn't do his laundry... " she replied.

He grabbed Carla by the arm and started toward the front room.

Vince hurried to the back of the house and tried the door. It was locked. He slit the back screen with his pen knife and let himself in the back door. As he crept along to the kitchen, he pulled the 9mm from his pants leg and moved as smoothly as a cat into the dining room where he could see them. As he hoped, Carla was waiting behind the front door while the gunman paced back and forth, alternately glancing at her and then out the window.

"What kind of car does your old man drive?" he asked.


"It's a dark silver Ford," she replied.


The gunman looked out the window again and then walked closer and spotted the car across the street. It was parked under a tree and partially hidden in the shade. It was a blue cargo van. In front of it was white crossover Honda. He frowned as though he was trying to figure out what was out of place. Further down the street, he spotted a silver Mustang.

When he turned back to Carla, he stopped midway through his turn, Vince was pointing a gun at him. Without a word, Vince put a bullet in the mans right arm. He dropped the gun.

"Dad, no!" Carla shouted. "It's not what you think!"

The men stared at each other.

"Dad this is SSA Roy Bentley." Carla explained hurriedly. "He's here because of Mitch."

"What's happened to Mitch?, " Vince asked in a deliberate voice while still holding the gun on the agent.


Installment 2 (chapter 1)

"Better show me some ID, agent."

The man called Bentley slowly reached for his ID and produced it for Vince. It looked official, but Vince wasn't in any hurry to lower his firearm. He glanced at his daughter who was moving away from the door toward the wounded agent.

A loud blast exploded the air. The front picture window shattered and the agent went down. Suddenly glass was flying everywhere.

Vince reacted automatically. He hit the floor while grabbing his daughter's arm to pull her down beside him. A moment later she was lying in a pool of blood.

She instinctively clutched at her throat in a weak attempt to remove the large piece of glass and then she went still. The agent stared at the ceiling with a blank expression. There was a hole in his chest.  In one moment, he lost a daughter and an agent was gunned down before his eyes. He examined the bodies quickly for signs of life, but he knew they were dead soon after they fell.

The stench of death was all around him but he clasped his daughter to his chest, dislodging the glass, as he dialed 911.
 
The faraway sound of a roaring engine and squealing tires barely registered in his mind as Vince gasped for breath at the horror before him. With his body dry heaving, he crawled to the window for a look. He collapsed a minute later but recovered quickly. He had to move.

He had no idea of what just happened or why, but his training took over as he quickly checked the perimeter and found no sign of the shooters. The street was empty except for his son-in-law's silver Mustang that he had brought back from the repair shop that morning. It was parked where he left it, half way down the block.

Police arrived within ten minutes and forensics about twenty minutes later.

His body shook visibly and he wept silently as the detectives took him downtown for questioning. It was all business at the station. He didn't get a break for being a retired officer and went through the paces like anyone else. The difference was that he knew at least half of them were on the take, but it didn't matter in his situation and he was respectful with his responses. It was after 9PM when they drove him home.

The next week was a blur of numbed activity. He tried to notify Mitch, but learned he was MIA. After questioning by detectives, and planning and attending her funeral service he tried to maintain a posture of politeness as relatives and well wishers brought casseroles which he tossed in the trash and condolences he barely heard. He sent them away at the door. He was tired.

He tried to think of the faces at the funeral. He knew the shooter might attend. That's what they did to make sure the target was down for good. But Carla wasn't the target, it was the man who identified himself as an FBI agent. His ID turned out to be phony and Vince knew with certainty the shooter would attend the target's funeral somewhere back in Virginia. He should go too, but right now, he didn't care about anything.

His mind took him back to her funeral and he tried again to visualize the faces at Carla's funeral. It was no use. They all blurred into pixels but none seemed out of place.

He sat in his den until after midnight, keeping vigil and drinking scotch while trying to sort out the last few moments of his daughter's life. He was spent. So, he looked around his sanctuary where he came for quiet time. There was a wall lined with books and next to the window, the old leather chair where he liked to sit and read. It now was a reminder of all the time spent away from his wife and daughter. His wife Janice died a couple of years before he retired and now he was very much alone  with solitude mocking him from every room of his bungalow.

As he poured another scotch, he remembered, he had a meeting Monday morning with Captain Stewart, the detective in charge of the case. They hadn't offered much help and no new information was found since the murders. His handgun was still in their possession even though he was told he wasn't a suspect. It was a pop gun anyway and he wouldn't object if they kept it permanently.

The ringing phone didn't penetrate his foggy mind, and with a scotch warmed belly and sufficiently numbed mind, he stumbled off to bed.


Installment 3 (chapter 1)

The alarm rang at 8 AM. Vince groaned at the bright sunlight streaming in his window and shut off the alarm before it buzzed again. He sat on the side of his bed trying to lay out some thoughts and a plan to tackle the day. He didn't have much time to think because his meeting with the police department was at 9:15.
After a quick shower, he moved to the kitchen with electric razor buzzing in one hand where he made coffee and threw a couple slices of bread in the toaster thinking it would calm his gurgling stomach.

The land line phone rang and he let the answering machine pick up. It was Lena wanting to meet him for lunch. He erased the message without returning the call. He figured he had done his civil duty to his wife's old friend by spending a little time and buying her a few dinners and looking at their childhood pictures.

Lena was strange. Pretty features, but not pretty. Maybe it was because her voice grated on his nerves. She reminded him of someone from long past, but he couldn't remember who it was.
He took public transportation downtown and walked three blocks to police headquarters. The walk and the crisp Autumn air cleared his mind and energized him. He mentally added brunch to his schedule figuring the meeting wouldn't take more than an hour.
Captain Stewart was milling around outside his office when Vince arrived. They shook hands and exchanged short pleasantries before walking to the coffee machine and selecting their brew. The captain bought.
Vince sat across the desk from the captain. His eyes took in the numerous medals and awards hanging on the wall. This guy was self promotional and probably still working his way up the ladder. Stewart sat back in his chair and looked him over without a word as he slowly sipped his coffee. It was a deliberate ploy. Vince guessed it was supposed to make him uncomfortable and it did. It irritated him. He waited for Stewart to speak.
“You don't have a permit for your gun. We'll have to confiscate it.”
Vince sighed and shrugged.
“We could charge you for carrying a concealed firearm” Stewart continued, “but, I think we can get past that without too much effort.”
“What do you want?” Vince asked, wearying of the game.

“Any of the perps you caught, ever threaten you?”

“No serious threats, the usual big talk about getting even, but mostly just talk,” Vince replied. “My family was never in danger.”

Stewart got up from his desk and walked to the window. “Do you know who the men who attacked your daughter?”

“Are you crazy? Vince answered, his voice rising. “That was my daughter, my only child! If I knew anything about them, your department would have been told within moments of their arrival at the crime scene. What the hell, captain!
“Was your daughter on drugs?”

“No!” Vince shouted.
Stewart turned back to the desk and frowned at Vince, “The men who attacked your daughter were part of an organized crime unit.” He help up the palm of his hand, and continued.

“We believe the man who identified him self as an FBI agent was there to collect drug money, or if as you say, she wasn't on drugs, to retrieve your daughter and deliver her to her husband, who as you know is MIA from Afghanistan. Maybe they were all partners in a drug ring. We don't know. Now maybe you know something and maybe you don't, but if you do, right now is the time to spill your guts. The press is going to be all over this new angle in a few hours.”

Throwing his cup in the trash can, Vince's eyes blazed with anger as he leaned over the desk. “Still crazy talk. Mitch was a true soldier, good at his job, honest and genuine. My daughter never did drugs one day of her life. The only thing they fought about was him going back to Afghanistan. She didn't want him to go. I am telling you straight up that they are not tangled up with drugs or organized crime.” 
 
“Sit down, Vince, “ Stewart said quietly. “You know the reality. Half the guys over there are dopers. They have to be to get through the stress and the unbelievable crap rules that tie their hands and keep them from being effective at their jobs. If he's clean, we'll find out once we find him. What we want from you is cooperation in finding him. You'll be contacted once we put together a team.”