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  Manic Monday

  Jake Monday Chronicles Book 1

  Robert Michael

  © 2012 Robert Michael

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical, real people or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  INFINITE WORD PRESS

  Broken Arrow, Oklahoma

  Printed in the United States of America

  Chapter 1

  Royale with Cheese

  Jake enjoyed feeling the cold Italian marble against the small of his back almost as much as he did the view before him. The mansion was located on a pristine, lonely stretch of beach along the coast. The California sun reflected off of the gently tossing waves. The only mar upon the whole scene was the blood from two bodies slumped against the patio door.

  Jake’s phone vibrated against the marble, startling him. He thought he had more time. The bodies were still warm. The “cleaner” was not due for another hour.

  “Monday.”

  “Do we have a clear conscience?” The voice on the other line was thick with a Russian accent, the “r’s” clipped and the vowels full and round.

  “The deed is done. Housekeeping is on its way.”

  “You are cleared for recovery, then?”

  “I strongly recommend that I remain until the housekeeper leaves.”

  A pause from the other line. Someone covering the speaker with their hand.

  “When they leave, you must be prepared.”

  “I understand. “ Jake hated talking in code. It was trite and paranoid. But, perhaps, knowing what he did, it was wise.

  “Five-one-five, dash, two-one-three.”

  “Three base Monday out and clear. Five-one-five, dash, two-one-three.”

  He shut his phone and got moving. He wiped the marble down with a cloth, extracted a hand-held vacuum and cleaned along the door and under the mat. Jake pulled out the stiletto he used to assassinate the two guards, removed the detachable wood handle and replaced it carefully with another. The replacement was a plant. He carefully peeled back the plastic covering the prints and deposited it in his jacket pocket with the original handle.

  Jake checked his watch and admired the sun as it continued to travel towards the horizon. The doorbell rang. Jake walked briskly back through the house, its vaulted ceilings, expensive furnishings, and modern art welcoming and cold. He could see the cleaners through the window in the front. Suddenly, he was reminded of Pulp Fiction. The older man, Charles, Jake had met about a month ago. He looked remarkably like Harvey Keitel. Jake did not know the tall, lean fellow with him. He opened the door and fought the urge to look back over their shoulders down the drive.

  Instead, he found himself staring at the gargantuan nose of Charles’ partner. His nose was bulbous, red, and out of place on the man’s face. His cheek bones stood out prominently, his unshaven chin jutted forward, and his ears seemed barely attached to his skull. He looked like he had skipped a whole week of nutrition and got a busted nose as a reward.

  Thankfully, they pushed on past him without noticing. They were on a schedule. It was crucial not to deviate from it by standing gawking at each other or making small talk. Besides, he knew Charles was all business. They made their way back toward the bedroom, the young guy craning his considerably long neck to take in the gaudiness and lavish home of Eilif Nicolaisen, real estate mogul, trafficker of drugs and slaves.

  “Through here?” Charles motioned towards the hall.

  “Yes. On the left.”

  They entered into the bedroom and put down their equipment: two briefcases and a bucket.

  “Nice house.” Big-Nose said. He looked around at the paintings, the furnishings, his eyes roaming, full of grift and barely concealed excitement.

  Charles shook his head as he unpacked. He glanced up at Jake and smiled. Charles inserted the knife with surgical precision. Big-Nose fell forward onto the bed face first. The only sign of his passing was a small red dot of blood on the back of his neck below his skull. Jake shrugged. Sometimes Charles took matters into his own hands. He usually had his reasons.

  “So, how’s your wife, Charles?” Jake asked.

  Charles rolled Big-Nose over onto the floor, cradling his head with a plastic cloth to catch the blood.

  “She is obstinate as ever. I tell her of you and she say you are her hero." He wrinkled his nose in distaste. "The woman is a tramp, I am saying.”

  “I say she has good taste.” He put his hands in his pockets with a wry smile upon his lips.

  “I found him on the road, needles lying around him. Last night at the park. He not ask much questions, but offered to have sex with me. Disgusting." He wiped his hands on his slacks. "America is full of perverts and deviants, I am saying.”

  “He finds you more attractive than your wife does, Charles.”

  Charles chuckled a little. He was a hard man to make laugh, but Monday had developed a rapport with him over last few weeks.

  “Not surprising. She likes young men. Always has. I was young once, too. Now, she has her way with all the young men. Me? I don’t care." He shrugged. "Let her have her fun.” He pointed to Big-Nose as he adjusted the body into position. “He fit the bill for goat?”

  “Yes. He will do fine. He is tall enough to fit my strike angle. Thank you for sending his prints ahead. The timeline will be more accurate that way. You do good work.”

  “I am told I am the best.” He said, pointing to his chest. He held out his other hand for the stiletto. “I do not know. Maybe, I see doctor soon. Pains in my chest, aches in my joints. I retire before one of these bait kill me first.” Jake handed him the stiletto wrapped in a heavy cloth.

  “Everyone expendable, everyone valuable.”

  “That is what they teach you? So cold and precise. So good I suppose. Easier to let go when you know where you stand in the first place.”

  With the planted stiletto in place, it was easy to piece out the scene. Two guards killed by Big-Nose with a twelve-inch stiletto knife. On his way out, Charles would arrange the house to seem that a robbery was in action when the thief was caught trying to hide in the bedroom. The two guards, amorous chaps that they were, caught the thief on their way to consummate their fondness for each other and were murdered.

  No need to be extreme in the staging. The authorities would be encouraged to wrap up the embarrassing affair quickly. Money can make many things possible.

  Still, it was tidy. Eilif would not suspect that he was being set up. Sometimes assassinations were more complicated than merely extermination. Sometimes it is necessary to assassinate someone's character as well as their person.

  Chapter 2

  A Few Dollars More

  Eilif wiped his face with shaking hands. His Hublot Black Caviar Bang watch caught on his long dark hair. Anguish etched his features.

  He did not give much thought to the guards, Hanz and Beckett. If Clarence had not told him their names over the phone over an hour ago, he would not have known them from the maid. He had no care about their preference for each other. These things did not matter. What mattered was the man lying on the floor in his foyer. What mattered were the police, the FBI, the unidentified authorities traipsing through his house.

  He felt violated, exposed, and fo
r the first time since Finland, he felt vulnerable. He looked down in horror at the splatter of blood on his ostrich Ferragamo blüchers. He hoped, wildly, that no one noticed. He fought the urge to wipe it off. He held his neckerchief in his sweating palms, kneading the cloth. He watched, fascinated and utterly decimated as men and women crossed in front of him, oblivious to his presence. Clarence was answering all the questions.

  This is what I pay him for, he thought.

  Part media expert, part security advisor, and mostly a hard-nosed manager in a soft-seeming British exterior, Clarence was his most trusted employee. Invaluable. Calculating.

  A small but valid concern that nagged Eilif was the possibility that Clarence would someday realize his value and use it as leverage. It was fine to surround oneself with qualified and capable people. It was also wise to be as paranoid as possible about those people and arrange plans of succession in the case that they must be removed. Despite his trustworthiness, Eilif wondered if perhaps it would be best to offer the man more compensation as sort of a delaying action for what Eilif considered the inevitable. He put it at the back of his mind.

  He had more pressing concerns at the moment.

  He had never seen the man before in his life. His wounds did not make Eilif flinch. But, his nose was atrocious. He had to look away. It made him a little ill at his stomach. Eilif had that problem with everyone he found to be distastefully ugly.

  Eilif was positive that he would be rid of these people in a short while. He was convinced that Clarence could handle the situation. He really just wanted to go upstairs to his secondary suite to change into a robe and some warm slippers, have some brandy and read the briefs his team had prepared for him on the shipment coming next week from South Africa.

  He resented standing there in his formal living room watching total strangers mangle his carpet.

  That was when she walked in. He could tell immediately that she was trouble.

  Detective Charlotte Bellevue was all professional. From her sensible blazer to the thin line of her mouth turned into a frown of distaste and judgment, Eilif could tell that things had just gotten worse.

  "Mr. Nicolaisen, I am Detective Bellevue of the Violent Crimes Unit here in Ventura." Her blonde hair was cut just below the nape of her neck. She looked fit, intelligent, and mad.

  "How can I help you, Sergeant?"

  "Detective is fine, sir." No nonsense. No small talk.

  Does she not truly know who I AM, he wondered, appalled at the disdain with which she spoke to him.

  "Sorry." He was totally flabbergasted. He was also offended slightly that the department would not send their brass in a situation like this.

  "Mr. Nicolaisen, I will need you to join us down at the VPD to answer some questions."

  Eilif's eyebrows rose in surprise.

  "I was not aware that I was a suspect," he said as coolly as he could manage. He could sense things spiraling out of control and he could not imagine why.

  "The investigation is just underway. Nothing has been determined as to the suspect. However, some facts have arisen that we need to corroborate." She seemed impassive, distant. Her eyes lied about the smile on her lips.

  "Facts." He meant it as a question.

  "Yes. Facts concerning your involvement with the Vasquez Cartel in Mexico. This man," she indicated the man with a sweep of a hand, "was connected to the cartel."

  "I see." But, he did not. He was confused. "Will I need a lawyer, Miss…I am sorry, I forgot your name."

  "Detective Bellevue. And, yes, a lawyer will be appropriate."

  He looked down at his designer boots. His despair was deep. Not because he knew exactly why he felt a level of doom he had never experienced before, but precisely because he had no earthly idea what the future was going to hold. He suddenly felt that some cosmic rug had been pulled out from under the soles of his boots.

  He could not help himself. The detective seemed supremely helpful, but a little voice in his head told him not to trust her. Not for one minute.

  "Am I in trouble, officer?"

  She lifted an eyebrow and shrugged almost imperceptibly.

  "I suppose you might be, Mr. Nicholaisen. And I am a detective, not an officer."

  Eilif wanted Clarence to show up and get him out of this situation.

  "What are my options?"

  She actually smirked.

  "You can come willingly or I can come back with a warrant and we can do it the messy way. It is up to you, Mr. Nicholaisen. The difference is that if you go with me now, the trucks out there will only be able to assume you are coming with me to answer questions concerning the crime that took place in your residence here. If I get a warrant, the reason for your visit to the department will be a little more public. You understand the difference, don't you, Mr. Nicholaisen?"

  Eilif had noted the network trucks with their bristling antennae, ugly satellite dishes and loud generators. They were an eyesore, and the reporters annoying. He had been instructed by Clarence to say "no comment" to everything and let him handle it. That was where Clarence was now.

  "I will need to gather some things first," he said. He had to stall.

  "I appreciate that, but you will only need your identification, your passport, and your lawyer. That will suffice. After all, Mr. Nicholaisen, this is only questioning. We are not pressing charges at this time."

  "Well, that is a relief. I am innocent."

  "Alright. Now, if you will come with me, please. I have a car parked out the side door to minimize your exposure."

  "That was thoughtful. Thank you." He knew she was placating him. He hoped to win her over by being grateful and compliant. Clarence would surely recommend those strategies if he were here.

  Eilif followed the detective out into the bright California sunshine.

  It was the last time he would see the daylight for almost a week. After that, the only times he would glimpse the sun was between ducking into his car behind his lawyer, surrounded by police escort, reporters shouting questions, and the flashing of bulbs.

  Chapter 3

  California Dreaming

  Jake picked at the corner of the chair arm. He found these meetings supremely boring. They could be summed up in a dozen sentences. Inevitably, they would go on for over four hours. They would beat the proverbial horse until it was paste.

  Lars was the biggest culprit. He was tenacious about details. He wanted more information about the information. One answer would lead to four more connected questions. He would fold his fingers together, lean his head forward looking at the mountain of paperwork, glancing at one of his three computer screens, tap his keyboard, and quietly ask another question.

  Lars would then stare at the one answering the follow up question, his bifocals perched perilously on the end of his nose. His graying hair made him look distinguished. His Russian accent was, strangely enough, a reminder that he was in charge.

  What made Jake the most ill was that his team mates would go along with the charade. Gary, Sammy, and Violet were pleased to be called on to provide more information, to answer more detailed questions. Often, the reply would be: it is in the report.

  It never mattered. Lars wanted it vocalized.

  Mission debriefings were meant to be cathartic. They were meant to bring closure to the process of ruining other people's lives. These briefings were one reason why Monday was ready to just go home and lie in bed.

  He felt nothing when he killed people. Nothing at all. That, in and of itself, did not bother him. But, paired with the boredom he felt at these meetings and the dread he felt at mission assignments, he could plainly see that his days as a high-priced assassin were almost over.

  It would be ironic, he thought, if he was decommissioned out of boredom. He felt deeply that his discomfort with his chosen profession was much more complicated than simply the lack of excitement. Such an idea was laughable.

  "What I can understand, then, is that our friends at the VPD CSI have found all the clues we have p
lanted?" Lars was looking at Gary. It was Violet who answered. She was always eager to stand out.

  "Yes, Director. No suspicions of the plants. And the charges have also included the murder of our 'goat,' Niles Sampson."

  His name was Niles? A nose like that and name to match. Maybe killing him was a favor, Jake thought.

  "Good." He nodded and pushed the glasses up on his nose.

  Jake was distracted by a bird outside the window. New York seemed so sterile and concrete after his visit to the other coast. He missed the way the air felt. He missed the views of the surf.

  "The court date has been set for the seventeenth. We will have witnesses lined up as well as potential jurors planted. We should have no problem with this one," Sammy said.

  Sammy was thorough. His dark spiky hair and laissez fair attitude towards the dress code belied his intelligence and ruthlessness. He was efficient and dedicated. Jake had always despised his cool nature.

  "Nicholaisen never saw it coming," Gary remarked. He seemed a little put out by Violet and Sammy interrupting. Everyone was vying for the assistant director position. The entire team had the disease. Except for Jake. He could care less.

  He sipped the water. He was disappointed. It was tap water. In an organization as powerful as the Galbraith Alliance, it was surprising he could not get good purified water. He pushed the glass across the gleaming desk, watching the wake of condensation with mild interest.

  "What is your input, Monday?" Lars did not look at him.

  Jake stared at the Director. Lars never surprised him. He had expected to be singled out at some point.

  "Bring on the next assignment, I say."

  This brought a wide smile to Lars' mouth. He laughed softly.

  "Mr. Monday you are always in a hurry to kill, are you not? Rest assured that you will be given a chance to do just that very soon. However, I need your assessment. And I need to know why you insisted on remaining at the scene to wait on the cleaners."

  Jake shrugged.