Epilog: In Blackjack’s Office
John Hogan sat brooding behind his desk, sipping a cup of Belizean coffee. The rich flavor of the Gallon Jug Estate brew provided the only positive note in his bleak day.
The events of the recent past had left him feeling despondent and hollowed out – especially the death of Laila Armstrong. The horrific crash he’d witnessed was permanently seared into his mind, the stuff of life-long nightmares.
Dammit, I should have protected her somehow!
But what could he have done? He couldn’t force her to take his advice. Still ... He massaged his eyeballs with weary finger tips.
Admit it, you were in love with her.
Yes, maybe a little – a lot, actually. He’d even dared hope that he might have a chance with her, despite the age difference. Hell, he was a year younger than Frank, wasn’t he?
But that was all over now. His dreary bachelor’s existence would just have to continue. Look at the bright side – he had plenty of money, just no one to spend it on.
A gnawing sense of injustice tormented him. It simply wasn’t right that Patricia and Henry Armstrong would be cashing in on their father’s estate. Frank Armstrong had been a man of character who’d earned his place in the world, while those two were completely undeserving. And they’d both been enemies of Laila; he could never forgive them for that.
Imagine, Laila’s worthless father had come out of the woodwork to demand a piece of the pie. Good luck with that, pal! Henry Armstrong could handle the creep. Hogan was washing his hands as far as the personal estate was concerned.
The business empire was another matter. Various factions were vying for power and soliciting his aid. The smart move was to throw in with Patricia Armstrong, but he’d rather be put against a wall and shot than help her. So, which of the various sharks should he swim with? Only one answer made any sense:
I’m getting too old for this. It’s time to retire.
He took another sip of coffee. Frank Armstrong had turned him on to this brand originally, presenting a souvenir bag from the fishing trip he’d taken to Belize. It wasn’t imported to the US then; so, when the bag ran out, Hogan booked a vacation to Belize to purchase more and to check out the country for himself.
He’d fallen in love with the place and bought a huge lot on Corozal Bay for a retirement home. He glanced longingly at the photo of his property on his wall. It was time to get down there and begin construction.
His secretary stuck her head in the door.
“Mrs. McIntyre is here to see you.”
“Please send her in,” Hogan said.
Ilsa assumed her Carlita Blade persona as she walked across the reception area into John Hogan’s office. A passage from the, as yet untitled, sequel to Lawn of Death played through her mind:
She entered the prosecuting attorney’s office, head proudly erect, wondering if he would also be erect upon seeing her again after all this time.
She glanced around furtively, everything seemed just the same – the thin blue carpet, the pictures and law degrees on the walls ...
“Good to see you again, Ilsa,” Hogan said, getting to his feet.
“The pleasure is all mine,” Ilsa said, taking the offered hand.
“Please sit down,” Hogan said. “Would you like some coffee ... no, tea, right? With a touch of sugar.”
“Ah, you remembered!” Ilsa said. “Yes, tea would be fine, thank you.”
Hogan requested tea from his secretary, and Ilsa made herself comfortable in the big leather visitor’s chair.
She’d always felt comfortable here. John Hogan had been her personal attorney during the awful period after Alfred’s death. He’d protected her financial interests and made sure that she got everything she was entitled to from her late husband’s estate. He’d also recommended the criminal lawyer who had defended her so ably during the murder trial.
Yes, he was a good man. She should have retained him over the years, but she’d wanted to start a whole new life after the trial and had abandoned her old friends and associates.
She looks as tough and bitter as ever, Hogan thought.
Still, he rather liked her for some reason. Maybe it was because he’d been acquainted with her late husband and knew what a complete bastard the guy was. He knew that Alfred McIntyre was under investigation for statutory rape when he hanged himself.
Hogan had always believed this was the motivation for the suicide, but the thought that Ilsa may have bumped him off was intriguing. Who could say? In any event, criminal law was not his bailiwick.
A tray arrived with a little pot of hot tea, sugar and a dainty china cup.
“This looks familiar,” Ilsa said, hefting the cup.
“It was quite a surprise seeing you at the funeral home last week,” Hogan said.
“Yes, the poor dear,” Ilsa said. “Mrs. Armstrong was a kind of a ... protégé of mine, in a manner of speaking.”
“Oh?”
Ilsa let Mr. Hogan’s surprise hang in the air for a few seconds while she poured tea into the cup and added sugar.
“Actually, it’s her that I came to see you about,” she said.
Hogan sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers over his chest; his eyes narrowed to little slits.
“What is your interest in Laila Armstrong?” he asked.
“As I said, I regarded her as something of a protégé, even if I didn’t really know her.” Ilsa blew gently across the surface of the hot tea. “I’m certain you know what I’m referring to.”
What was she referring to, Hogan wondered; was she implying that Laila had plotted to get rid of Frank somehow? Had Ilsa really knocked off her own husband?
Ilsa followed Hogan’s gaze toward the pictures on the walls. Most of them were of tropical areas with palm trees, sparkling ocean, people enjoying themselves in the water. One photo in particular caught her eye – a large cleared space on the ocean front, right beside a canal. A mansion stood some distance away on the other side of the canal, and farther down the coast, another big house was under construction.
This was a swank development, obviously. The cleared space was waiting for another mansion to go up.
Mr. Hogan is planning to leave us soon, she thought. We must do something about that.
“I hate to see injustice prevail,” she said. “And, like you, I can’t stand those two Armstrong kids.”
Hogan did not reply. Where the hell was this leading?
“As you know, my late husband and Frank Armstrong were business associates,” Ilsa continued. “Because of that, I’ve learned a few things nobody else knows about.”
Logan dropped his hands to his desk top.
“I’ve also discovered a few interesting facts more recently – through independent means,” Ilsa continued. “Taken together, these things could have some bearing as to the future of the Armstrong business interests.”
“Like what?” Hogan asked.
Ilsa sipped the tea.
“Ah ... just the way I like it!” she enthused.
An ironic little smile crossed Hogan’s face. This was Ilsa’s way, all right, avoid a direct question and address it only when she felt ready. For her part, Ilsa decided it was time to play her trump card.
“Please forgive me, Mr. Hogan, I can be such a bore about these things.” She put down her tea cup. “But I just have to tell somebody.”
She began fumbling through her purse.
“As you know, I don’t have children myself,” she said, “but my niece and her children have always been very special to me.”
She withdrew a photograph and handed it to Blackjack. It showed three stunningly attractive people standing together: a beautiful, dark-haired woman; a handsome, athletic-looking teenaged boy; and an adorable little girl of around ten. The boy was holding a certificate and grinning from ear to ear.
“That’s Jason,” Ilsa said, indicating the boy. “He’s just been inducted into the National Honor Society; the little girl is Hailey, she’s smar
t as a whip, too; and that’s their mom with them.”
“Very nice,” Hogan said.
They looked like great kids, but it was the gorgeous woman who riveted Hogan’s attention, as Ilsa had intended.
“So ... what’s their mother’s name?” he asked.
“Michelle.” Ilsa paused for effect. “Imagine, only 35 and a widow.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, her husband died suddenly last year – of natural causes,” Ilsa said.
She watched carefully for Hogan’s reaction, saw an unmistakable flash of interest.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said.
“Yes, it was quite a blow,” Ilsa said, “but she’s moving on from it now. Some lucky man is going to snap her up before too long, I think.”
Hogan reluctantly returned the photo. Ilsa put it in back into her purse.
“So, would you like to hear more about what I’ve discovered?” she inquired.
Hogan glanced toward the wall with the photo of his Belizean property. The mansion he’d been visualizing on the water began to fade, then disappeared altogether. Maybe it wasn’t time to head out to pasture just yet.
“Yes, I would,” he said.
He leaned forward in his chair, listening intently while Ilsa spoke.
THE END
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Postscript
It was fun borrowing bits and pieces from various literary works for this manuscript. I am pleased to list them here:
A Christmas Carol, Charles Dickens
Heart of Darkness, Joseph Conrad
Gone with the Wind, Margaret Mitchell
Macbeth, William Shakespeare
The Quandt Street Assassin, Carlita Blade
Story of an Hour, Kate Chopin
Connect with the Author
I hope you enjoyed the story.
Please visit my website and blog at: “The B2”
Brian’s Other Books
Here are brief descriptions of my other adult books. They are available at all major online retailers in ebook format. To find the relevant links, please visit my website at “The B2”
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New Adult / Action-Adventure / War
DAS ROAD
A road novel with fascinating turns through exotic Asia, workaday America, and Iran caught up in revolution. Travel realms where anything is possible, wonderful, or horrible. And always on the road ahead, the mythical figure of Jon Glass who haunts the entire journey. A story imbued with meaning just below the level of articulating. A siren call to your wanderlust.
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Career Moves for Burnt Out Personifications
Santa, the Grim Reaper, and others scramble to find new careers and identities. Outrageous political and social satire. “A smorgasbord of paranoid ramblings ideally suited to today's sensibilities.”
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