The Reform Artists: A Legal Suspense, Spy Thriller (The Reform Artists Series Book 1) (15 page)

Dale raised an eyebrow.

“Free speech?”

“Oh, right,” he said, smiling.

“Before we leave,” Hannah said, reaching into his jacket pocket, “I’ve got a little birthday present for you.”

He withdrew a white envelope and passed it across the table to Dale. “It’s from me, Val...and your late granddad.”

“You shouldn’t have, Unc.”

“No, I shoulda. Happy Birthday!”

Dale opened the envelope. Inside he found a six-month Euro Rail Pass, which could be activated at any time, along with a Prepaid VISA card.

“I put forty-five hundred dollars on the card,” Hannah said. “That should cover a round trip flight from New York to Heathrow and still leave you with about thirty-three hundred dollars in kicking around money, to start with.”

Dale went slack jawed. “Unc, I-I can’t accept this.”

“Like Hell, you can’t! It’s the least I can do after inviting you out to lunch and then haranguing you for an hour.” Hannah smiled. “After all, the ‘no free lunch’ deal cuts both ways.”

Dale was fidgeting with the envelope and its contents. “Well, I—.”

“Listen, it came with a tamper-resistant, no-deposit, no-return policy. Did I mention that? And you’ve opened it.

“Here’s the deal, Dale. Go to Europe. Knock around for six months. See the world. Explore your options. When you come back, if you are still hell-bent on enlisting in the SEALS, I’ll give you my blessing...along with a letter of recommendation.”

Dale’s eyes lit up. “Really, Unc?”

“Really. No strings attached. It would be my pleasure. They certainly won’t find a better candidate than you.”

“That means a lot.”

“Go get ‘em, kid.”

They got up, retrieved their coats and headed for the front door. When they stepped through it, they could hear rain pelting the foyer’s roof.

Dale gave his great uncle a final hug. “I still can’t believe this,” he said.

“You deserve it,” Hannah said. “Remember, you come from a long, continuous line of exceptional people. You’re just the latest one.”

Dale flashed a white, toothy smile at his uncle. “I’ll think about what you said, Unc.” Then, he flipped on his slicker’s hood, turned and stepped out into the pouring rain.

“I sure hope so,” Hannah said.

Tony Sands Jr. sat in the waiting area of Dr. Harold Merritt’s Silver Spring, Maryland, dental office, nervously tapping his fingers on the wooden arms of his seat. He was excited, agitated, even slightly terrified, after having received ‘the call’ at ten o’clock that morning.

“Dr. Merritt has cleared a half hour, this afternoon, to see you about your toothache,” the office manager had said.

Sands didn’t have a toothache. “What time?” he had asked.

“He can squeeze you in at the end of the day today: four-thirty sharp?”

“I’ll be there.”

And now, there he was, on a seemingly ordinary Thursday afternoon, waiting for his first assignment. It had been so long in coming—more than three years since they had helped him out with his divorce—that Sands had almost completely forgotten about the “tag,” as he called it, that they had slipped under the skin of his right forearm.

Now he wondered what it was that they would ask him to do? He had never really thought about it before. He hoped he would be up to the challenge.

From across the room, the young receptionist stared, wide-eyed, at him. He smiled at her, but when her steely expression remained unchanged, he realized she was fixated on his exposed, and bulging, left biceps, where the tattoo of a bloody knife tip was exposed beneath his rolled up shirt sleeve.

He quickly unrolled the sleeves on both sides of his shirt and buttoned them. Then, he flashed a sheepish grin in her direction and shrugged apologetically. She blushed and immediately turned her eyes downward. Once more, he made a mental note to get that tattoo removed. It had become a permanent and increasingly awkward reminder of his brief, teenage involvement in a neighborhood street gang.

“Mr. Sands?” a young dental hygienist said, as she poked her mane of sandy blonde hair into the reception area and then opened the hall door wider. She appeared to be in her mid-twenties, had a pleasant smile and a trim, full figure that was surprisingly well-accentuated by her dental uniform: a floral patterned shirt and solid purple pants above a pair of white leather nurse’s shoes.

Sands stood up and walked over.

“Dr. Merritt will see you now,” she said. “Follow me.”

Sands walked down the hall several steps behind her, smelling the typical dental office aroma: toothpaste accented by just the slightest hint of burned, drilled enamel. As he walked he wondered about who came up with the patterns and color schemes dental hygienists wore.
Is there any point, or reason, to it?

They passed several closed doors on either side of the hall, then a room where another dental hygienist was busy bending over a seated patient, cleaning his teeth.

His guide stopped just ahead of him and opened a door on the left, gesturing for him to come inside. “Please, have a seat in the dental chair and make yourself comfortable,” she said. “Dr. Merritt will join you in just a moment.” Then, she smiled and left.

It had been in another room just like this one, three years earlier, that Sands had met Dr. Merritt for the first time. That was when he had learned the scant details Dr. Merritt had been authorized to tell him about the shadowy, underground group that was then offering to help him in his divorce case.

Sands remembered that he had felt sick to his stomach with dread and had wanted to bolt. The thought of putting his fate in the hands of a group of total strangers would have been hard enough under any circumstances. But these guys? They seemed to be a paramilitary, covert fifth column of some sort. The fact that he actually had shown up for his appointment underscored just how desperate and scared he was.

Back then, he had had every reason to be desperate. Sands had returned home to an empty, gutted apartment after a weekend fishing trip with his dad.

Renée had moved out, taking their six-month-old daughter and everything else with her. She not only took all the furniture, she took every scrap of paper and most of his belongings—even his socks.
Well,
he thought, correcting himself,
Renée hadn’t taken
every
scrap of paper. She did leave a large manila envelope (on the hardwood floor, next to the phone) filled with every unpaid bill she could find...after she had first called around to all the companies and had them take her name off the accounts.

Later, he learned that she also had cleaned out all of their checking and savings accounts—to the tune of nearly $18,000.

Still later, he got the other bad financial news: He discovered that Renée had filed her tax returns as a
single head of household
(which wasn’t even accurate) instead of filing jointly with him, as had been their custom. (They always had taken zero exemptions on Renée’s marketing executive’s salary, in order to cover her withholding taxes and his quarterly estimated taxes as a self-employed barbershop owner. Then, they had lived off his income.

As a result, Renée had a huge tax refund coming her way, while Sands was left holding-the-bag—a conspicuously empty one—for his entire tax bill, plus interest and penalties.

Renée’s thievery eventually drove Sands into bankruptcy, but that wasn’t what really devastated him.

What stung the most were the child molestation charges Renée had made against him. She filed the papers immediately before disappearing to St. Kitts for several days of rehabilitative sun worshipping. Renée had accused him, specifically, of fondling their infant daughter. The charges were civil, not criminal, but she had made them without a shred of supporting evidence.

Sands recalled asking his attorney why Renée would do such a thing, and the attorney had looked at him, briefly, as if he had two heads.

“Well, if you didn’t do it—” the attorney had said feebly, as Sands glared at him, “then to get total custody of your daughter. With full custody, she could take your daughter across country—or around the world, for that matter—without ever having to notify you.”

Thanks to Dr. Merritt and company, Renée’s plan backfired and Sands got joint custody of Samantha, his pride and joy! (Renée never had to pay back a cent of what she stole, but Sands considered it to be a bargain, because he had salvaged his reputation, kept his daughter in his life
and
had rid himself of Renée—all at the same time!)

Sands heard a light rapping on the door and turned around just in time to see Dr. Merritt step inside. He looked the same as he remembered him: short with curly gray hair, butterscotch, tanning-bed complexion and a jovial, yet humble, countenance.

Dr. Merritt was in his mid-forties and seemed to slump a little, when he walked, which Sands attributed to days spent bending over dental patients.

“Hi, Tony,” he said, smiling.

“Doc, so you finally missed me?”

“Hardly,” Dr. Merritt grinned. “But someone else clearly did. I’d love to reminisce with you, but we just don’t have time.”

“Don’t sweat it, Doc.”

Dr. Merritt walked over to one of the credenzas with dental models on top and gestured for Sands to join him. He opened a drawer and took out a plain, manila envelope.

“What’s my assignment?”

“Shhh!” Dr. Merritt raised a finger to his lips and frowned. Then, he flipped a switch and the sound of a whirring dental drill filled the room. “Better safe than sorry.”

Dr. Merritt pulled a sheet of paper out of the envelope. It contained a diagram of a side view of a man’s neck. “We have an intriguing assignment for you, which will require precision and skill with your hands.”

“Using a scissors?” Sands asked, pretending to snip at imaginary hair.

“No,” Dr. Merritt said, opening the credenza drawer. He withdrew a beige plastic box and slid the lid open. Inside, embedded in foam, were a plastic-tipped syringe, a vial containing a clear liquid, and some form of tiny aerosol pump. He removed the syringe. “Using this.”

“What’s the liquid?” Sands asked, as he felt that familiar queasy feeling overtaking him again.

“A psychotropic solution designed to heighten the power of mental suggestions.”

“Oh, you mean something like liquid LSD, then?”

Dr. Merritt shrugged noncommittally.

“Anything else?”

“Yes, a tiny Nano-sized navigational device and neural implant that will enter the body with the fluid.”

“Neural implant?” Sands asked, surprised. “Neural, as in ‘brain’? You want me to mess with someone’s brain?”

“Yeah,” Dr. Merritt said.

“Whose?”

“I’m going to tell you, but does it really matter?” Dr. Merritt asked. “It’s someone who’s playing a role in a divorce-related hearing, not unlike yours. Remember?”

Sands thought about his case. “Look, I want to help and all, but I’m not crazy. I want to know just how much shit I’m getting myself into, before I commit.”

“You should have thought about that before you accepted our help, Tony. You’re already committed.”

“All the same,” Sands said, folding his arms and staring at Dr. Merritt intently, “who’s the target?”

Dr. Merritt paused. Sands thought he saw him stiffen and grow tense, but that might just have been his imagination.

“Well, of course, you need know who we’re targeting. The target’s the most critical part of the whole assignment. It’s also non-negotiable, understand?”

Sands nodded.

“Your target is a Montgomery County District Court judge.”

“A what?!” Sands’ eyes registered shock and rage.
“Do you know how much trouble I could get into if this little plan of yours backfires?”

Dr. Merritt looked at Sands, then down at the floor. He shook his head and shrugged. “Can’t be helped.”

Before Dr. Merritt knew what hit him, Sands grabbed the needle out of his left hand and wrapped his right arm tightly around the startled dentist’s neck and jaw in a headlock. Then, he pressed the blunt end of the needle against Dr. Merritt’s exposed neck.

“Careful with that,” Dr. Merritt rasped.

“Careful? Like your plans for me? You want me to fuck with a sitting judge’s brain, with
this
,” he said, pressing the blunt end of the needle into Dr. Merritt’s flesh for emphasis. “Why not just strap one of those ‘suicide bombs’ to my chest?”

“No other way,” Dr. Merritt gasped. “You have access...through your dad.”

“Oh, no!” Sands said, further tightening his grip. “I’m not dragging Pops into this, or harming his friend.” He pressed the syringe handle even tighter against the dentist’s neck. “You can forget it!”

“Didn’t complain when we...did it...for you.”

“What?” Sands continued the headlock, but stopped pressing the syringe against Merritt’s throat. “For me? Is that what you said?”

“Yes!” Dr. Merritt hissed. “Now, let me go!”

Sands hesitated for a moment, letting the information sink in.

“Now!” Merritt ordered.

Sands released his grip and Merritt pushed him away. He rubbed his neck and scowled at Sands. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”

“I- I didn’t—”

“Right. You didn’t. You didn’t know! You’re not supposed to know.” Then, he saw that Sands was holding the syringe backwards. “At least you didn’t contaminate our only syringe.”

“No, I—”

“Forget it,” Dr. Merritt said, rubbing his neck and shaking his head in disgust. “We’re running out of time, and I need to tell you what you have to do.”

Dr. Merritt stared intently at Sands. “Are you going to honor your commitment, or not?”

Sands just stood there with a blank look on his face.

“So, that’s how it is? Merritt asked. “All right, I’m going to tell you something that should make this more palatable for you. I want to assure you that the Nano probe you will inject into Judge Farnsworth’s bloodstream is a molecular-sized, temporary-acting, non-lethal device.

“I cannot go into further detail, because the technology is classified and, quite frankly, I don’t understand it all. But the judge should be in no real physical danger—aside from the effects associated with having a very bad dream.”

Sands shrugged. “Well, that’s good to know,” he said. “Sorry about your neck, Doc.”

“Forget it.”

Dr. Merritt quickly became all business once more. “The good news, Tony, is that you know how to react decisively, in a crisis, and you are good with your hands.”

Sands made a feeble attempt at a smile.

“That could prove helpful, if something were to go wrong. But don’t let it. This isn’t rocket science.

“You’re going to take your father’s place this Friday, when he normally goes to court and cuts Judge Farnsworth’s hair in his chambers.”

“How am I supposed to do that?”

Dr. Merritt again opened the drawer. This time, he withdrew a plain number-ten envelope. “You’re going to give your dad an early birthday present: a one-day, chartered-fishing-trip-for-two, on the Chesapeake Bay. He goes with a friend and you cover for him at the shop.”

Sands nodded. He opened the envelope and pulled out a brochure containing the tickets. “Captain Sculley’s Charters,” he said. “That’s a first-class operation. He’ll love it, but he’ll wonder where I found the money.”