Initials

INITIALS

Michael Carsagian gave himself the once-over in the mirror. Appropriate for a confrontation? He shrugged.

He hadn’t worn the blue blazer since the office Christmas party, but it went well with his beige chinos and his white button-down shirt. His tan set off his blue eyes and blonde hair. Small lines were starting to show under his eyes, and a faint trace of puppet creases had begun to frame his smile. He didn’t notice or care.

It was now or never for the newspaperman. He had the proof, or rather evidence that pointed to the murderer. All he had to do was prove his case. That’s all, huh! All he was really holding was circumstantial. Scribbles on a couple sheets of paper. A set of initials, P. M. In crayon, no less!

But in his gut he knew he was right and the guilty party was right now sitting around the conference table. He touched the second cell phone in his jacket pocket for reassurance.

"Game time," he said to the mirror, and set off.

* * *

The twice-daily meetings of the island Government emergency group over the week had gradually bonded the participants into a congenial familiarity. It had also subconsciously morphed the group into a democracy. Sarah

Flemming, as Prime Minister, had the final say, but more and more, the ideas were put to a straw vote, with the PM usually going with the consensus.

Earlier this morning, they had agreed to accept Joshua Broadbent’s death as a tragic accident, an innocent victim caught in between two jealous love rivals. Police Chief Alonzo Bennett had doubts but remained silent.

Now, it was Paul Miller who had the floor. The leader of the Collective Business Council wasted no time. He loved the spotlight.

"Sarah, I have a proposal to present."

The rotund business leader stood up, red-faced, the buttons of his jacket straining at the middle.

"I think we all agree that Bambi’s brilliant idea of exploring the love triangle angle has played out beautifully. The optics for us look good. The Express has expanded the story and explored some interesting angles."

Pamela ‘Bambi’ Moss, Chief of Staff, acknowledged the compliment with a nod. She was delighted.

Miller smiled and continued his pitch. "I think we should build on that."

Chief Bennett’s expression tightened, but he remained silent. Sarah asked, "What do you have in mind, Paul?"

"Marcus Groves of The Express suggested an in-depth interview with Clorise Johnson. She said she heard it all from the adjoining suite. How Broadbent tried to protect her, pleaded for both their lives.

“I think that would lay to rest this conspiracy sex-ring theory. She is willing to describe in detail her relationship with both Ministers Brown and Vanhoven. They hated each other.

"Ministers involved in sex trafficking would bring down the present government. A love triangle scandal would soon blow over, if handled properly.”

Nods all around, except from Bennett who asked, "And she’s willing to come forward? When my men spoke to her, she said it was a one-off with Vanhoven and a mild flirtation with Brown. What changed her mind?"

Miller smiled. "Twenty-five thousand dollars."

Everyone turned toward the CBC executive but Bennett kept the floor. "You’re telling me that rag is going to pay twenty-five thousand dollars for a salacious piece of crap?"

"Al, all of us in this room want this nightmare to go away. Look at the realities. Two ministers supposedly involved in a despicable sex ring are dead. The third is soon to be neutralized. Their wicked activity has been shut down by fine police work. Let’s all of us get back to the real business at hand: making St. Gregory the number one destination in the Caribbean." He looked around the group, his expression expecting applause. He settled for smiles, except from Bennett.

"Getting back to the twenty-five thousand," Bennett continued. "As far as I am aware, The Express is on the verge of filing for bankruptcy."

Miller's face shone a shade redder but he recovered quickly. "The CBC Executive Committee voted at my suggestion to extend a line of credit to the paper. All of us believe it is an investment that will produce a satisfactory return in the long term. It will let us move on from this glitch."

The room went silent. Then Bambi spoke. "Paul, your idea is sound, but your sensitivity needs some fine-tuning. Our Prime Minister lost a brother to an ignominious death. Hardly a glitch."

Miller didn't flinch. He looked directly at Sarah. "With all due respect, Madam Prime Minister, let us move on. We should mourn for our loved ones while making this island a better place for those still with us."

The subtext of Miller’s pontification was evident to most around the table. Councilman Teddy Hilfier wrote Watch Out on his pad and underlined it with two vicious strokes that broke the pencil point. Jo Clarke, Fleming’s P.R. advisor, jotted: Minister material? Arrange a meeting.

Sarah Flemming went silent for a moment, assessing her options. To her, this seemed like a win-win. The CBC paying to help bail her out; this mess would disappear after a news cycle or two and she would deal with the quid pro quo she knew would come later. Aso she was well aware of Miller’s potential threat. With CBC support and money behind him, he could present a serious challenge to her leadership. Better inside the tent, she thought. Tourism Minister, possibly. I could keep control of him then.

Flemming said, "My opinion is that we should support this proposal. I am aware, Paul, that you do not need our permission, but -"

Sarah stopped, interrupted by a commotion outside, and then by Michael Carsagian’s sudden appearance as he flung open the double doors to the conference room. His press pass had gotten him to the third floor. With Bambi in the meeting, his only barrier had been Carol Haise, the appointment secretary, who was barely out of her chair and yelling before Michael sprinted by.

All eyes turned toward the reporter. Finally, Miller spoke up. "This is a private meeting, Carsagian. You have no business here."

"Well, Paul, if you’re planning a cover-up, you are absolutely right. However, if you want the truth, I’m your man."

That stunned the meeting. Bennett said, "Michael, if you have new information, let us meet outside this meeting to review what you have."

Michael had lost faith in the policeman. In the reporter’s view, he’d gone over to the dark side; a Justice Ministerial post loomed large in his future. Possibly a springboard to higher things?

"Chief, a week ago, I might have taken a chance with you. But those were the good old days. Time now for some transparency. Here!" He removed the folded brown envelope from his jacket pocket and flung it down the table until it slid in front of Flemming. "Madam Prime Minister, if you’ll please do the honors."

Flemming stared at the envelope, transfixed. Slowly, she reached across and removed the contents. A confused expression flooded her face. "It’s gibberish. Crayon drawings."

"Humor me," Michael insisted. “They’re telephone records.”

She relented and everyone leaned forward for a closer look.

"Prime Minister, please place the pages in the order they are numbered: pages 234, 235, and 236."

Flemming looked at Bennett. "Chief Bennett, can’t you do something?"

Bennett remained silent, stunned by Carsagian’s denouncement, transfixed by what he saw. He turned toward Flemming. "Madam Prime Minister, "Let’s hear what he has to say.”

Flemming just shook her head slowly and arranged the pages as instructed.

Michael moved closer. "Ladies and gentlemen, what you are seeing is the deceased Josha Broaadbent’s diagram of when this despicable cabal started, and how, and where it began. He was going to use it to get out of the abyss he found himself in It was his insurance policy he sent to me the day he was murdered."

The three pages were linked by red lines that emanated from a large circle around a telephone call on January 10th on the middle page.

"You can see that Broadbent repeatedly circled the January 10th date. According to the note attached to these pages, this was when he received a phone call at 10:00 p.m. and noted it with very disturbed handwriting. He was using crayon so as not to tear the pages but could not conceal his anger. He wrote in his accompanying letter, and I quote: 'This was when I began my descent into Hell!'"

"As you can also see, there are two lines that lead from the same telephone number to calls, also at 10:00 p.m., the day before to Minister Cyrus Vanhoven and a day later to Minister Maurice Brown. All emanating from the same 771 number, which I believe is from your office, Prime Minister."

"You can all see Broadbent printed the letters P.M. for each of these calls. He underlined them and added exclamation points. P.M.!, P.M.!, and P.M! three times for the three calls that either threatened, bribed, or cajoled Broadbent, Vanhoven, and Brown into this obscene union and eventually led to his death."

Sarah Flemming stared closely at the pages. She ran her finger over the red circle; touched the initials then drew her hand back as if the letters were on fire. A horrific expression flooded her face. She sank back in her chair. She understood in an instant the betrayal before her. She stared down toward the far end of the table. The room was dead silent.

Paul Miller spoke up in a strained voice. "Where did you get these, Carsagian? They look like something a child might do. It’s rubbish. No proof of anything!”

"From a dead man who thought he had escaped," Michael replied.

"You have no proof of their authenticity," Miller argued.

Michael reached into his jacket pocket, looked down, and pressed a return call number on a cell phone. “This was Joshua Broadbent’s mobile. The one on which he received his instructions.”

The ringing sound echoed loudly in the suddenly dead-silent room. No one moved. No one blinked. Then Sarah Flemming asked in a low, strained voice, barely above a whisper, "Why, Bambi? Why?"

Pamela Moss stood up abruptly, her chair tumbling to the floor behind her. She silenced the phone and flung it on the table. Smirking, she looked defiantly around the room. "Because I could. I am smarter than all you fools,” she swept the room with her hand, “and most of all because he was a shit. A defiler. He gave me syphilis and I miscarried his baby. I almost died when I was treated in Miami."

Her tone grew more bitter with every word. "Two months recovering and not a word. Then I come back here and what does that whining shit of a man tell me? 'Sorry, Bambi, I thought you could change me. I love him. Truly I do.' He made me sick, Sarah. That was the piece of shit you called your brother."

No one said a word as Bambi’s vitriol poured out.

"He was pathetic. Begging for his life. Wonderful. I loved every moment of it."

She turned toward Michael, shouting now. "And you! You, prying shit of a man. You wouldn’t stop your nosing around. You miserable, prying shit of a man!"

She reached down, grabbed the glass water carafe from the table, and smashed it against Michael’s face.

"There!" She smiled. "That felt good!"

***

Michael’s face was on fire. The bandages that were smothering him seemed glued on with chili paste. Antiseptic gauze and adhesive, the nurse reassured him. At least his eyes and mouth were free; he could see, eat and, more importantly, yell his bloody head off about the garbage he was reading in, of all places, The Journal, his newspaper.

"What the fuck, Greer!"

His editor was as incensed as he was. "Listen, pal,” she said, ‘I spent most of yesterday, right up to press time, arguing first with that press bimbo in the PM’s office, then someone from Bennett’s office, and finally with the Dutchman himself. Believe me, I fought your side. But in the end, I was outnumbered. And, just to point out one small detail, the man does own the paper."

"Yes, but you could have tried -"

"And as you saw, I buried the love angle under as much crap detail as I could."

Michael relented, knowing she felt as strongly as he did about finding and presenting the truth.

"I’m sorry I yelled. It’s just that -"

"Yeah, I know. It stinks! It’s not the truth. It’s so far from the gold standard in journalism we both strive for, it makes you sick. ‘

"What’s happening to Bambi Moss?"

"Packed off quietly to the booby-hatch in Curacao. We won’t see her again. She was slowly flipping out because of the advanced stages of neurosyphilis, premature but complicated by her pregnancy. I looked it up. Delusions of grandeur, loss of impulse control. Obviously, it was never treated properly."

"What is Flemming saying?"

"Tragic loss of a great friend... bullshit, bullshit. Then, in a separate press conference Sarah announced the formation of a police actions review board chaired by Teddy Hilfiger and the appointment of Paul Miller as Minister of Tourism pro tem. He is expected to run for office next year on Sarah’s ticket."

"And her brother’s death?"

"From her, not a word. Bennett said the investigation is still ongoing."

Michael took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "All tied up in a nice, neat bow."

Greer nodded. "Looks that way."

They were both silent for quite a while, lost in their own thoughts. Michael looked away towards the window, then back again to Davis. His expression was a combination of acceptance and defiance.

"You know, they’re shipping me over to Miami for plastic surgery in a couple of days. I’ll be there a month at least. Why don’t you take some time off and come visit?"

"And do what?" His occasional paramour asked.

"We’ll think of something. We always do.” Michael paused then added, “ You still have contacts over there?"

Greer looked at him, a slow, knowing smile spreading across her face. "All kinds."

"Good." Michael nodded.