Read Online The Starshine Connection by Buck Sanders - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Buck Sanders
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terminate an investigation—especially an investigation
that’s costing the taxpayers money, and
particularly
an investigation with elements of scandal. And we’ve got scandal in spades. We’ve got covered-up deaths, we’ve got government
officials’ names dredged through the cesspool, we’ve got sex, we’ve got violence… it wouldn’t be hard for Mr. X to kill off
the Starshine investigation if he wanted to.”
“Killing you off would be easier,” Winship said.
“I think so too, and I think
he
thinks so,” Slayton admitted. “I’m poking my nose into it, and getting rid of me would constitute a peachy warning shot across
the Department’s bow. I hate to say this, sir, but the government allows things a lot more corrupt than that little scenario
to pass unnoticed. My ass is on the line in terms of the investigation; the hope would be that the case would die along with
me. It probably would.”
“Not while I’m sitting in this chair,” said Winship, rising to the occasion.
“I hate to say this, too, sir, but if I was dead you’d most likely assign Brooks. And Brooks would not have been capable of
yielding the original lead to the Starshine delivery men in the first place.” There was a picture of Anna Drake burning away
in his brain, and the idea of Brooks trying to satisfy the woman was almost as funny as the picture of the trio of CIA gunsels
currently in traction.
“Alright, then,” Winship said, resigned to the job one way or the other. “Tell me about the ledger.”
Slayton’s Tarzanlike progression from balcony to balcony was simplified at almost the same time his arm muscles began to complain.
No amount of conditioning and exercise was ever equal to actual, in-the-field abuse.
He landed on a balcony whose windows were not curtained. The rooms within were dark and deserted, and at once Slayton saw
that this particular balcony appended to an unleased residence. At the prices tenancy probably commanded, it did not seem
unusual that there would be empty apartments; at the same time, this
was
Washington, and even the most outrageous rents were affordable in Congress terms.
He saw that he had ripped the armpits out of his leather jacket during his fight and flight, and tufts of the ski sweater
he wore protruded from the ruptured stitching. Inside his left interior pocket was the stolen ledger. Inside the right was
the wrap-up of lock picks and gimmicks he had used to enter the first townhouse.
The lock on the sliding glass door to the empty apartment was child’s play, and soon Slayton had left the night chill behind
in favor of the warm—though dead and unventilated—air inside.
Almost habitually, he checked the rooms—all empty and unfurnished. All that remained of the previous tenant was a black, push-button
telephone in the middle of the living room floor, its cord snaking off toward the far wall. It had a thick, gray cord, unlike
a normal residential phone, and no quick-release catches. Perhaps the previous user had run a business of some sort out of
the place. Or maybe the building was in charge of the phones. It was not significant.
What was significant was that when Slayton experimentally lifted the receiver, he got a dial tone.
In the dim light that filtered in through the glass doors, Slayton got his first close look at the ledger. It related to accounts
receivable, and the amounts listed in severe, black figures tallied with the payoff Anna Drake had handed over to the occupants
of the Trans-Am. It was not ironclad, but it was encouraging.
Listed in the front of the book were several phone numbers and notations, including an “emergency” number credited to someone
in Washington named Rutledge. There were also several names and numbers under the heading
Deliveries.
Slayton sat down, crossleggcd, by the phone, and ran down the first list. He got two no-answers, three irate sleepers wondering
which relative had just died, an
that’s costing the taxpayers money, and
particularly
an investigation with elements of scandal. And we’ve got scandal in spades. We’ve got covered-up deaths, we’ve got government
officials’ names dredged through the cesspool, we’ve got sex, we’ve got violence… it wouldn’t be hard for Mr. X to kill off
the Starshine investigation if he wanted to.”
“Killing you off would be easier,” Winship said.
“I think so too, and I think
he
thinks so,” Slayton admitted. “I’m poking my nose into it, and getting rid of me would constitute a peachy warning shot across
the Department’s bow. I hate to say this, sir, but the government allows things a lot more corrupt than that little scenario
to pass unnoticed. My ass is on the line in terms of the investigation; the hope would be that the case would die along with
me. It probably would.”
“Not while I’m sitting in this chair,” said Winship, rising to the occasion.
“I hate to say this, too, sir, but if I was dead you’d most likely assign Brooks. And Brooks would not have been capable of
yielding the original lead to the Starshine delivery men in the first place.” There was a picture of Anna Drake burning away
in his brain, and the idea of Brooks trying to satisfy the woman was almost as funny as the picture of the trio of CIA gunsels
currently in traction.
“Alright, then,” Winship said, resigned to the job one way or the other. “Tell me about the ledger.”
Slayton’s Tarzanlike progression from balcony to balcony was simplified at almost the same time his arm muscles began to complain.
No amount of conditioning and exercise was ever equal to actual, in-the-field abuse.
He landed on a balcony whose windows were not curtained. The rooms within were dark and deserted, and at once Slayton saw
that this particular balcony appended to an unleased residence. At the prices tenancy probably commanded, it did not seem
unusual that there would be empty apartments; at the same time, this
was
Washington, and even the most outrageous rents were affordable in Congress terms.
He saw that he had ripped the armpits out of his leather jacket during his fight and flight, and tufts of the ski sweater
he wore protruded from the ruptured stitching. Inside his left interior pocket was the stolen ledger. Inside the right was
the wrap-up of lock picks and gimmicks he had used to enter the first townhouse.
The lock on the sliding glass door to the empty apartment was child’s play, and soon Slayton had left the night chill behind
in favor of the warm—though dead and unventilated—air inside.
Almost habitually, he checked the rooms—all empty and unfurnished. All that remained of the previous tenant was a black, push-button
telephone in the middle of the living room floor, its cord snaking off toward the far wall. It had a thick, gray cord, unlike
a normal residential phone, and no quick-release catches. Perhaps the previous user had run a business of some sort out of
the place. Or maybe the building was in charge of the phones. It was not significant.
What was significant was that when Slayton experimentally lifted the receiver, he got a dial tone.
In the dim light that filtered in through the glass doors, Slayton got his first close look at the ledger. It related to accounts
receivable, and the amounts listed in severe, black figures tallied with the payoff Anna Drake had handed over to the occupants
of the Trans-Am. It was not ironclad, but it was encouraging.
Listed in the front of the book were several phone numbers and notations, including an “emergency” number credited to someone
in Washington named Rutledge. There were also several names and numbers under the heading
Deliveries.
Slayton sat down, crossleggcd, by the phone, and ran down the first list. He got two no-answers, three irate sleepers wondering
which relative had just died, an
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