The Imperial Connection

The Imperial Connection

A Mike and Andy Suspense Thriller

By

Edward and Anne Charles

Edition 2

10/17/2014

SMASHWORDS EDITION

Copyright 2014 Edward and Anne Charles

ISBN 978-1476468235

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictiously. Any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the US Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the author.

www.EdwardAnne.com

Email: edwardannecharles@gmail.com

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Author’s Note:

The Connection Trilogy begins with The Imperial Connection. All three novels are mystery/suspense thrillers, but they are more than that. There’s s a love story that begins in The Imperial Connection and develops in the following two novels, Well Bred Connections and Hidden Connections. The love between the two main characters, Mike and Andy deepens and matures as the novels progress. Don’t get us wrong, love is only the sub-plot. Action, mystery and adventure rule.

This second edition however has been altered. The first edition contained explicit romance scenes between Mike and Andy that some readers thought took away from the story line. As authors, we felt differently. We wanted to make the love scenes as intense as the action scenes. After all, two new-found lovers so close to death would naturally approach love aggressively. In war stories, for example doesn’t the reader expect lovers to be desperate and carnal? Who knows, they could be dead tomorrow.

Regardless, we’ve removed the explicit love scenes. The love and romance is still alive and well in this edition of The Imperial Connection but it’s up to your imagination to fill in the blanks.

For any of our readers desiring the original edition we’ll send you a free copy by emailing us at: edwardannecharles@gmail.com. We will send you a PDF version.

Either way, we thank you for reading The Imperial Connection.

Edward and Anne Charles

Chapter 1

Monday, January 9th

Shit, Dad, it’s late. Time to call it a night. Mike and his dad were sitting at the bar.

Son, you know I’ve been coming to ‘Duffy’s’ here in Alsip for more than thirty years. Don’t tell me when it’s time to go home. He waved at the bartender. Luigi, gimme and Mike another round.

Mike Foley loved his dad, and he worried about him. Almost forty years of Mom caring for this crazy south side Chicago cop, washing, cleaning, making sure his meals were well prepared and on time, and now she’s dead. One day perfectly fine and the next day, Wham! A blocked artery to the brain and suddenly while preparing Dad’s dinner drops dead on the floor, cabbage burning as the water boiled out. Two hours later Dad finds mom lying there with the stench of burned cabbage permeating the house. Since that day, almost a year ago, the smell of corned beef and cabbage brings tears to Dads’ eyes. It was a nice funeral, complete with bagpipes, a great Irish wake with lots of Irish relatives and Italian in-laws. Even da Mayor stopped by to express his condolences.

Son, you gotta find some full time work. How you gonna survive?

Dad, I already told you, my twenty years in Air Force intelligence gave me a great pension and health benefits. Don’t worry about me, I’m okay!

Look, he said as he leafed through the Chicago Sun Times. What’s this all about, the twelve year old runaway who magically appeared on her parent’s steps Thanksgiving day?

What about it?

"What do you mean, what about it? I’m no stupid fuck, you little shit. Don’t you ever forget that I’m your old man, who by the way is a cop, and will always be able to kick your ass."

Ok, Dad. Yeah. I found Lorinda. Was her uncle who abducted the little twelve year old and wanted to be more than ‘uncle’ to her. Let’s just say that the rest of her Italian relations up in Cicero took Uncle Lono aside and reasoned with him.

Mike finished his drink and dragged Dad from ‘Duffy’s’ to his car. The cold, blowing snow sobered them up a bit. After depositing Pop in his three-flat he drove back home to the suburbs. Dodging all the damn drunks on Interstate 294 Mike finally reached the 290 extension and traffic eased. He lit a cigarette and rolled the window partway down, ‘Gotta get off these things someday,’ he thought, as the snow blew in through the crack.

The drinks combined with the lateness of the hour caused him to ruminate. ‘Damn it’s cold! What the hell am I doing here? Twenty years in the military. Now I’m out. Gave me nothing more than a pension and some health insurance. Shit! Living alone in Arlington Heights, no real job. Do I give a shit? I hate this snow!’ He rubbed the inside of his front window with his palm making him a hole for him to peer through.

Forty minutes later Mike Foley drove up to his two bedroom apartment, got out of his car, locked it and walked up the steps through four inches of snow. ‘I need some sleep,’ he thought. He entered his apartment, took off his coat and sat in the dark on the one easy chair in the living room. Mike fell asleep, his iPhone warning him of an email message.

About six the sun woke him up. He was in the same chair. Never made it to bed. On the plus side, somehow sleeping upright kept the nightmares at bay. Being a military man in intelligence, Mike knew about patterns. You’ve got to look for patterns, habits. That’s the way to find the bad guys. They always have patterns and connections. He also knew to be successful at pursuing them you had to avoid making your own patterns to keep from being detected. But screw it, there was one pattern Mike would not give up. He opened his eyes, got up, started the coffee pot and lit a smoke. While still nursing his first cup of coffee, half and half with two Splendas, he started the shower.

Mike Foley, 38, was about 6’1", 180 pounds, with dark hair, most of it still black with a little gray starting to show around the edges. He kept his hair trim and probably from all the years in the military was always clean shaven. He had handsome features, a muscular build with tight abs and had no problem attracting women, several of whom wanted to tie him up permanent like. Mike was not ready for that yet. As he looked at himself in the mirror he decided a workout in the gym was in order. It would help cure the hangover Dad deposited in his head last night. He squirted some Visine in his red eyes and jumped in the shower.

After the shower and a couple of bites to eat he grabbed his gear bag, checked to make sure all the stuff he needed was there and took off. On the way out he grabbed his iPhone and ear buds so he’d have music as he worked out on the machinery. It took twice as long as usual to get to the gym because the roads were still not properly plowed out from the storm. Radio said eight inches and another six tonight. He looked at himself in the rear view mirror. What the hell are you doing coming back to live in the Midwest? he told himself. The weather sucks. He was still cursing himself as he drove up to the health club and entered.

After a strenuous thirty minutes of cardio the hangover was pretty much over and he’d worked up a pretty good sweat. He decided to grab some tunes from his iPhone for the rest of the workout. That’s when he saw the email message from last night. Mike. Got something for u. Ck ur email at home. Vince

Vince and Mike went way back. Mike was a couple years older, but both had upped when they were seventeen, their parents having to give permission for them to join the Air Force. Mike got his commission by attending college while in the military. He and Vince first met in intelligence school and on and off had assignments together overseas, one of them being the Second Gulf War. Vince had another six months to go and was now stationed stateside. He passed through O’Hare several times a month and they’d often get together for drinks and talk about the good old days.

Mike finished his workout and was in the shower when it hit him, Vince emailed Mike’s phone to let him know he had a secure message on his home computer. FBI and CIA spooks were sensitive about security. He finished up, dressed and left the gym. On the way home he slid into the Jewel Food Store parking lot and got some provisions. Important ones. Scotch, white wine and some microwaveable dinners. Snow might keep him holed up for awhile.

That’s $34.65 Mr. Foley. Do you want to swipe your card? asked the check out girl with a smile.

Thanks, Lori. You gonna get home ok today? Snowing pretty bad.

I get off in a half hour. If my car won’t start you wanna come get me?

Lori, I’m kinda busy today, but you want me to call you later this week?

Sure.

How about Getsby’s Pub for dinner and drinks?

Sounds nice. Take care.

Bye.

Lori was always like that, a little flirt. They’d gone out a couple times, but no big deal. Mike thought the flirt was more to keep him coming back to the Jewel Food Store and out of its competitors’. She was right. And it did make him walk a little taller.

At his apartment the landlord was out plowing the sidewalk and steps to his apartment. He stopped him. Thanks, Pat. Any more snow on the way?

No more than three inches. They’ve backed off on the forecast.

Mike waved and stomped up the steps to the front door. His apartment was a hundred year old converted farmhouse in downtown Arlington Heights, a town of about seventy-five thousand. Mike had the first floor and really preferred living in a neighborhood to an apartment complex. He had lived in many of them and hated walking down the hall smelling that awful mix of curry and Mexican food. Nothin’ against them, but he preferred his cuisine- meat and potatoes, and turkey with all the trimmings on Thanksgiving.

He entered his apartment, took off his jacket and hung it over the large cast iron heating unit. After zapping the rest of the morning’s stale coffee he decided to check the email from Vince.

Hey major-

I saw this article and thought the resemblance to our missing buddy Sgt. Ricci was too close to call. Thought I’d pass it on to you.

Comin’ thru Chicago next month. I’ll call.

Vince

Mike read the article--

Homeless Rick - a Permanent Fixture

on Imperial Streets

By STAFF WRITER Janet Vasquez

Ask most anyone living in the small farming community of Imperial, California if they have seen the homeless vagrant known as ‘Homeless Rick,’ and you will get the same response: Yeah, we know Rick.

Rick has been a fixture around Imperial and its neighbor, El Centro, California for more than two years. You can see him most afternoons at the Circle K, just hanging or helping out by pumping gas or cleaning someone’s window.

Rick is harmless. Like many homeless people, Rick simply lives day to day asking for no more than that. If you were to talk to Rick you would find he is very intelligent and carries on a conversation well.

The unusual thing about Homeless Rick is he has no memories beyond two years ago when he arrived in Imperial –

Mike stopped reading the article and zoomed down to the photo of Rick. Rick’s hair was long, well over his shoulders and he had a full beard, but the eyes, nose and mouth had a strong resemblance to Staff Sergeant Leonardo Ricci. It was too hard to say yes or no. He scanned the rest of the article but found nothing else of real importance, just an article about the homeless in the community.

The phone rang. Mike, here. Hi Sally. Yeah. Yesterday I got all the info on that deadbeat ex of yours. He’s still in Illinois, in Joliet, working the third shift at Caterpillar Tractor. Got a minute? I’ll call you back in five.

Mike took to his computer and gathered all the necessary information he’d received the other day on Sally’s ex-husband, Jake. He copied his new Social Security number, address, employer, etc., and emailed it to Sally’s lawyer. Another deadbeat who would not again skip out on his responsibilities. Can’t just raise six kids and turn your back on them for some new piece of ass.

Sally, hi. Mike again. I took all the information and emailed it to your lawyer. It’s all he needs to file for a garnishment of wages. Make sure he does it ASAP.

He listened for a minute. Sally, yes I know the final bill is $2000.00. Look, send me $1000 now and when your ex begins payments again send me the rest. Best to your kids. Any other problems, call me. Bye.

Mike spent the next several hours working on his computer answering emails and looking over the various requests he’d received for investigative work- finding more deadbeat dads, looking for missing children, checking up on the Megan’s Law website for sex offenders, etc. He had enough work here to keep him busy, and he really wasn’t ready to join the CIA yet. Just name the date, the top Special Agent in Charge said, and you’re in. Not yet. Too many years working in Uncle Sam’s bureaucracy and too many years overseas. Not yet.

Before calling it quits Mike went back to Vince’s email. He found the newspaper, The Imperial Valley Daily, and went online. There he found the photographer’s page and discovered high resolution prints could be ordered for $2.50 each, so he ordered a ‘jpeg’ image of the photograph of Homeless Rick. Instead of waiting, he headed towards the kitchen for dinner while the photo downloaded. ‘Damn, look at all that snow. Must be gettin’ a foot by tomorrow,’ he thought as he looked out. Making his way to the fridge he pulled out a Tyson’s microwavable dinner, put it in the zapper, poured a tall scotch and water and made his way to the lounge chair and TV. After seeing a few minutes of the weather report he heard the magical ding announcing dinner, grabbed the hot container and brought it back to his easy chair. ‘This stuff fills me up,’ he thought, ‘but damn if I can tell whether it’s pork or turkey.’ He checked the label, had turkey tonight. Mike threw on a jacket and worked his way onto the front porch for a smoke. It was dark out and the snow laid a blanket over the landscape. With everything covered in sameness it reminded him of his days in the Saudi desert where everything all around looked the same.

And that made him think of Sergeant Ricci. ‘I Woulda been dead if it wasn’t for Ricci throwin’ himself down on me before the explosion. Poor kid, got tore up pretty bad.’ Finishing his smoke, Mike walked back in, went directly to his computer, found the jpeg photo he’d requested and printed it out on glossy paper. He grabbed the photo, fixed another drink and sat down in his sofa-chair. The photo, unlike the one in the article was high resolution and full of detail. Still, he was having a hard time placing the face of the homeless man to Ricci’s. He went to the file cabinet and returned with a jeweler’s loupe and started scanning the photo inch by inch, like he had done hundreds of times before in his past life in intelligence. He almost missed it. The homeless guy had hair everywhere and it was pretty well hidden, the scar over the right eye. ‘Sonnova bitch!’ thought Mike. ‘Ricci almost got his brains blown out that night.’ Mike remembered how Ricci threw his body over him to protect him, his CO, and then the blood pouring all over Mike from the shrapnel wound Ricci got to his head. He looked for another half hour at the photo then finally sat up and took a deep drink of his scotch. ‘Sonnova bitch. There’s no doubt. That’s Sergeant Ricci, Homeless Rick.’

Mike remembered back to that battle in the desert. Ricci was medevaced to Germany, in ICU for over three weeks, then shipped stateside for rehab for almost a year. He kept up with Ricci by emails, but Ricci had trouble remembering things. Ricci spent a lot of time trying to rewire his brain. When the Air Force was ready to release him, Mike found out about it. Under the circumstances his CO let him cycle stateside to arrange for the transfer of Ricci back to his parents. They lived in Ruidoso, south of Albuquerque.

The news was over, Jay Leno was into his monologue, probably 10:45 P.M. Mike grabbed another drink then consulted his iPhone. Found them, Mary and Leonardo Ricci, Sr. He figured it was an hour earlier there, so not too late to call.

Hello?

Mary, hi, it’s Major Foley. Mike, remember me?

Oh, Mike, yes! How could we ever forget you? How are you doing?

Well, I retired from the service about nine months ago. I’m in the Chicago area. Mom died last year and it’s been tough on Dad, so I decided to stick close to him for a while.

Oh, Mike, I’m so sorry, my condolences to you and your dad.

Thanks, Mary. I’m calling about Leon. Have you heard from him?

Mike, no, we haven’t. Same as when you called last year, there’s been no word from him at all. By the way, Mike, it was so wonderful to have you bring Leon back home. You didn’t have to do that. I wanna thank you for that.

Mrs. Ricci--

No, Mary.

Ok, Mary. Sergeant Ricci saved my life. I owe him. It was the least I could do. Mary, there’s something I want to talk you about, it’s about Ricci, but please, promise to be objective.

Mike, what is it?

Well, I don’t really know, not really sure, but there’s a remote chance I know where Leon is.

What? You think you found him? Mike, we’ve almost given him up for dead!

Mary, I almost didn’t call because I didn’t want you to get your hopes up.

Mike, that’s okay. Just tell me what you found.

Well, we uncovered a newspaper article from a small town in California, its way down by the border, in the desert. The article’s about the homeless, and in it there’s a photo that looks a lot like Leon. Do you have email?

Of course.

Ok, give me your email address and I’ll send it to you. Look it over and call me in the morning. But, please, don’t get your hopes too high.

I won’t. I’ve been around a long time and remember, I’m a doctor’s wife. I’m prepared for anything. Just send it to me.

You’ll get it in about five minutes. I’ll also include my email address, phone number and cell number. Call me in the morning, ok?

Okay. Oh, thank you Mike.

Goodnight Mary, give my best to Doctor Ricci.

Thanks, I will. Goodnight. And God bless.

‘Well, Mike, you did a great job of getting Ricci’s mom all excited for probably nothing,’ thought Mike. But at the same time he knew Ricci’s mom had a need to know. She could handle it either way.

Mike got onto his computer and sent everything he had to Mary Ricci. When finished, something jumped into his mind. He thought of his buddy, Major Kenneth Stilling, now doing work for Homeland Security. Stilling did TDY with the Brits on their face recognition technology after 9-11. The difference is Ken took that technology and brought it generations ahead of what they had. ‘Shit. Why didn’t I think of this sooner,’ thought Mike. He surfed around on the internet for about a half hour and finally found a group photo from about ten years ago with Ricci in it. The best he could do. He fired off that photo along with the photo of the homeless person asking Stilling if he could perform a match ASAP. ‘Right up Ken’s alley. He’ll get back to me right away.’

The next morning Mike was up early and after his routine of coffee and a smoke, took off to the gym. It was a good workout. On the way back he stopped for breakfast at his favorite local Greek restaurant. The Greeks owned all the restaurants in Chicago.

Just after arriving home Mrs. Ricci called.

Mike, here. Oh, hi, Mary. Just got in. What do you think?

Oh my God, Mike. We’re both convinced it’s Leon.

Good to know. Can you hang on a second while I put you on hold?

Sure, Mike.

Mike woke the up his computer and took a look in his email in-box. Sure enough there was a message from Ken Stilling.

Major, I don’t know what you’re up to but I can give you a 95% on recognition. Face size, nose, eyes, chin, mouth. Yep, that’s your man. Let me know if you need anything else. By the way, I used my program to remove the hair and crap from the photo you sent. It’s attached.

He double-clicked the file attachment and up popped Sergeant Ricci. The touched-up photo left no doubt.

He took Mary off hold. Mary, I’ve got some further proof for you. I had a, er, a friend of mine, an artist, re-work the homeless photo. Please, don’t ask me where it came from, but I’ll send it to you now.

Mike, do you know anyone down there who could confirm it’s our son? I’d go myself, but I can’t. Dr. Ricci had a stroke earlier this year and I can’t leave him. Otherwise we’d go.

Ah, Mary, I’m sorry. How’s he?

Partially paralyzed on his right side and he slurs his words a little, but he’s making good progress. You know, he retired from medical practice last year and we’re living down here in Ruidoso. We were at the quarter horse races when he had the stroke. Lucky for us because they got him to the hospital fast. Doctor’s think the recovery should be about eighty percent.

I don’t know anyone down there. Mike hesitated. But you know, my schedule’s not that full. I could go find him for you. Take a coupla days to clear things up here in Chicago, but I don’t mind.

Could you? Oh my God, Mike, how, how- Mike could hear the tears in her voice. He just left it there until she composed herself.

Mary, I owe Leon. He saved my life. Of course I’ll go.

Mike, you are so sweet. How much money do you need?

Uh, airfare and hotel, car rental, coupla days work. I’d say a thousand would do the trick.

You got it. I’ll Fed-X a check to you today. Gimme your address. Oh, Mike, thank you.

"Today’s Thursday. Probably can’t get out ‘til Saturday, Sunday, or the latest Monday. Mrs. Ricci, I’ll keep you informed and let you know not only when I find him, but also if it’s him."

Mike.

Yes, Mary.

Bring my son home.

Mike spent the rest of the day working on the projects at hand. By the end of the day he was confident he could spare a few days away. He called Dad.

Pop, Mike here.

I know it’s you, damnit. Dad always thought that was funny.

Pop, probably won’t be available for our Sunday night get together. Headin’ to California for a quick intel job.

Son, you know why California’s like a bowl of cereal?

Dad!

Well, when you take out the fruits and nuts all you’re left with is the flakes!

Shit, Dad, that’s an old one.

That’s all I could come up with on such short notice. Ok, son, have a good trip. Try not to get killed.

Bye, Dad. That was Dad, always telling tasteless and politically incorrect jokes.

The next morning before his workout Fed-X showed up. Mary sent him a check for $10,000 with a note. Mike, you underestimated. If you find Leon you will have to bring him home and besides it might take you more than a few days. Anything left over don’t worry about. Leon wants you to have it for all your kindness. Mary. What a classy family.

That evening Mike got online and found a nonstop from O’Hare to LAX with a morning departure. It connected with the only, once a day flight to the small town of Imperial, California, a prop jet that got in around 2:30 P.M. California time. The only flight he could get left Sunday. He made the reservation then rented a car online and got