Chapter 2: This Land Was Made for You and Me...

After Ethan Dalton’s wife had died, after his Senatorial appointment, after meeting and contracting with Logan Kelly, the two men gradually became friends. Then, even more gradually, they began talking about personal stuff. Not a lot of men did. Perhaps the age difference — nearly 30 years — made conversation easier.

Ethan said, “When Wendy passed, a couple of things changed. I’m pretty sure she would have approved of both.”

“Oh?”

“Madison didn’t say anything, not to me anyway, but she went full independent. Stopped asking for permission; hell, stopped asking for advice.”

Logan nodded; he knew this full well. Madison had set her sights on him and had taken him to bed the first night they were alone. And never tried to hide it from her father or anyone else. She was a high school senior by then, but had long had a crush on her father’s attorney.

“And the second thing?”

“I lost my enthusiasm for the family ranch. And Madison has shown no interest in running things. So, I’ll be looking for a buyer. No hurry, but it’s time to turn the page.”

“That’s a big step.”

“It is, but that’s not the change I’m talking about. Logan, I’m different now. Being in the Senate ... altered me. For better or worse, I’ve caught the bug. I like politics, as dirty and as messy as it is.”

“I hope that bug isn’t contagious.”

The 1896 Folk Victorian house was nestled in a stately corner of Pasadena. Neighbors respected each other’s privacy, while they still nodded and smiled in passing. It was a quiet area, long settled, with mature trees. The lawns and gardens were maintained by landscaping services.

Private uniformed patrols monitored the streets in irregular nightly patterns. And, for this one particular home, there were state-of-the-art surveillance and security systems.

The five-bedroom house, with cream-colored paint and dark green trim, blended easily into the neighborhood. Although inside, the three upstairs bedrooms had been converted into three large walk-in dressing rooms with clothes, costumes, uniforms, of every description. A salon’s worth of makeup and more wigs than most stores kept in stock.

Lacy Danube studied herself closely in the three-panel, full-length mirror. She stood, nude, on a square leather pad that added a couple of inches to her five-foot, nine-inch frame.

Lacy’s assistant — maid, masseuse, colorist, stylist, gofer, housekeeper, cook — stood patiently by, ready to assist with makeup, wardrobe, whatever was needed. Corrine MacDonald, a sullen-faced Black woman in her mid-20s, had already given Lacy a Brazilian touch-up and had meticulously shaved her legs.

Lacy reached for the dimmer switch that controlled the 120 small light bulbs that ringed the mirror. She twirled it to the right, to the highest setting. The harsh glare illuminated every pore, every minor blemish. There was no hiding from reality; it was like staring into full-beam headlights.

The two women studied the image in the mirror. Lacy Danube was 34, and could easily pass — with adroitly-applied makeup and the proper clothing — for 21 or 22. More often, she presented as a middle-aged woman in her 40s or 50s.

Thick blonde hair, cut in an asymmetrical shag. Green eyes with a slight epicanthic fold that, with the proper makeup, gave her a mildly East Asian look. Eyes that could flash anger, smolder with passion, or cut with indifference.

Sharp cheekbones, a full mouth with lush lips.

Perky breasts, a handful size — like large oranges. Nipped-in waist, tight butt, slender thighs. A body that could be weaponized at will.

Lacy turned to her left, looked over her right shoulder. Then turned right and nodded to herself.

“US Army, Corrine.”

“Rank?”

“Light colonel. Rose Patterson.”

Corrine returned with a sharply-creased Service Uniform on a hanger. She held it up for Lacy’s inspection.

Lacy ran her experienced eye over the rows of medals on the dark, olive drab coat. She was double-checking that they were in the prescribed order. The array ranged from the Army Commendation Medal and Good Conduct Medal through the Purple Heart, Distinguished Service Cross, and the Bronze Star.

The updated 2020 service uniform — modeled after World War II’s ‘pinks and greens’ — included a pair of light drab trousers, a khaki shirt, and brown leather oxfords. With options available for female soldiers.

Lacy said, “The pencil skirt and pumps instead.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Corrine helped Lacy step into frilly white panties, and fastened the lacy bra from behind. Then she carefully ran a lint brush over the precisely tailored uniform.

Lacy called for her driver, and Colonel Rose Patterson marched off — head held high, posture erect — without a word.

Corrine turned the mirror lights off and started tidying the dressing room. She wondered idly who the target was this time.

Corrine would never know, but her boss was mid-game in a complicated dance that involved pandemic forecasting, business-loss insurance, and a German reinsurance company supposedly working on a joint mitigation project with the Pentagon.

When Logan Kelly first learned that his only client, Ethan Dalton, was in trouble, serious trouble, he met with an old friend, and sometimes mentor, Constance Grayson.

She listened, as she always did, with full attention. Shook her head, “A killer is after Ethan? How Byzantine.”

“More like the Hatfields and McCoys. The Daltons and Citrons go back five generations.”

She wrote out a phone number, “Use a burner phone. This number is in Omaha and someone will answer — and they’ll state the date and month.”

“The response code?”

“Dead simple. Today is Tuesday. You simply say, ‘Wednesday is inconvenient’. Then wait for a callback.”

“How long?”

“Within an hour. She’s using the name Lacy Danube.”

The dance with Lacy Danube started when Logan dialed the number, and it was answered on the third ring, “May fourteenth.”

“Wednesday is inconvenient.”

Then he leaned back in the Motel 6 chair and waited for the return call.

Two weeks before Logan Kelly drove down to Sausalito to meet with Marie Guidry, he found himself in Brooklyn.

It was three minutes before 5 AM and he checked the address on Coney Island Avenue a second time. The signage was in Cyrillic, but the numbers matched. He briefly wondered if this Russian bathhouse in the heart of Brighton Beach was Lacy Danube’s regular spa. Then he smiled at the way his mind had wandered off course. Off course this would be a one-off for someone in the game. Someone as cautious as Lacy had to be.

He gave his assigned name to the attendant, a large woman in her 50s with a peasant’s build and a faint mustache.

“Willard Hopkins.”

She nodded and handed him a key without checking the ledger.

Logan entered the men’s locker room, and placed his wallet and burner phone in a numbered lockbox. He was the only one in the room. He stripped, hung his clothes in the locker with a matching number, wrapped a thick white towel around his waist and walked into the steam bath.

As promised, a woman was the only other occupant. He walked through the swirling mist, breaking into an instant sweat. She stood up and smiled, “I’ll show you mine...” And unwrapped the towel.

A magnificent creature, absolutely in her prime, Lacy did a slow turn, then looked at Logan. He nodded and tossed his towel on the wooden bench. And pivoted in a circle. Neither one was wearing a wire. Neither one bothered putting a towel back on. Both had openly appraised the other. She smiled, “My, aren’t we a couple of thoroughbreds.”

He stared at her and she gave him a full smile, one so infectious he felt it almost should be quarantined. She looked him up and down, and said, “For the first time in history, rich people are thin and poor folks are fat.”

“Huh.”

Even in the heat and moistness from the steam, Lacy gave off a faint scent — one that reminded Logan of an older woman from Greenwich, one he’d had a brief fling with. That scent, if it could be bottled, would have the marketing department working overtime. It could be branded as ‘Wealth’, or perhaps even ‘Old Money’.

They sat side by side and Lacy spoke first, “It’s $10,000 for the introduction. My partner will determine the investment level for the rest of the contract.”

“Tell me about the sanctuary city.”

“Fair enough. Constance Grayson trusts you.”

Lacy spoke in complete sentences, paused briefly to indicate paragraphs, and gave him a concise picture of Sausalito, Mississippi. And of the city attorney and police chief.

Logan smiled, “Our situation may be different from your previous arrangements.”

Lacy raised an eyebrow.

Logan mentioned a different sum of money. Completely different.

Lacy didn’t have any reaction to the comment; she just studied his face for several moments. Then stood up, walked toward the door, and flicked a wall switch down.

Logan smiled to himself — the con artist had turned off what was probably only the first recorder. She sat down beside him, and he covered his mouth, convinced that he was still being video-taped, possibly even live-streamed.

He whispered for about a minute and a half. Lacy stared straight ahead. She smiled to herself and murmured, “Blackmail. Diplomacy’s other name.”

Then she stood, covered her own mouth, bent down, and whispered, “We can do business. From my end, it’ll be poste restante — with no trace-back to me.”

Logan nodded; he would have been concerned if Lacy had been any less cautious.

She continued to whisper, “I’ll contact you through our mutual friend. Stay here for 15 minutes.”