The Gilded Sanctum Read online

  THE GILDED SANCTUM

  Keith Veverka

  Copyright © 2019 Keith Veverka

  All rights reserved.

  FOR TRACI

  Prologue

  Washington, D.C.

  Present Day

  Ryan Walker glanced one final time at the photograph on his smartphone as he entered the local mini-mart and heard the cowbell clang behind him. He busied himself at an aisle end cap displaying individually wrapped pastries and feigned interest in the nutritional information while watching a haggard man approach the counter. This man had attempted to run, attempted to hide, and attempted to escape from the inevitable, but now that Walker had found him, death was certain to follow.

  Edward Collins. Accountant. Formerly of Hellerman & Associates in downtown D.C., one of the more prominent accounting firms on the East Coast. The photo on Walker’s phone was a standard portrait from H&A — similar to any you’d find in the corporate world — with the subject neatly dressed in a suit and tie against a light blue background. With his perfectly sculpted hair and a matching smile, Collins appeared to be a rising star.

  The early middle-aged man was now a shadow of his former self. He was disheveled, his blonde hair tousled, and he moved at an awkward pace as he peeked around nervously like his head was on a swivel. The smile from the photo was gone, replaced by a sour tension that wrinkled his freshly-worn face. He wore expensive shoes and a fancy wool coat — a status symbol from another time — but inappropriate for the beautiful summer day, almost as if he was trying to disappear inside the oversized jacket. But there was no escaping from this. Collins had made a terrible mistake, and Walker was here to deliver the sentence.

  Because of the warm coat and the weighty burden of fear, sweat cascaded from Collin’s forehead, forcing him to push his wire-rim glasses back up onto his face, while struggling to carry the grocery bag in his arms as he exited the store and returned to his temporary home across the street. The dilapidated motel — built in the shape of a U around its parking lot — hadn’t been cared for in years, and the weeds growing out of the parking lot’s broken asphalt formed a root structure that snaked its way along the cracked and worn streets of this northern D.C. neighborhood. Urban renewal had yet to find its way to this section of the city, and it clearly wasn’t a place for designer shoes. Collins obviously didn’t belong here.

  It was indeed a long way from his upscale condominium in Tysons Corner, but once Collins came to the conclusion that his lies had been discovered and his life was in danger, this was his only choice. With one last nervous glance, he quickly opened the burnt orange-colored door and hurried into the motel room. Walker stared at the aging building from the opposite sidewalk, picturing the frightened man immediately dead-bolting the flimsy door, believing he was somewhat protected from the evils of the outside world, safe in his temporary sanctuary. Nothing could be further from the truth.

  Collins had succumbed to a typical human weakness and made the grave mistake of trading time for money. Many had done it before him with surprisingly similar results. Collins had forgotten that time was the one priceless commodity none of us could do without. He was blinded by a short-term investment, intrigued by the possibility of unimaginable wealth, but as people never quite seemed to understand in that moment of weakness, he wouldn’t be taking his money with him.

  Edward Collins had been a very good accountant, had worked for one of the most prestigious accounting firms in the country, and had enjoyed the opulent social class it provided. He gave everything to his company in those early years, working the insane hours required for a young executive to climb the corporate ladder, stepping off on the thirtieth floor into a corner office. Life had been good. For a time. When the Great Recession hit and the economy tanked, his firm made cutbacks, and he was one of them.

  However, Collins still had a family to care for, a wife accustomed to an affluent lifestyle. No one was hiring while the economy slowly recovered, so he entered into the employment of a very unsavory character: Lorenzo Arcuri. But Collins should have known better. Years earlier, his younger brother had worked for Arcuri as well, and after one of those jobs went bad, the younger Collins had been fished out of the Potomac with his throat slashed. Never able to hold down a steady job and in and out of Virginia’s state prison system, Collins’s brother had learned the hard way the downside of working for a criminal, especially one as relentless as Arcuri.

  Lorenzo Arcuri was the head of an organized crime family, tethered in Washington D.C., but with tentacles throughout the country. By any standard, not just criminal, Arcuri was ruthless and cunning — the latest in a long line of such leaders for this family, a vast extension of the Italian mafia. Known for his bold moves against his enemies and even bolder taunts against law enforcement, he was a force to be reckoned with. His criminal activities touched on so many industries, it was difficult to keep track — even for the FBI — and his business interests were as diversified as any legitimate or criminal enterprise could hope to be.

  Therefore, Arcuri needed accountants who could track, bury, and clean all of the money which flowed from his criminal empire into his legal front businesses. The lines had always been blurred, and so a skilled mathematician was very useful at making the operations look legit and keeping law enforcement at arm’s length. Collins was well paid for his services, and in a short time was making more money than he had ever imagined, but he had also lost his perspective, forgotten about his dead brother, and gotten greedy.

  Impressed by the grotesque amount of money being laundered by his own hand, he felt as though he rightly deserved a piece of it, and so he started to skim a little off the top for himself. With each transaction, a little more went into his pocket, and because he was good at what he did, the ruse lasted much longer than he expected. Although the amounts were insignificant to the overall haul being funneled into the Arcuri family fortune, it was still stealing. And in the eyes of Lorenzo Arcuri, stealing was unforgivable. No one made a selfish decision like that in Arcuri’s empire.

  So now, Edward Collins was on a list; a list from which you were only removed when you were dead. Most of the people on the list knew they were targets — knew they had made a mistake — so attempted all the usual methods of escape. But the family never forgets, and Arcuri hired Walker to track down these traitors and check them off the list.

  Walker considered the grim nature of his work as he lumbered into his unwashed car parked on the street and threw his cell phone on the passenger seat. He glanced in the rearview mirror and the reflection of three-day-old stubble that covered his solidly framed cheeks and chin and his lengthening brown hair was much different than the close-cropped, clean-shaven look of his former life. His gray-colored eyes were sunken and bloodshot, and his lips were chapped. He hadn’t slept well last night. Never slept well.

  Walker knew that because he was the one who located these people, he was complicit in the judgment that had been issued. Were these people guilty? Perhaps. Did it matter? No. His only task was to find them. Thankfully, Walker didn’t do the actual killing; he was not the executioner. But once a target had been found and the call had been made, the sentence was officially handed down. So in essence, he did kill them, just from a distance.

  There was some relief in that not all of his assignments were like this; he didn’t only work for Arcuri. Walker’s other clients were mostly criminals, too, but Arcuri usually paid the most. It seemed like the personal cost of each case was commensurate with the salary, each successive job tearing away another piece of his soul. Following a cheating spouse or tracking down a runaway child was standard fare until Arcuri offered him the chance to be the hunter.

  Walker called himself a private investigator, but he didn’t
have an office or a business card. He only learned of new clients through word of mouth, and he only worked for certain types of people. The criminal underworld was surprisingly well-connected in that respect. Without much deviation, his clients were wealthy and powerful, probably through illegal means, and so if they called upon Walker, his investigations needed to be discreet. His was not a ‘shingle above the door’ kind of operation, and in most cases, the people he tracked down ended up dead.

  This was in stark contrast to his former life: special agent with the FBI. Assigned to the Violent Crime Division after graduating from the Academy, his focus had been on kidnapping and child disappearance, a notoriously difficult area with its tragedies usually outweighing its successes, but he was determined to make a difference. After fifteen years stationed at the fast-paced FBI Field Office in Northwest Washington, covering the District of Columbia and several counties in northern Virginia, Walker had gained a wealth of experience and was highly respected for his work in the division

  But that was before the mistake. The mistake that still haunted him. The alcohol dulled the screams, but only slightly. They were always there, just a little quieter sometimes — the whispers of the guilt he carried with him. He could not escape the eternal condemnation, even after all these years and in the company of these vile human beings. It was his personal Hell, and he was their fallen angel. Walker had honed his skills in the best law enforcement agency in the world, and now was merely a disgraced former agent with a much-needed skill set. He was their kind of guy, an investigator for hire who could find the people that could not be found by traditional means or under normal circumstances. This was his penance.

  Walker looked down at the scattering of post-it notes and other documents — an investigator’s jumbled collection of clues pieced together during his search for the subject — on the passenger seat. Staring back at him was a close-up photograph of Collins taken the day before, reminding Walker of himself. It showed Collin’s left hand, devoid of any jewelry, only the circular band of untanned skin on the finger where his wedding ring had been. His mistake had already cost him dearly, his family obviously destroyed in the process, and Collins was now going to die alone and afraid. Walker wondered if he was eventually destined for the same fate.

  He stared at the smartphone. Was he going to make the call and send this man to his death? Was he ready to issue his death sentence? Walker picked up the phone and paused. What if he didn’t make the call? Would they ever know? Probably not. He could just pull away. Sorry, can’t find him.

  Walker’s head started to ache as the morning dullness was wearing off. He grabbed a nearly empty bottle from under his seat and took a long drink. The liquid was hot on his throat, but the pain quickly subsided as a wave of relief washed over him, quelling the tension in his temples. Walker debated his options as the headache was slowly numbed by the hard liquor. He tapped at the phone, inputting the address and room number. He hesitated again, glancing back at the crumbling structure across the street, but finally pushed ‘send’. The ding of the sent text message rang in his ears.

  Walker sighed heavily. Too bad, he thought. But everyone makes choices. Collins simply made the wrong ones. Walker understood terrible choices all too well. We all have to live with the consequences. Sorry, Collins. After several minutes, he put the vehicle in drive and pulled away.

  Chapter 1

  Potomac, Maryland

  Two Months Later

  Ryan Walker had been summoned by Lorenzo Arcuri to his sprawling family estate, situated on a series of lush green bluffs overlooking the Potomac River. He had only met the crime lord once — about nine months earlier — when his father had passed away suddenly and the forty-two-year-old inherited the family business. It was Lorenzo’s father who had originally hired Walker many years before, and so the brief meeting in an abandoned warehouse outside of D.C. was simply to size up Walker and ensure his father had made the right choice. Being the new head of the Arcuri crime family brought with it many responsibilities, and Lorenzo had to know that all in his employment could be trusted. To his credit, Walker had always delivered, and in the months since meeting Lorenzo, he continued his stellar record of success.

  However, this wasn’t the way it usually worked for new assignments. Three weeks had passed since his latest job — locating a corrupt banker in New York City — had ended. It was about right in terms of the timing, but new assignments had always come by way of one of Arcuri’s lieutenants, never by Arcuri himself, and always in some obscure location, never at his estate. Until now. Walker was unsure of what to expect.

  The Arcuri family estate was a collection of buildings, pools, and courts — both tennis and basketball — surrounded by a six-feet-high continuous white plaster wall. The ten-acre compound was undoubtedly the most noticeable structure on this section of the Potomac, yet few had ever been inside its walls. It was a highly-protected, highly-secure piece of property, so not just anyone could gain entry. The bulletproof Mercedes sedans and SUVs — the typical vehicles to enter and exit the compound — told much of the story.

  The security wall had only one entrance, down a long drive, where a decorative black gate completed the perimeter. As the gates slowly opened, Walker was waved through by the unarmed guard who was stationed there. The tall gate and polite guard were the public’s only view of the estate, but once inside the walls of the compound, Walker was quickly greeted by two men with weapons at their sides.

  Like all of the security personnel stationed on the compound, they were well-dressed in expensive suits, well-armed with semi-automatic rifles, and well-fashioned with dark sunglasses, reminding Walker of the Secret Service. All of the men were former law enforcement or military who were fully licensed and capable of utilizing the weapons they brandished. Any assault on this compound by a rival crime lord or law enforcement agency would be met with stiff resistance. It was a tremendous show of force, certainly in line with Arcuri’s reckless style, but perfectly legal under Maryland law.

  The first security guard raised his hand, so Walker immediately stopped the car as the guard approached the driver side window. The other guard circled around the right side of the car — assault weapon outstretched — looking around and underneath the car. Walker had already told the unarmed guard at the front gate his name, and that he was being expected, so these men were simply ensuring he was alone in the car and no kind of explosive device was immediately visible. For the man they were protecting, they could never be too careful.

  The security guard made a quick glance at his partner, who nodded his approval, having made it to the rear of the car and completed his visual inspection. The guard brought his hand to his face, which held a tiny microphone, and said something that was inaudible to Walker, who noticed the earpiece in the guard’s right ear. After listening for a moment and acknowledging with a slight nod, he waved for Walker to proceed.

  Walker nodded as he pulled through the checkpoint onto the main driveway toward the mansion, a structure near the center of the estate just shy of 10,000 square feet, built in a contemporary style with plenty of bedrooms, bathrooms, and natural light. The paved driveway continued to the front of the mansion, where it made a circle around a decorative collection of weeping willows, their branches nearly touching the ground. The evening sun cast a long shadow across the driveway as the final days of summer had given way to fall and the coolness in the air bristled through the trees. As he exited the vehicle, Walker admired the enormity of the mansion, but was still taken aback by the excess — the gaudiness of it all — although he assumed when you had that much money, you simply had to figure out ways to spend it.

  Greeted at the front door by another security guard in a suit and sunglasses, he was immediately patted down. Walker knew to leave his handgun in the car as the unarmed guard had informed him that no weapons were allowed in the house. His .40 caliber Glock, the FBI’s standard issue firearm, was safely tucked away in the glovebox. Although no longer with the Bureau, Walker
still believed it was the best choice of firearm, and quite honestly, the weapon reminded him of that life. The guard led him down a long hallway, until he reached a curved entryway off to the left. Standing on the other side of the entrance, the guard gestured for Walker to enter, so he turned and found himself in what appeared to be the study.

  It was a massive room, surrounded by large windows and custom, built-in bookshelves, alternating as they encircled the room. A broad wooden desk sat at the forefront of the room, in front of the main window, while two brown leather couches faced one another in the center of the room, a glass coffee table between them. A multistory pool and tennis court were visible outside the window, as well as several more armed guards scattered throughout the perfectly manicured grounds of the estate.

  Being Walker’s first time in this room and only the second time he had met Arcuri, he wondered why Arcuri would meet him in what appeared to be a formal gathering space. Walker glanced at the seating arrangement and thought, What kinds of conversations took place there? He imagined they were probably about life and death. Why so formal, Lorenzo?

  Lorenzo Arcuri made his entrance through a door on the opposite side of the study, wearing a dark polo shirt and khaki pants that fit perfectly over his slender, athletic build. He held a drink in one hand and removed his Ray Ban sunglasses with other. The six-feet-tall Arcuri tossed the sunglasses onto a nearby table and ran his fingers through his distinguished head of slightly graying hair. Walker smiled to himself. Arcuri was one of the deadliest men in the entire country, but he played the role of dapper young playboy better than anyone.

  Arcuri stopped and stood behind the sofa closest to him. He smiled and raised the glass. “Mr. Walker, welcome. I hear your last assignment was a success. Another traitor discovered.”

  “Yes, sir.”