Larger Than Lyfe (40 page)

The next absolutely mind-blowing news to hit the streets were the rumored, ultra-private nuptials that had taken place between the new CEO of Larger Than Lyfe Entertainment, Misha Tierney, and real estate investor, Marcus Means, who the press said had links to the notorious and now-deceased Richard Lawrence Tresvant. Misha’s New York Knicks fiancé rang every phone number that Misha had ever had and was unable to locate her anywhere. All that her assistant and the record label and her events planning firm could tell him was that she had taken a long weekend. All of it was a massive, “WHAT
THE FUCK!” moment that sent Darian Boudreaux into tears when she read it online.

W
hen one considers that the combined annual revenues from the production, distribution and sale of cocaine equate to approximately one trillion, tax
-free dollars, it is patently ridiculous to dismiss the very real possibility that the United States has a direct involvement in this illicit trade and is profiting from said involvement…royally. The United States possesses a lengthy and sordid history of lies, unethical practices, corruption, and imperialist greed. There is no way that the U.S., like Mexico and other less-developed nations, would leave the level of wealth generated in the cocaine trade to the common Black and Brown criminal to amass without securing a substantial slice of the pie for themselves. In short, America’s “war on drugs” is no
thing more than one, huge FARCE, akin to leaving the fox in charge of the chicken coop.

America’s “war on drugs” is a massive POLITICAL game more than anything. D.C. fat cats sit on Capitol Hill pontificating about the detrimental effects of illegal narcotics on the fabric of America, particularly on the public safety and American youth. They add insult to injury by referencing crime statistics and the ever-growing percentages of substance abusers, as if they are seriously engaged in a very real effort to destroy the problem when, in actuality, they either never do enough to get the problem solved or they fall prey to the corruption that pervades the entire system. They po
und their fists vehemently and declare that we
will win the war on drugs, no matter the cost. It’s so much lip service, political figures telling their constituents exactly what they want to hear to keep the citizens in their comfort zones, politicians saying what they believe needs to be said in order to gain votes.

Bills are passed that look promising on the surface, but are thoroughly devoid of the ingredients required for positive and lasting change and are rife in just enough loopholes for the sophisticated, professional criminal to work right through and around.

Law enforcement is overrun with flaws as well. Men who are just men and have taken an oath to “protect and serve” are expected to invoke the powers of the crime-fighting superhero and avoid the temptation of skimming off the top some of the ill-gotten spoils confiscated from drug-dealing thugs that sometimes equates to more than these law enforcement officers will earn over the entire duration of their careers.

On salaries that are a gross disparity to the danger that most law enforcement officers confront daily, even the noblest officers of the law sometimes fall prey to the temptation of thousands of dollars in bribes offered by drug dealers asking them to just look the other way when a shipment arrives or overlook the sizeable “package” in the drug dealer’s trunk while the average police officer’s superiors make cozy bedfellows with the crooked mayors and other city and county officials to make their own dirty money on the side. Corruption in law enforcement is like a virulent disea
se, infecting every single area, no matter the rank, on police forces everywhere. And all accept it as par for the course, “everybody does it,” until scandal breaks out and these dirty officers of the law are tossed unwittingly into a news camera lens with their pants down.

Politics absolutely comes into play when huge amounts of
taxpayer dollars are allocated to law enforcement budgets and law enforcement is expected to satisfy citizens’ and legislators’ lofty expectations by bringing in major, drug-related convictions. When law enforcement drops the ball, then the blame game commences and someone must take the fall. The political game is never-ending.

Even though Richard Tresvant was dead, the game was far from over. Thomas Hencken knew this as he boarded his flight to Washington, D.C., headed to face his superiors. They’d demanded a meeting. He’d quickly complied. Words were not minced when he arrived.

“The agency would like you to firmly consider early retirement,” Robert Eickenberry, assistant director of the Western Division Organized Crime Unit, said carefully.

“What is this about?” Thomas Hencken said. “I know that you’re not about to turn me into the fall guy for the Consortium mess.”

“You overstepped the scope of your authority on more than one occasion in this nearly two-year, Consortium fiasco,” Robert Eickenberry said. “Two federal agents lost their lives while working under your direction and the agency allocated well over ten million dollars to a special task force that was under your direct supervision without a single, major conviction, not even the convictions of the murderers of the two downed federal agents.”

“I feel very, very strongly that Keshari Mitchell is still alive,” Thomas Hencken said. “I’ve been working this thing on my own time, night and day. This case can still work in our favor.”

“You see!” senior agent William Thorne snapped. “This is exactly what we’re talking about! We have certified medical testimony confirming Keshari Mitchell’s death and you’re still determined to turn her into state’s witness. It’s OVER! Keshari Mitchell is dead! Richard Tresvant is dead! And you need to let this thing
go and acknowledge the loss. A new task force is preparing to move forward on a top-ranking family in Los Angeles Yakuza. There is currently no firm leadership in place within The Consortium ranks. Therefore, they are not as great a threat and lower in priority now for the DEA. In a way, we have taken a small victory.”

“You are a fifteen-year veteran with the agency,” Robert Eickenberry said. “You have an impeccable record. That is why you’re being offered the option of retirement in lieu of termination. Your pension shall be completely unaffected.”

“I’m being made the fall guy for the failure of the Consortium case. I, ultimately, take my direction from YOU here in Washington, yet you’re not assuming any culpability for the way that the Consortium case turned out. I will fight this, you know,” Thomas Hencken said. “I’m contacting my attorney the moment our meeting wraps.”

“Do what you think you have to do,” Robert Eickenberry said calmly. “The offer is on the table for seven days. After that, un-fortunately, the agency will have to proceed with your immediate termination.”

Thomas Hencken angrily brushed out of the office and out of the doors of the Drug Enforcement Agency’s Washington, D.C. headquarters. Politics had reared its ugly head once again. But he was as determined as ever that he would take down the remaining Consortium players, as well as expose their suppliers and client base, even as the DEA tried to oust him from the organization that he’d zealously dedicated himself to for years.

M
ars smiled to himself as Northwest Airlines flight 8996 lifted off, departing Los Angeles International Airport for São Paulo, Brazil. He was
scared. He didn’t know what to expect. He didn’t know if he would even be able to find Keshari…ahem…Darian…Boudreaux.

A week and a half before, Celeste, David Weisberg’s legal secretary, had shown up at his condo.

“I will lose my job for this, Mars, if David ever finds out.”

Celeste admitted that she had been nosily listening to snatches of Mars’s conversation with David Weisberg earlier that day. She told Mars of a project that David had been working on single-handedly, not even using the assistance of his secretaries. She did not possess a large amount of details, but she felt certain that all of it had to do with Keshari Mitchell. David was being very secretive in terms of his movements with the project and very, very careful. However, he had made one slip recently that she’d caught. Celeste had come across an e-mail on David Weisberg’s open, personal lapt
op. She read the transmission thread of the e-mail and it had come from an account that had been set up in Los Angeles, but had been sent from São Paulo, Brazil. The account was in the name of “Darian Boudreaux” and the communication from this person clearly indicated that he/she had a very familiar relationship with David because they closed their note to him by saying, “Love you.” The person said that they had met with Dr.
Claudio Henriqué and would commence the surgery in August.

“I did a bit of research online to find out who this Dr. Henriqué is and he is a plastic surgeon. The person said that they were still at Hotel Intercontinental, but would be leaving soon.

“I know it’s not a lot,” Celeste said, “but that’s all I have…that and my female intuition. I guess that I, like so much of the public, got caught up in all of the speculation about Keshari Mitchell possibly faking her death to avoid prosecution. Since I work for her long-time attorney, I did what I do best…I started snooping.”

Mars had sat up the rest of that night, thinking about the information that Celeste had imparted to him and he stared for hours at those two postcards. He thought about everything that Keshari had kept from him, the things that she had been involved in. He thought about their break-up…and he thought about her suicide. If she really was still alive, she had deceived him again in probably the worst way of all. But, still, he was so in love with her. Maybe he was a complete fool. But he was still so in love with her.

Two days later, Mars submitted his immediate resignation to ASCAP. Then he went to visit his family in New York. And now he was on a flight to Brazil, unsure what he would find, flying blind into the unknown with all of the hope in the world.

Mars arrived at the Hotel Intercontinental to check into his room and asked the front desk manager if Darian Boudreaux was still registered at the hotel. Mars said that Darian was a business associate of his.

“Miss Boudreaux checked out this morning,” the desk manager said. “Lovely woman.”

Mars’s heart dropped. That was just his fucking luck.

“Did she…did she let on as to where she was going? Will she be coming back?” Mars asked, almost unable to control his frustration and disappointment.

“She took one of the large, luxury boats to travel up the coast. ‘Guantanamera.’ That’s the name of the boat.”

“Thank you,” Mars said distractedly, taking his key and following the bellman to his room.

If it had still been daylight, Mars would have hired a driver right then and there to immediately begin the drive up Brazil’s coast, hitting all of the open ports in search of “Guantanamera.” Instead, he settled into his room for the evening, ordered dinner, and requested a wake-up call so that he could rise early and begin his search.