I Kill Rich People: New Edition Released 11/27/14

  I Kill Rich People

  I Kill Rich People

  a novel by Mike Bogin

  Copyright © 2014 by Mike Bogin

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States.

  This story comes completely out of my head. All factual elements in this story were derived from readily-available, publicly-accessible websites. Absolutely no secure or confidential information has been cited.

  Additional information: www.MikeBogin.com

  Cover design by Tony Goedde

  Interior design by Kelsye Nelson

  ISBN-13: 978-1503387294

  ISBN-10: 1503387291

  Published and manufactured in the United States of America

  Second Edition: 2014

  DEDICATION

  This book is dedicated to the men and women who have suffered traumatic brain injuries in the service of the United States of America. Nobody can see what has changed inside your heads. People don’t get it. When you look the same on the outside, not many people understand that you are running an obstacle course 24/7.

  I think about you every day.

  Left and right are directions. Issues that matter are vertical, up and down, rich and poor.

  No society bound together by fairness and opportunity for all people can be destroyed from within.

  This story is about vulnerability.

  The very rich are very few.

  CHAPTER ONE

  He studied the backs of his hands, the rutted tendons, the carefully trimmed nails. He turned them over, following along the callused, scarred lines on each palm. Capable hands. Hands that did not fail. The eyes looking at the hands were capable, too. Eyes that saw precisely what was meant to happen. An assemblage of parts perfectly designed, meticulously trained to their function. That purpose was not meant to be stopped, to be finished, wasted. The world was about to get proof of that fact.

  Surveying from a crouched position amongst the shrubs growing along the southern tip of Glen Island Park, he saw long stretches of woods breaking into the pristine open shoreline that was just eleven miles from Manhattan’s bustling crowds. He scanned across the waters of Long Island Sound, toward an imposing structure situated at the northern tip of Sands Point. The Yukon 100X100 scope dialed him right in to see every exposed stone and piling along six to seven hundred feet of private beach that fronted a manor house. The structure looked like a European old-world hotel. This place—one man’s private home. One man. With all that.

  On his fifth pass, he sighted the taut lines stretching out from the beach. Oyster beds along the north shore provided a subtle barrier to keep the neighbors’ visiting grandchildren from wandering over onto the private stretch of sand. He carefully noted the lines. In the dark, hitting the oyster lines could mean disaster.

  Visuals from a distance never replace knowing the contours of a site. He knew that well. What looked like a perfect position from five hundred meters could turn out, at five feet away, to be a pit of snakes or bushes with two-inch thorns.

  A natural berm three feet high and covered with tenacious grasses rose above the sandy beachfront that was some twenty feet wide at the current high tide. Four-man boulders had been used to make a breakwater that was positioned parallel to the beachfront so as to protect the property from storm surges. Beyond the breakwater, acres of manicured lawns wove through a compound consisting of a massive swimming pool, fountains, outdoor sculptures, and gardens, each one designed to a specific theme. A giant crane from a flat-bottomed service boat was in the act of positioning a floating dock that was being temporarily installed just for the birthday party. Two aluminum tender boats held workers who were anchoring the dock into place using pilings that would have to be removed before the special permit expired. More workers labored along the shoreline, rolling out wide wooden boardwalks leading toward the lawns upon which three white pavilions were being erected.

  He knew he could have an open field of vision stretching from the south side of the point, with a wide sweep across the lawns and under the open-sided pavilions. But his exposure would be significant there; anyone on the dock would have visuals along his flank, while boat crews would be to the rear. He specifically intended to avoid the heavy-set security men already deploying in their gray suits with black polo shirts. Some were standing outside each of the many doors to the rear of the house to keep the workers outside. Two more stood along second floor balconies.

  The manpower left an impression. But no matter how sophisticated the security might be, one more person was not going to stand out from the partying crowd that would be there. Thermal imaging, if they even had it, was worthless in the moving mass. None of the set-up crew was wearing a bar-coded badge on their belts or on lanyards. He knew that meant no continuous monitoring. He had only to get onto the shore.

  The better position located him within a copse of trees to the north, offering a 120-degree sightline along the three-hundred-foot west face of the house out to the pavilions, and then tailing off at the beginning of the boardwalk. The trees looked dense enough that he could blend in.

  Field of vision was critical, but only one part of the equation. The rest was concealment, security, extraction, and/or escape. He had to move close-in. After dark.

  * * * * *

  July 2

  Levy, a compact man who closely resembled the late Pablo Picasso, lived in the estate alone, save for a retinue of servants including a butler, household manager, chef, groundskeeper, and a four-man rotating security team. Carefully-screened vendors provided gardeners, swimming pool services, and maintenance.

  At Leon Black’s sixtieth birthday party in the Hamptons eleven months earlier, he had determined that his next birthday was going to blow past Black’s affair. If Black brought in Elton John to entertain, Levy was going to bring the Rolling Stones. Bloomberg was there, along with Howard Stern, Michael Milken, Lloyd Blankfein, and Martha Stewart; Levy was already planning royals for his own A-list. Black’s tête de cuvée champagnes and DRC Burgundies were an engaging challenge he intended to eclipse. That night after returning from Leon Black’s, Levy walked his own cellar. It was six hours later in Bordeaux. Levy telephoned the owner of a world famous 1st Growth Chateaux to arrange sent three cases of Pauillac from the acclaimed 1959, 1961, 1982, 1989, and 2001 vintages.

  Levy’s party planner had outdone herself with a Bi-Centennial-worthy pyrotechnic show set on two barges anchored off his private beach. Rumors buzzed amongst the set-up crews that Mick Jagger was already staying in the house, with his personal chef having taken charge of the banquet kitchen, forcing the caterers to work around his organic produce and juicing station. Four shuttle craft were ready to ferry guests from their yachts. Larger yachts resembling cruise ships would ferry passengers via their helicopters to the south lawn. His Israeli home security provider vetted every worker, down to the last person on the catering crew, cutting three would-be servers profiled and flatly rejected for having Islamic names.

  * * * * *

  He applied camouflage in shades of dark gray and matte black over the wave runner, taking care that nothing would reflect off the machine. The machine blended in, another boulder along the shore. Even the headlight was shielded so that the lens would not reflect security lights cast from the roving patrols. Black gloves. Black shoes. Black netting over his face. From the beach into the trees, the ground was firm. No concern for footprints.

  One security patrol was making three passes
per hour, doing a ground-scan by Maglite. No chance they could spot him inside the tree line. A performance stage had been set up along the lawn to the northwest, providing additional cover to the trees. There were too many lights for using night-vision, but he knew their security had the same limitation.

  He had visibility into the main kitchen area that was along the north end of the ground floor. Several Sub-Zero commercial refrigerators, three commercial ranges separated by stainless-steel countertops, bouquets of fresh herbs, racks of spices. Four cooks in whites wearing railway engineer’s caps were hunched over the menu. The butler, wearing a black suit, conferred with them over the checklist of ingredients. He internalized the data and continued sweeping right, along the face of the structure, into one of the public rooms. Trompe l’oeil paintings on the eleven, twelve-foot tall ceilings. An anorexic-looking entertainer was smiling, animated. Telling stories. Holding court.

  No angle on most of the room. Six-foot-diameter cascading crystal chandeliers. He recognized Levy as the short man padded into view. Slender, his face serious, his head bald. He could see that Levy obviously seethed; the hired showman was holding court within Levy’s domain.

  Virtually no views into the master bedroom to the south end. Nothing whatsoever into the upstairs spaces. Portable gas heaters were being deployed at regular intervals along the several distinct patios, while twenty-gallon propane tanks were positioned to feed additional gas heating being mounted inside the pavilions. None of this was necessary; the weather was forecast to be calm and warm.

  Flags were distributed around the lawn area to designate each table for ten, all positioned around a portable dance floor in front of the stage. None of the tables were visible from his viewpoint inside the trees. The buffet stations were in view, but these were perpendicular, so that guests in the food lines would shield anyone in the front.

  There: the smaller circular table in front. It was a birthday party. The cake would be there. If Levy cut it or appeared anywhere around it, there would be a clear visual straight across the front of that table. Zero muzzle flash with suppressor. Six shots, clean and clear.

  With larger caliber automatic fire, six hundred rounds per minute with lethal penetration would cut easily through two targets and into a third. Effective, but indiscriminate. Chaos was crude. His purpose was all precision.

  Juices flowing, warming along the outside of forearms and down to the backs of both hands. Tightening glutes. Control! There was no acceptable collateral damage facto. Zero.

  Not six shots.

  Four shots. Four kills.

  * * * * *

  While Levy’s crew was setting up for the birthday party, Owen Cullen was hard at work several miles away pulling new Romex through the upstairs walls of the tiny VA-built house where he had been brought up and where he now lived with his own wife and two young sons. Owen’s lean forearms were still cramping; working in the attic was a bitch with the summer heat pounding through. All along the skin of his fingers, wire nicks left jagged red tears, stinging him whenever he flexed his hands. Black curls of old insulation fibers clogged the drain screen when he spent three quarters of an hour showering afterward, letting the cold water run against his scalp, down his neck and back and legs to relieve the itching.

  He was wondering about asbestos and whatever other bad gunk he’d been breathing up there and still snorting dirty threads and hocking ugly chunks, but he kept that from worrying Callie. Both bedrooms were re-wired. The air conditioners could stay on in the boys’ bedroom and the main bedroom that he and Callie’s shared all the one time, without flipping the breaker. He stood naked in front of the cool breeze, feeling accomplished and satisfied that he had saved them at least five hundred dollars, minimum, with him doing the work instead of hiring it out. The five hundred would be for using one of the Somali guys who worked for cash; any union journeyman would be double that or more.

  They ran the A/C until past midnight. Casey, Owen and Callie’s four-year-old red-headed hellion, the master of a thousand ways to avoid going to bed, had put himself to bed to luxuriate in the cool air blowing across his SpongeBob sheets.

  Fourth of July fell on Wednesday, and Owen had this July 4th off shift. By five o’clock, their backyard was loud with beer-filled cops and their families. Two picnic tables were stretched across the driveway they shared with Mike and Shelley. Callie navigated their tight galley kitchen trying to find surfaces to set down more and more trays and casseroles as poured in for the potluck.

  Mike started his beer brats, and gulped long swigs while they cooked. All summer long, as long as it was still light outside, Mike was out writing bids for insurance claim-repairs until after nine o’clock. Shelley ran their books and chased down sub-contractors by phone to keep them on task; she was still working even on the holiday.

  Four-year old Casey swooped past the tables and banked sharply at the Weber, yelling “Mommy! Mommy!” before Owen caught him.

  “What’s up, buddy?” Owen asked while Casey struggled and squirmed, his eyes fixed on the back door leading into their kitchen where the women were gathered. Tremaine Bull ambled around the shed, crossing the small patch of lawn toward the tables where the men sat with their fingers around Budweiser and Rolling Rock beers.

  Casey gave one last pull but could not break away. Disappointed, he made his report to the men. “Uncle Tremaine peed in the bushes.”

  The men chuckled while Owen looked Tremaine up and down.

  “What?” Tremaine said back, laughing and smiling.

  “So I watered the plants. You looking at the python, boy?” Tremaine demanded, crooking his face and closing one eye as he glared down in mock aggression. “You’re one of the guys, son. Don’t to tell Mom about that. That’s between us guys.”

  “Then how come Mommy says I can’t go nature potty? How come she says I gotta use the toilet?”

  Tremaine jumped in to handle the response. “Girls get jealous, you know, ’cause we can draw pictures.” He stood up, bent his knees, leaned back and swayed rhythmically with his fist weaving back and forth at his crotch. “You write your name, hit targets, all that stuff girls can’t do.”

  Casey’s eyes gleamed, thrilled with the secret knowledge that reinforced what he had already suspected. He jumped into his father’s lap; he wanted to sit with the men.

  Tremaine always peed out back. Between the tiny space off the kitchen with its tiny cadet toilet and the miniature sink hanging from the wall and the full bath up the narrow stairwell, he had no good choices.

  The older kids, including Casey’s brother, Liam, were building a fort along the side yard away from the grown-ups and keeping the little kids away. Folding tables and cardboard boxes, old bed sheets and blankets, Callie’s laptop playing Owen’s Fast and Furious Five DVD with the sound down low. Casey didn’t know about the laptop or DVD and would have used those to blackmail his way into joining the older kids, but sitting with his dad at the men’s table was better anyway. He decided he was going to try tasting beer, too.

  Owen had replaced the Harvest Gold Sears refrigerator with a newer stainless steel side-by-side refrigerator. His effort had the reverse effect of emphasizing that everything else in the kitchen was so old. The Formica, the white cast iron, and porcelain sink rubbed rough and yellowed all around the drain, and the ancient cabinetry were tired beyond anything that could be helped by another coat of paint and new knobs.

  The tiny drop-leaf table against the wall was covered with bowls and platters. Callie looked around the 1947 kitchen, put the tray of Buffalo wings on the floor, grabbed her hair and screamed, “Aaaah! I...HATE...THIS…PLACE!”

  They were eighty thousand dollars underwater on the mortgage; the sixty-year-old bungalow was feeling more and more like a prison cell instead of their home.

  Shelley scanned the surroundings, took a deep breath, reached into the built-in cabinet and
dropped down the ironing board. “Voila! Your ladyship, the buffet.”

  Owen came into the crowded kitchen, letting the screen door slam behind him, reached his arm around Callie’s waist, and stroked her as he walked by on his way to the fridge. “Grill’s ready. I’m putting on the burgers.”

  His “Liberty Burgers” were the real deal, meat from Ottomanelli & Sons, where Owen had picked up ten pounds of round and chuck that they ground right in front of him while he held Liam up to watch. He had spent an hour on his secret seasonings, working fistfuls of raw meat into inch-thick patties. As the finishing touch, Liam’s fist had been pressed down halfway into the tops of each burger.

  “See, you press it down so there’s like a bowl in the burger,” Owen instructed the boys. “That way, when I cook them, they’re gonna expand wider until they’re flat again. Forget to punch them and they’ll end up looking like giant meatballs.”

  Callie brought out the corn as the tray of burgers made their way to the table, along with hot dogs mainly for the kids. Tremaine freshened beers for everyone who wanted one and a line formed to get at the thick, two-handed burgers that dropped juicy splats of toppings. Nobody talked for minutes, the first sign of happy eaters.

  Liam set up lawn sprinkler, having made up a game where the older kids ran toward the sprinkler as it moved away then stood their ground, getting lower and lower before running out from under the falling spray at the very last moment.