The Senators' Suitcase

Mitch Engel

Description

Senator Beth Davenport was a rarity in Washington-a revered statesperson with a spotless reputation who served the public interest. But away from the halls of Congress, she was an enigma. Among her belongings, her son, Troy, stumbles upon a suitcase containing millions in cash and now questions whether she was just another dirty politician. In searching for answers, he pieces together the mosaic of his mother's life and tries to reconcile the public persona with her private one. Along the way, he also falls head-over-heels for a remarkable woman who becomes his sounding board and wailing wall. The Senator's Suitcase is Mitch Engel's fourth novel, and like his others, The Senator's Suitcase weaves contemporary themes with timeless values. This thought-provoking work is intriguing and satirical, but never heavy-handed, as it draws to an unexpected conclusion. In this tumultuous election year, The Senator's Suitcase will cause readers to ponder the complex background and conflicted motivations of a genuine national stateswoman...and ultimately wish someone like her was running for our highest office.

Sujets

• Literary
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Outskirts Press
• Date de parution: 09 avril 2020
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781977225825
• Langue: English

Extrait

The Senators’ Suitcase All Rights Reserved. Copyright © 2020 Mitch Engel v3.0
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinions of the author and do not represent the opinions or thoughts of the publisher. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and/or legal right to publish all the materials in this book.
This book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without the express written consent of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Outskirts Press, Inc. http://www.outskirtspress.com
ISBN: 978-1-9772-2582-5
Library of Congress Control Number: 2019920988
Cover Photo © 2020 www.gettyimages.com .. All rights reserved - used with permission.
Outskirts Press and the "OP" logo are trademarks belonging to Outskirts Press, Inc.
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
To Robbie, Trista & Madison … for making our family complete
Table of Contents
Prologue
Introduction
Part I: Unanswered
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Part II: Unspoken
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Part III: Closure
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Epilogue
Other novels by Mitch Engel
Prologue
Forgetting her was never an option. The entire country made sure of that. How he chose to remember her was another story.
Introduction
I heard a click. In a literal sense, it signaled the door was unlocked at last. Figuratively, the same could be said because I suddenly was experiencing a rush of emotions I’d been trying hard to suppress. Apprehension being foremost.
Next came the scraping sounds of steel against steel as the young security guard struggled to remove a cartoon-sized padlock from an enormous flange welded to the doorframe. Eventually, he managed to pull back a hefty metal latch that could just as easily have been the keel to a small battleship. All the mammoth hardware looked as though it was crafted for a giant sitting atop a beanstalk.
After so much waiting, I finally could open the door. The moment of truth had arrived.
Before shuffling off toward the elevator, Eric Meyerhoff handed me a plastic box. "Take as much time as you need in there, Mr. Davenport … and when you’re done, just buzz me with that pager there, and I’ll be right up to escort you back to the lobby."
Just moments earlier, the eager-to-please Meyerhoff had turned almost giddy while he was reciting specifics on how the locks and hardware at Riley’s-On-Raymond were custom-manufactured in Halmstad, Sweden. Thankfully, that had been Point Sixteen in The Riley’s-On-Raymond Sixteen-Point Security Guarantee , which my new pal was obliged to enumerate in excruciating detail during our trip up to the third floor.
Number fifteen was a dissertation on climate control. "Regardless of the weather outside, your personal possessions are safely preserved at an air temperature that never exceeds seventy-three degrees or drops below sixty-eight."
I probably should have registered a more positive reaction, but what if my mother had been stock-piling ice sculptures or rare orchids? Anything was possible. I had no idea what I was going to find inside the storage locker.
But at least we’d knocked off all sixteen points. After Eric completed Point Fifteen, there had been some doubt. That was when he couldn’t find the key I’d handed him in the lobby before we set off on our shared journey – because, of course, Point Four specified "every client must be personally escorted to and from their respective storage units." I assumed these sixteen commandments were engraved on stone tablets somewhere in the vicinity of a burning bush.
After fumbling around, Eric did find the key in the breast pocket of his white button-down shirt – which sported a neon-red logo on one sleeve and a series of food stains on the other.
So, now I was standing alone, pondering what awaited me on the other side of door #34. After all these years, could I possibly be on the verge of having answers? Were there items inside this locker that could fill-in the countless blanks she left behind? Or at least a few of them?
Let me go back. You need to understand what my life had been like in recent weeks – or for that matter, what my life has been like since the moment I took my first breath in the delivery room. It was the second week of September when I received the dreadful call from the White House. Then eight days later, we held a memorial service for my mother – down in Evansville. I use the term "we" rather loosely, since all I needed to do was show up. Her staff took care of everything else.
The following morning, I sat through a lengthy meeting with the family’s lawyers, who informed me of my inheritance. Not surprisingly, my mother bequeathed all her tangible assets to yours truly. I was her only child – in fact, her only living relative. The solemn attorneys lining the other side of a long wooden table went on to apprise me of a great deal more, but I’ll get to those details later.
Included in her estate was the condo in downtown Indianapolis where I’d spent most of my youth. I wouldn’t say I was raised there, because I’m not sure I was raised. Mostly, I was molded. Molded into what she had needed me to be.
With the condominium and its contents now fully in my possession, I had every legal right to open drawers, cabinets, and closets previously deemed off-limits. More than a right, I had an obligation. As the dutiful son, it was my responsibility to make sure her final affairs had been left in proper order.
But whom was I kidding? No facet of my mother’s life ever had been out of order. She wouldn’t have allowed such a thing.
No, what I really had been granted was a search warrant. Upon returning home to Indianapolis, I devoted every spare moment to unearthing her earthly past. If I wasn’t on campus at Wabash, I was back in her condo boxing up personal effects or sifting through file folders. At last, I would find answers to the seemingly basic questions she evaded throughout my childhood and subsequent adulthood. But after nearly two weeks, I was as perplexed as ever. Maybe more so. What few items of interest I uncovered only added to the mysteries surrounding her.
Then on Friday evening, while rushing out to meet up with a female acquaintance, I accidentally knocked over a pewter lamp in my mother’s bedroom. Picking it up, I heard something rattling inside. It turned out to be a key. One side was blank. On the other, a lone number stamped in brass – "34."
For the balance of my weekend, I played Sherlock Holmes, completely obsessed with key #34. Eventually, I connected a few dots from her credit card statements. For each of the prior three years, she had been billed $1,624.50 by some entity called Riley Enterprises. I couldn’t determine if this recurring charge might go further back because my mother tossed all her records from earlier years. She always had been proficient at discarding the superfluous from her life – but I needn’t bore you with those particulars. Anyway, according to good-old Google, Riley Enterprises owned and operated a regional network of storage facilities, including one not far from the downtown condo – Riley’s-On-Raymond. So presto, there I was, ready to enter my mother’s storage unit.
Okay, it wasn’t exactly "presto." In typical fashion, my mother had specified that she and she alone could be granted entrance into her storage unit. Accordingly, those family lawyers I mentioned, they needed to fax letters back and forth with a bunch of other lawyers before I finally gained access.
You see, dealings involving my mother rarely came easily. The mere sound of her name evoked a certain wonderment and prompted otherwise normal individuals to behave strangely.
I guess I should step back again. You need to know who my mother was. Beth Davenport. The late great Senator Beth Davenport. Ever since the accident, "late great" seems to have become permanently affixed to her name. With the passage of a few more years, I imagine "legendary" will be substituted. Yeh, that sounds about right. The legendary Senator Beth Davenport.
So now I’ll jump ahead. The contents inside the storage locker would change everything. Not at first, and not for the reasons I might have guessed. But that’s where this story begins – or at least my part in it. As for my mother, one could argue that unit #34 is where her story finally drew to its proper close.
Part I
Unanswered
Chapter 1
According to the security log, not a soul had entered Unit #34 for more than a decade. Not even my mother. Nothing in her personal files suggested anyone else knew about the lease she’d been renewing with Riley’s-On-Raymond for more than a quarter-of-a-century. The family’s attorneys were caught totally unaware when their assistance was required for me to gain entry. Only one conclusion could be drawn. The "late-great" Senator Beth Davenport had wanted her storage locker to remain a secret. Logically, I figured the same must be true for whatev