Garcia fell, face first, onto the station’s tiled floor, then rolled and faced his attacker. Mengalista, still brandishing his six inch knife, smiled. “I am the last human you will ever see, Diego, and you are the last human I will ever kill for the cartel,” he declared, then attacked. Garcia, much younger and more agile than his adversary, rolled sideways, then sprang to his feet. He removed a double-edged dagger from his nylon wrist sheath and slashed Mengalista’s left cheek, barely missing his jugular vein. Stunned by the cut and bleeding profusely, Mengalista covered the wound with his left hand. In a fit of rage he hurled his knife at Garcia, striking his Adam’s apple. Choking and gasping for air, Garcia slumped to the floor, drowning in his own blood.
The four inch scar on Mengalli’s left cheek served as a permanent reminder. He had made two of the worst mistakes a professional killer can make, and they came close to costing him his life. He vowed never to make another one.
CHAPTER 76
Toronto. Friday, May 3.
The day had been a spring delight, a welcome relief for Torontonians who had endured much of the winter in the frozen north. The temperature, unusually high for early May, was still sixty-eight when Mengalli’s plane touched down at Pearson Airport. Still dressed in his black trousers, white shirt and black windbreaker, he used a forged passport in the name of Pietro Lopez to clear Customs. He took an airport limousine to the Airport Hilton on Dixon Road where a room had been reserved in the name of Xylex, Inc., Grand Cayman. After he signed the registration form with a scribbled and illegible signature, the desk clerk handed him a room key, a legal sized manilla envelope, and the key to a white 2002 Cadillac Deville, also rented in the name of Xylex. Both the Deville and the room had been pre-paid by a wire transfer from a bank in Grand Cayman.
He declined the service of a bell boy and carried his luggage, one black canvas suitcase and a black leather overnight bag, to his second floor room. He showered, shaved, then sat on his bed, a white hotel towel still wrapped around his hairy mid-section. He lifted the manilla envelope from his night table, then opened it. Inside was a report based on the results of the exhaustive and covert surveillance of Cedric Nelson, an investigator with Cyclops Private Investigations, Toronto, Ontario, Canada. Nelson boasted ten years experience with Cyclops, and prior to that, eight years as a senior investigator with C.S.I.S., Canada’s Security Intelligence Service. The subject of the report was Kerri King.
Mengalli quickly scanned through the preliminary information, detailing the subject’s name, birth date, place of birth, age, education, work history, and so on. He was only interested in what she looked like, where she lived, her habits, and with whom she associated. With that information, together with his own surveillance, he could begin to formulate a plan, one designed to complete his assignment then flee the country, undetected. He was pleased that Nelson had included numerous photos of the subject. He was disappointed that almost all of them showed her heavily disguised, wearing baggy clothing, large dark sunglasses, and either a Yankees of Blue Jays baseball cap. Several photos showed her entering or leaving her parents’ expensive North York home, either alone, or in the company of Mike King, her father, Karen King, her step-mother, or Steve Monteith, her male friend. The report stated the she spent most of every day and evening in the company of Monteith, who lived with his mother, Helen, in nearby Thornhill. Only three photos showed the subject in normal clothing and not wearing a hat or sunglasses. In those photos the curves and perfect proportions of her body were clearly visible. Mengalli studied each, fascinated by her beauty. Although he had been totally objective and dispassionate in virtually all of his killings, this one bothered him. He had never killed anyone so beautiful. It seemed a shame to waste such pulchritude on death. He briefly considered using it for other, more carnal purposes, then carefully returned the report to its envelope.
He dressed in clean black pants, black T-shirt, and his black windbreaker. He hid his eyes with sunglasses, then left the hotel. His destination was North York. It was time to begin his own surveillance, the aspect of his profession he most hated, but knew was necessary. Its importance could not be underestimated. There was no room for errors. The process would require hours of boring watching, note taking and photography.
CHAPTER 77
Court of Chancery, Dover, Delaware. Monday, May 5.
“Al rise,” the court clerk shouted.
The courtroom, filled to overflowing, mainly by members of the media, anxious to witness the fate of Kerri King, the Iacardi Santa Claus, was silenced. Only the muted shuffle of people rising to a standing position could be heard.
Judge William H. McCarthy entered the courtroom through a polished mahogany door and descended into his black leather chair at the bench.
“This court is now in session,” the clerk announced. “The Honorable William H. McCarthy presiding… Please be seated.”
McCarthy scanned his audience as they returned to their seats. He saw the Plaintiff, represented by Sydney Mortimer, and flanked by Peter Tavaris, speaker for the Iacardi Shareholders. Jeffrey Wheeler and Walter Deaks were seated immediately behind. All four men were salivating over their expected victory and the total financial demise of Kerri King. McCarthy’s eyes shifted to focus on Marsha Cooper, counsel for the Defendant. “Where is your client, Miss Cooper?” he asked in an authoritative voice befitting only a judge.
“Cooper stood and faced McCarthy. “My client wishes to convey her sincere regrets, Your Honor. Circumstances beyond her control have made it impossible for her to be here today,” she replied, publicly confirming what McCarthy already knew. Kerri had earlier telephoned Cooper, and with the benefit of lawyer/client privilege, told her of her connection to Sandra Schafer, her plan to blow the whistle on Enerco, her confrontation with Jeffrey Wheeler in Toronto, and the horrifying anonymous email she had recently received. In addition to being shocked by Kerri’s disclosure, Cooper had strongly advised her not to attend the court session or even to travel to the United States. Cooper, in a subsequent and highly confidential conversation, had informed McCarthy of her client’s dilemma. McCarthy, a fair and honest man, had agreed with Cooper’s decision. He had further urged Cooper to inform the authorities, even though he understood the risks of so doing.
“So be it,” McCarthy boomed. “We shall proceed without her.” He paused to examine his notes, then peered over his reading glasses at his audience. “I have heard and considered arguments from both parties in this case. Furthermore, I have listened to closing statements from counsel representing each of the Parties… Before I render my verdict I wish to reiterate that this case has troubled me from its beginning. The fact that it has continued to this stage has been in spite of my recommendations to the contrary. Be that as it may, I have made a decision… I find for the Plaintiff,” he said, causing numerous gasps from the audience and huge smiles to appear at the Plaintiff’s table. “I award damages in the amount of one dollar. Costs shall be borne by the respective Parties,” he declared, then slammed his gavel onto its sound block. “This case is closed.”
The courtroom’s decorum was instantly shattered by cheers, whistles and applause. The expressions on the faces of the four representatives of the Plaintiff reflected shock and disbelief. Marsha Cooper struggled to restrain a smile. She opened her cellphone and texted an email to Kerri. “Good news and bad news… First, the bad news. You lost the case. Now, the good news. McCarthy awarded one dollar to the Plaintiff. Congratulations. You are now a wealthy woman, if, and only if you sell your shares of Enerco now. The lockup period ends tomorrow. Give me the word and I’ll dump them for you.”
CHAPTER 78
Niagara on the Lake. Saturday, May 10.
A beautiful and charming town with a population of over 14,000, and located on the northeast corner of Ontario’s Niagara Peninsula, Niagara on the Lake is a destination for tourists from all over the world. It is ground zero for wine connoisseurs, traveling great di
stances to experience wine tours of the fabulous and fertile Niagara Region. The town, featuring Lake Ontario to its north, the Niagara River to its east, and Youngstown, New York directly across the river, is a historic gem, the scene of critical battles in the War of 1812.
The job was easy for 48 year old Itzik Zeiman. His assignment was to follow Kerri King and to ensure her safety. For the most part it was boring, but safe. In sharp contrast to his former employment, never once did he consider it life threatening. It was hardly the type of work for which he was qualified, but it paid well and allowed him the luxury of a longer life expectancy. Moving to and living in Canada had made his wife and two boys very happy. It was a country in which they no longer had to worry about the constant threat of total annihilation by neighboring countries.
The only child of Israeli parents, Zeiman was born and raised in Tel Aviv. As a young adult he was tall, about six foot two, muscular, and handsome. His swarthy complexion, dark hair and superior intelligence had qualified him as a very eligible bachelor. After completing his masters in computer technology at Tel Aviv University, he became a Mossad agent, specializing in covert electronic surveillance. His concentration was the structure and internal operation of Hezbollah, an arch enemy of the State of Israel. Most of his thirteen year career was spent in Damascus, Syria, where he used falsified identification papers to masquerade as an Egyptian businessman. It was during an extended weekend vacation in Beruit, Lebanon, when he met Marie Steinberg, a Canadian born Israeli citizen. For both it was love at first sight. They married and had two children, both boys. It was in the winter of 1998 when Hezbollah discovered his true identity. He managed to escape, but his cover was blown, his life in jeopardy, and his usefulness to Mossad impaired.
With a generous pension and the blessings of Mossad, he resigned and moved his family to Toronto. Shortly after the move he was hired as a bodyguard by Northern Security Ltd., a company owned by Max Rabinowitz, a friend and fraternity brother of Mike King. He was assigned to the Kerri King case on Wednesday, May 7.
It was a sunny and reasonably warm spring day in Niagara on the Lake. The temperature was in the low sixties. Zeiman, dressed in jeans, light green sweater, and a grey windbreaker, strolled along Queen Street, a comfortable thirty feet behind Kerri King and Steve Monteith. Kerri was dressed in her usual grey track suit, large dark sunglasses, and Blue Jays baseball hat. Steve wore beige khakis and a heavy red sweater over a white T-shirt. Kerri had allowed him to wear her beloved Yankees hat. While the thousands of tourists crowding the sidewalks of the town’s main street made it difficult for Zeiman to maintain visual contact with his subject, he had enjoyed his day. He had even taken in the same wine tour, sampling the wonderful variety of fine Niagara wines, but never showing a hint of his reason for being there.
Directly across the street, Lorenzo Mengalli watched and photographed. He had been disappointed to see that Kerri King now had a follower. He had correctly concluded that he was her bodyguard. He had also concluded that to complete his assignment on this day, he would likely have to kill both the bodyguard and Steve Monteith. He did not want anyone left who could identify him. It frustrated him to be so close to his subject, yet so far from determining how he could kill her and escape to the United States without being caught or detected. It frustrated him equally to be so close to the United States, yet so far away from returning there. His instructions were quite clear. Jeffrey Wheeler had told him that the killing had to be clean. Any connection between Mengalli and the murder of his subject would most certainly be traced back to Enerco. A high powered rifle with telescopic sight would greatly simplify his task, but obtaining one in Canada without the necessary background checks and permits was impossible. Killing Kerri King would have to be by hand, knife, or some other locally obtainable weapon.
CHAPTER 79
The Prince of Wales Hotel, Niagara on the Lake.
A stunningly beautiful five star hotel at the corner of King and Picton Streets, The Prince of Wales was one of the finest in the entire Niagara Region. Its rust and white brick exterior walls and cedar shake mansard roof line with dormer windows made it look like it had been transplanted from downtown Paris. Its false porch and pillars were festooned with hanging baskets containing thousands of local flowers of every color of the rainbow. It was a destination for tourists wishing to stay and enjoy the visual and gastronomic delights of the area.
Steve and Kerri, having finished a day of touring and shopping, showered and changed in their third story suite, then headed for the Churchill Lounge on the hotel’s main floor. Steve wore fresh khaki trousers, a white Polo shirt, and a navy blue blazer. Despite his protestations, Kerri had managed to convince him to wear a dark blue tie. Kerri wore a black satin ankle-length skirt and a white silk blouse. The two were seated at a well padded alcove for two, close to the fireplace. Everyone in the room turned and stared at Kerri, captivated by her amazing beauty. Hushed whispers were followed by pointing and progressively louder conversations as the patrons recognized her as The Iacardi Santa Claus.
Steve reached for Kerri’s hand and locked his hazel eyes on her. “I’ve never dated a celebrity. What should I do?”
Kerri smiled and winked. “Whatever your heart tells you to do.”
Steve stood and raised both of his hands, pleading for silence. “Hello, everyone. My name is Steve Monteith. I’m sure none of you know me, but obviously you know my date. Her name is Kerri King. She’s also known as The Iacardi Santa Claus. She is one of the most generous and compassionate women on the planet, and I’m fortunate enough to have her here with me tonight. I haven’t consulted with her on this, but I’m going to speculate that she’ll be delighted to talk to any and all of you and answer any questions you might have.” He paused, flashed his irresistible smile, and waved a warning finger. “Don’t even think about it. I need time to ask this amazing woman to be my wife,” he said, igniting an explosion of cheers, whistles and applause.
He again reached for Kerri’s hand and gently tugged, beckoning her to stand. When she did, he took her in his arms and kissed her with a passion she had never experienced. When the kiss ended, he reached into the breast pocket of his blazer and removed a ring. It was an eighteen carat yellow gold round with a one karat diamond solitaire, flanked by two smaller rubies, Kerri’s birthstone. He held it at eye level, then spoke, loud enough for everyone to hear. “This has been the happiest day of my life,” he said with a smile that never failed to melt Kerri’s heart. “I can’t believe I’m still alive, and the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen is here beside me… I love you, Kerri King, more than you could ever know. I would be honored if you would agree to be my wife,” he said, inducing an immediate and total silence. Everyone stared at Kerri, thrilled to experience the spectacle, and anxious to hear her response.
Kerri blushed, struggling to deal with her sudden exposure and Steve’s surprise proposal, delayed her response until someone in the crowd shouted, “Say yes!” A groundswell of similar shouts soon followed.
As Steve had done earlier, Kerri raised her hands, asking for silence. She then faced Steve and smiled. “I would be honored to be your wife,” she said aloud, certain that she had at long last found the love that had eluded her for so long, certain that it was real, certain it would last. She extended her left hand, allowing Steve to place the ring on her ring finger, then wrapped her arms around him and returned his passionate kiss, causing another eruption of cheers, whistles, applause, and numerous camera flashes.
Instead of the intimate privacy Steve had anticipated for his proposal, the alcove quickly became the focal point for everyone in the Churchill Lounge. The happy couple was besieged by well wishers and curiosity buffs, all anxious to congratulate them and interrogate Kerri. The session continued to grow in intensity until Steve raised his hands and formed a T. “Timeout,” he shouted as loud as he could. “Thank you all for your kindness. I wish we could stay longer, but we have to be at the Sha
w Theatre at seven, so we have less than an hour for dinner. We really must leave now.” He reached for Kerri’s hand and led her to Escabèche, the hotel’s famous dining room.
The happy couple was warmly greeted at the dining room’s entrance by the maître d’hôtel. “Congratulations, Mister Monteith and Miss King. Dinner is on us. Our sommelier will see to it that you have a bottle of our finest champagne to assist your digestion. Please follow me,” he said, then led them to their table. They were treated to a dinner consisting of roast carrot and leak soup, Escabèche Caesar salad, and Northern Canadian elk, with creamed potatoes, sautéed mushrooms, and heirloom spinach. Even if there was enough time for desert, both would have declined. They were full and had thirty minutes to curtain time at the Shaw Festival Theater, one kilometer from the hotel. It was time to see Pygmalion.
CHAPTER 80
Steve and Kerri left The Prince of Wales at 6:40 P.M. and hurried to Kerri’s BMW at the rear of the hotel. Driving on Queen’s Parade, Steve managed to park in the Shaw Theater’s lot and follow Kerri into the building with 30 seconds to spare before curtain time.
Itzic Neiman, driving his black 200 Mercedes E320, found an empty parking space at the rear of the lot. He turned the motor off, hoisted himself from his vehicle, then scanned the lot to ensure no one was looking at him. Satisfied that he was unnoticed, he walked to a densely treed area behind the lot and urinated. When he finished, he zipped his fly and returned to his car. He lit a cigarette and leaned against his front fender.