Simple Genius

Chapter 2

Sean King stared out across the calm wedge of river in the rapidly fading light. Something was going on with Michelle Maxwell and he didn’t know how to deal with it. His partner was growing more depressed each day and this melancholy was becoming entrenched.

In the face of this troubling development he’d suggested that they move back to the Washington, D.C., area and start anew. Yet, the change of scenery had not helped. And with funds low and work scarce in the highly competitive D.C. area, Sean had been forced to accept some largesse from a buddy who’d scored big in the world of private security consulting, selling his company to one of the global players.

Sean and Michelle were currently staying in the guesthouse of the friend’s large river estate south of Washington. At least Sean was; Michelle had not been around for several days now. And she was no longer answering her cell phone. The last night she had come home she’d been so wasted he’d laid into her for getting behind the wheel in that condition. By the time he got up the next morning, she was gone.

He ran his finger over Michelle’s racing scull that was tied to a cleat on the dock he was sitting on. Michelle Maxwell was a natural athlete, an Olympic medalist in rowing, an exercise fanatic beyond all reason, and held various martial arts black belts enabling her to kick other people’s butts in multiple and painful ways. Yet the scull had lain untouched since they’d arrived here. And she didn’t go running on the nearby bike path and showed no interest in any other physical activity. At last Sean had pressed her to get professional help.

“I’m out of options,” she’d replied with a grimness that had startled him. He knew her to be impetuous, often acting on gut instincts. That sometimes ended up getting you killed.

And so now he was watching the day end and wondering if she was okay.

Hours later, while he was still sitting on the dock, the screams reached Sean’s ears. He wasn’t startled by it; he was pissed. He slowly rose and headed up the planked steps away from the calm of the river.

He stopped at the guesthouse near the large swimming pool to grab a baseball bat and some cotton balls, which he stuffed in his ears. Sean King was a big man, six-two, over two hundred fairly trim pounds, but he was pushing forty-five and his knees were gimpy and his right shoulder suspect from a long-ago injury. So he always took the damn bat. And the cotton balls. On the way up he looked across the privacy fence and noted the older woman staring back at him in the dark, arms crossed and scowling.

“I’m going up, Mrs. Morrison,” he said, raising his wooden weapon.

“Third time this month,” she said angrily. “Next time I call the police right away.”

“Don’t let me stop you. It’s not like I’m getting paid to do this.”

He approached the big house from the rear. The home was only two years old, one of those mansions that had sprung from a knockdown of a rancher a quarter the size. The owners were rarely here, preferring instead to ride their private jet up to their estate in the Hamptons in summer or to their oceanside palace in Palm Beach in winter. But that didn’t stop their college-age son and his nose-in-the-air friends from regularly trashing the place.

Sean passed by the Porsches, baby Beemers and hand-me-down Mercedes and marched up the stone steps and into the sprawling kitchen. Even with the cotton balls buffering the sounds, the music was so loud he could feel his heart cringe with every smack of the overloaded bass.

“Hey!” he shouted over the music as he pushed his way through the gyrating nineteen-year-olds. “Hey!” he screamed again. No one paid him any attention, which was why he’d brought the bat. He walked over to the makeshift bar set up on the kitchen island, raised his trusty wooden Louisville Slugger behind his shoulder, assumed his stance and pretended he was taking his cuts at Yankee Stadium. He cleared out half the bar with one swing and finished the rest off with a second sweep.

The music stopped and the kids finally started focusing on him, though half seemed too stoned to take too much of an interest. Some of the underdressed ladies started giggling while a couple of shirtless guys stared grimly at Sean, their fists clenched.

Another kid, tall and chunky with wavy hair, stormed into the kitchen.

“What the hell’s going on?” He stopped as his gaze settled on the ruined bar. The kid shouted, “Damn it! You’re gonna pay for this, King.”

“No, I’m not, Albert.”

“My name’s Burt!”

“Okay, Burt, let’s call your dad and find out what he thinks.”

“You can’t come in here and pull this shit all the time.”

“You mean saving your parents’ house from being wrecked by a bunch of rich assholes?”

“Hey, I resent that,” said one girl, who was teetering on four-inch spikes and wearing only a butt-level skintight T-shirt that left absolutely nothing to the imagination.

Sean glanced at her. “Really? Which part: rich or asshole? By the way, in that washcloth you’re wearing, I can just about see yours.”

Sean turned back to Albert. “Let me spell it out for you, Burt. Your father gave me the authority to clear this place out any time in my judgment things were getting out of hand.” He held up the bat. “Well, this is my gavel and judgment has been rendered.” He stared at the others. “So all of you can get the hell out before I call the cops.”

“All the cops do is come and tell us to turn the music down,” Burt sneered.

“Not if somebody tells them that there’s drug use going on. And underage sex and drinking.” Sean glanced around at the teenagers. “How would a felony arrest look? Think Mommy and Daddy would pull your keys to the Benz and cut the old party allowance?”

That statement cleared half the room. The other half disappeared when Burt tried to jump Sean and caught the handle of the bat in his gut for the trouble. Sean grabbed the kid by his shirt collar and hauled him off the floor.

“I’m gonna be sick,” Burt moaned. “I’m gonna be sick!”

“Just take deep breaths. But don’t ever try that again.”

When Burt had recovered he said, “I’ll get you for this.”

“What you’re going to do is clean up this place.”

“I’m not doing shit!”

Sean grabbed the young man’s arm and gave it a twist. “You clean up this place or we can take a ride down to the police station.” Sean pointed his bat at the dregs of the smashed bar. “I’ll be back in an hour to check on the progress, Albert.”

Only Sean wouldn’t come back in an hour. Forty minutes later, Sean received the call on his cell phone. Michelle was lying unconscious in a hospital in D.C. after having been arrested for felony assault. He nearly smashed down the front door on his way to the car.