An Excerpt From “Executive Vengeance”
The officer wore a stylish khaki uniform, standard CHP attire. Cal especially liked the couture of the motorcycle cops - from afar - their neo-Nazi regalia and reflective shades. The patrolman motioned for Cal to get in the back seat of his black and white prowler. He’d been there before with Sgt. Fred Warner and Lt. Jim Becker of the LAPD when Richie Comstock falsely accused him of a hit-and-run. I need to talk with them when I get home.
Cal described the event but he had no idea of the shooter or the rationale. He said that his job took him up and down Central California on I-5 and US-99. Encuentro’s business plan had extended to the north, seeking multi-lingual and Hispanic patients. He’d recently started a new clinic in Merced and had another planned for Fresno. Nothing out of the ordinary that would attract an assassin.
“I was shaken up. No way I saw much other than a big gun and Nevada plates.”
“Do you have any enemies in Merced?” the officer asked.
“Some local doctors don’t welcome the competition, but there’s no way they would shoot at me. My organization has a long history of community service, and will be doing them a favor taking the ‘no pay’ patients off their hands.”
Cal was proud of his work. Encuentro looked after people from the remarkable variety of ethnic groups that lived in California’s Central Valley, including immigrants Southeast Asia after the Vietnam War. The diversity reminded Cal of his training LA County when a medical anthropologist counted over one hundred forty different ethnic and linguistic groups that used the facility. Sadly, America still had a serious case of xenophobia. Encuentro’s mission was caring for people that no one else wanted. Mario’s genius was that he made money.
The CHP officer seemed skeptical. No bullet holes in the Range Rover. Strange story. No obvious motive. Moreover, Mercedes drivers are rich and spoiled, not risk takers. Like the earlier version of me, they don’t stop alongside the freeway, pull a 30-06 rifle from the trunk and blaze away at a strange car. Of course, when I stopped to give first aid to an injured pedestrian I acted out of character, triggering a cascade of events that ended with Sheldon’s suicide. I believed the melodrama was over.
“Did you see where the shooter went?”
“I had binoculars but I couldn’t track him. What about the Nevada plates?”
“Lots of escape routes to Nevada, Highway 80, US 99 down through Kern county.”
“All I know is I’ve been shot at previously, and I don’t care for it.”
“Follow me to Williams, and we can file a report at the office. I’ll get someone to tail you as far as Coalinga.”
“Thanks. I don’t want to run into that Mercedes again.”
