Vinland: A Dan Burdett Mystery (The Cape Cod Mystery Series Book 1)

by T. Hunt Locke

  Brick excused himself from Molly and sauntered over to Burns’ corner. “You want to pay me now or should I sit on your porch tomorrow?”

  “Keep this quiet and quick,” Burns said glaring up at the hulking Cleary.

  “Just the way it should always be between us, Burns.”

  “Wednesday night. Six men, rough guys, plus the Captain and me. They will be armed with axes and plan to go in fast and heavy.”

  “Where are they launching from? Falmouth or Hyannis?”

  Burns hesitated. This was an ace up his sleeve. Better to feed Cleary the truth. He wanted to keep that winning ticket in his pocket and Brick Cleary off his porch. “Martha’s Vineyard.”

  Brick found the information surprising. He also found it believable. “The Captain wants to keep his distance from Chief Nickerson. Smart play.”

  “And he got shot at the other night. A bullet glanced his shoulder. He figured it better to have it fixed up on the Vineyard out of Nickerson’s glare.”

  “What time?”

  “That I don’t know,” Burns admitted.

  Again, Brick figured Burns to be telling the truth. Beckham would trust this rat only so far. “Ok, you done good, Burns. I’ll pick up my winnings tomorrow over breakfast.”

  Mark Burns wanted to protest but Cleary was off to his lady and out the door. A strange thought occurred to him. He had expected Chief Nickerson to have initiated contact. But, up to this point, not a word.

  The invitation had not been unexpected. Betty Ann Smith knew well Chief Nickerson’s rakish reputation. His advances had been welcomed. Encouraged even. The evening’s meal, a bottle of wine over a pair of lobsters accompanied by a shrimp bisque, provided the foreplay.

  Back at Chief Nickerson’s Falmouth Heights home they were ready for dessert. The door had barely shut before his greedy hands began their tour of her body. Undressed, Betty Ann was led up the stairway into the master bedroom. She couldn’t help but admire the magnificent view over the harbor provided by the expansive bay window.

  A rare excitement began to overtake her. Nickerson ordered her on her knees. She complied. He was old, twice her age, but he was strong. She felt his thick hand guiding her up and down. Career advancement demanded many often times unpleasant tasks. This was not one of them. She was building herself into a frenzy of lust.

  The Chief, his breathing starting to labor, pulled himself away and lay on the bed. Betty Ann followed and mounted him. She let out a deep moan as she took him inside. “Chief, no!” she screamed.

  “What,” he gasped in a stunned reply.

  “A rubber. Do you have one?”

  “No,” he answered, his voice betraying his disappointment.

  Chief Nickerson’s frustration was met with a beam of a smile. “Luckily I came prepared. I’ll be right back.”

  Betty Ann Smith walked down the stairs and back into the living room. Opening her purse, she found what she was looking for. Office gossip said that the Chief liked to ride bareback so she had planned for the occasion.

  “I’ve got a surprise,” she said coyly. Betty Ann then tiptoed slowly toward the bed her hands concealed behind her back.

  The Chief smiled. “Indeed, so do I.”

  Then, like a feline attack, Betty Ann pounced. She lunged towards her prey with a dagger at the ready. Her lust evident in her manic glare, the knife came down ready to plunge into its target. Then, at the last instance, a surprise confronted her.

  The Chief’s reaction had been equally as quick. He brought a gun from under the sheets, levelled it at his mark, and pulled the trigger. The stunned attacker fell to the bed. Her dagger dropped futilely away. Her eyes began to blur but she could see Chief Nickerson hover over her. Was he saying something? It mattered not. The look in his eyes, the hardened gaze of revenge, was clear.

  Betty Ann Smith was dead.

  “Allen, what a surprise. To what do I owe this honor?”

  Allen Wittenborn peered intently over Frankie George’s shoulder. “Dan Burdett. He is here I presume?”

  “Quite right, old boy. Where are my manners? Please come in, Allen. Dan and I are enjoying the game.”

  Wittenborn followed George into the kitchen where Dan was sitting drinking a bottle of Sam Adams. “Allen, I didn’t know you were joining. Great game. Broncos are winning.”

  “Have a seat, Professor,” George invited.

  Wittenborn peered around the kitchen and then peeked his head through the archway leading into the living room. He then sat down at the kitchen table with his back to the television. A small smile crossed his lips. “A bit of theater,” he said with no trace of humor.

  “Theater?” Dan questioned. “I’m not sure I follow.”

  Wittenborn reached into his briefcase and produced a pistol. “Dan, I am here to offer you an opportunity. Frankie, you too.”

  “That is a strange way of saying it,” Dan quipped pointing at the gun.

  “Oh, this,” Wittenborn said with a shrug. “Insurance mostly. Just in case you don’t see things my way. First, the map. Then we can talk about career advancement.”

  Dan suppressed his surprise. Here his graduate advisor and thesis coordinator had a gun trained at his head. He was one of Henry Sinclair’s men. Which meant he was party to the murders of Bob and Pauline. His blood began to boil. But, much like in the courtroom, a cool façade was the best way to exact revenge.

  “Clever, Allen, I must admit.”

  “In what respect, Dan?”

  “The attempt to frame me for the Westport murders. A funny way to promote my career however.”

  Wittenborn shook his head. “Not my idea. And I voiced my displeasure. Of that you can be assured. But, hear me out, Dan.”

  Frankie George sat silent. It wasn’t the first time a gun had been aimed at him. It could be the last. Best to sit still and let the drama play out.

  “You have the gun. I’m all ears.”

  “First, the map,” Wittenborn said leaning his elbows on the fifties style Formica table. “Is it true?” he asked his voice full of anticipation.

  “Yes,” Dan answered. “At least according to the expert,” he continued nodding towards Professor George.

  “Come on now, Frankie,” Wittenborn demanded. “Let’s make that transfer, I can be on my way, and you boys can be safely back to your game.”

  Dan stood up and walked to the refrigerator. He sensed that Wittenborn was at least familiar with the feel of a gun in his hand. But it was a prop. He wasn’t a murderer. The eyes can keep secrets. But not one of that magnitude. Burdett reached for another beer, pulled the pack of Marlboro Lights from his pocket, and lit up. He leaned casually up against the kitchen counter and took a drag.

  “No smoking,” George complained loudly.

  “We’ve got more pressing problems, Frankie,” Dan replied. “Best to give the man the map. While you go back to your office, Allen can outline my job options.”

  Francis George got up and shot Burdett an angry glance. He then turned his rage on Allen Wittenborn. “The map was delivered to me. I have neither the time nor the inclination to trek back to Harvard Yard on your account.”

  Wittenborn also rose from his chair. “Your office? Don’t screw with me. Burdett delivered it tonight. There was no time for a jaunt over to Harvard.”

  George gave a derisive laugh. “Burdett met me this morning. Certainly I don’t have the equipment to uncover any encryptions here.”

  “Perhaps you are feeding me a line as to its authenticity. Ok, so, Dan, what exactly is hidden on this map.”

  “An image of the True Cross,” Burdett stated plainly. “Pretty impressive. The map of the Cape that is. And, of course, Naushon Island.”

  Wittenborn’s eyes opened in wonderment. “Then, it is true. The map is indeed authentic.”

  “It isn’t the original Viking map,” George interjected. “But, yes, an ancient copy with an intriguing message.”

  “And one which will remain hidden,” Wittenborn said stif
fening his back. “If, as you claim, the map is at your office, then the three of us will be off for a ride.”

  Dan slowly reached into his pocket and slipped his keys across the table. “You’re calling the tune, Allen. A question if I may.”

  Wittenborn grabbed the keys. “Of course, Dan. But make it brief.”

  “This map, Jack Beckham’s Follins Pond discoveries, why the urgency to discredit and suppress?”

  “It goes to something deeper than pure historical discovery, Dan.”

  Frankie George snorted in disgust. “Tell it like it is, Wittenborn. This is a Freemason cover-up.”

  “I wouldn’t be so brazen, Frankie,” Wittenborn spat angrily. “Freemasonry built this nation and conquered a continent. Indeed, that plush office you occupy at Harvard, built by fine Freemasons. Your precious National Geographic gig? Also courtesy of the efforts of Freemasons. So be careful with your tongue.”

  “And I would be careful with that gun or you won’t get your precious map,” George said while taking a threatening step forward.

  Dan stepped between the two and grabbed George firmly by the shoulders. Then a shot rang. And another. Chunky bits of blood splattered around his neck and shoulders.

  Dan turned quickly around to see Vivi holding a pistol looking angrily down at her prey.

  Allen Wittenborn was dead.

  The forensic team took extra care to protect this crime scene. Bess Chadwell hovered over the process. Betty Ann Smith lay naked and dead sprawled on her Uncle’s bed in a puddle of blood. Satisfied everything was being conducted properly she retreated downstairs where Chief Nickerson was waiting.

  “You enticed her back here?” Bess whispered harshly. “You knew she was the murderer of Rebecca Leary. Vasco Gomes had given you the photo. Why not arrest her?”

  Chief Nickerson thought over the question and gave a slight smile. “Revenge. It felt right.”

  “Then please give me your badge. Apparently you are no better than Vasco Gomes.” The anger and disgust was evident in Bess’ voice.

  Nickerson understood her reaction. He hadn’t straddled a line, he had hurdled over it. His day, he knew, was done. Still, there was unfinished business. “Thursday morning. Wednesday night we have a mission. After that, this badge is yours but, until then, you’ll follow my lead. Make sure everything here is textbook. I’ll go back to the station and bunk there for the night. Also, I want a news blackout on this. Nothing to the newspapers nor television and radio.”

  This was a delicate business. Or, more precisely, illegal. So Brick Cleary had chosen two men he could trust implicitly. They were rough customers. The type of characters you did not want run afoul of but, on the other hand, the exact sort of person you’d want to extricate you from a jam. They were ex-cops.

  Which side of the legal divide they stood depended on who was sliding them an envelope. Tonight they resided in the murky middle. Walking towards Professor Francis George’s home they looked like two lawyers exiting a trendy North End tavern after a night of wine, women, and football. They fit in.

  Which was exactly the plan. Brick walked at a leisurely pace a few yards ahead. Dan had given him the address and apprised him of the situation. His friend had first thought to call the police. Brick had dissuaded him from what appeared to be the ethical solution. He had lived long enough in the murky middle to have adjusted his ethical gage to the level of practical. Brick Cleary was a fixer.

  Inside the home Brick and his crew quickly apprised the situation. Professor George, Vivi, and Anna were ordered downstairs into the basements secret compartment.

  Brick knelt beside Wittenborn’s body. “One shot kill. Base of the skull. Whoever took this shot knows how to handle a pistol.” His voice was clinical. Impressed. “But I don’t need to know. Other than it was not Dan Burdett. Me, you, and Molly were enjoying a pint at Grumpy’s if it comes to that.” Brick gave Dan a knowing wink and handed him a gun. “A clean throwaway. The way this is playing out you may need it yet.”

  Dan stood silent while Brick extracted Wittenborn’s wallet and car keys from his pockets. Without looking up Brick spoke. “I know how you feel about this, Dan. As an officer of the court, I guess, you should feel uneasy about this. On the other hand, you haven’t committed any crimes. In fact, the cabal this guy is in association with tried to frame you for a double murder.”

  Dan found an open bottle of Hennessy in the cupboard and filled himself a glass. He lit up a smoke. Brick was correct. He hadn’t committed any crimes. Until now. He was an accessory after the fact. He looked on as Brick’s men opened their brief cases. The tools inside were not of the lawyerly profession. Small battery operated saws, a hatchet, a bottle of some sort of oil, a macabre butcher’s set. Their task was clear.

  This was not a time for conversation. Allen Wittenborn’s body would be disposed of. Frankie George’s home would be wiped clean. He stubbed out his cigarette, grabbed the bottle, and made for the basement staircase.

  “One thing, Dan, before you disappear. Wednesday night. A raid is being organized against Sinclair on Naushon Island. Thought you might want to know.”

  “Thanks. But old news. Vasco Gomes is planning his own visit.”

  Brick chuckled. “See you Wednesday then.”

  The four nervous faces shot furtive glances back and forth. They were in uncharted waters. Frankie George was the first to speak.

  “So what, this just goes away?”

  “In the best of circumstances, yes,” Dan answered. “Even the cigarette smell. Poof, all gone.”

  George fished in his desk drawer and produced a pack of Rothschilds. He lit up and passed the pack to Vivi. “It was a good play. You distracted Wittenborn just enough.” He wrapped his arm around Vivi and pulled her close. “And then Vivienne saved the day.”

  “This isn’t an Indiana Jones movie,” Dan replied coldly. “So let’s leave the romanticism out of it.”

  Vivi flashed a glittering smile basking in the glow of her lover’s praise. If she had not chosen the field of historical research, Hollywood would have been an obvious choice. Still, there was a coldness there. And, Dan made a mental note, she was a killer.

  Burdett continued. “You will need to find a place to stay. And I’ll need a copy of this map. Encryption and all.”

  “Not part of the deal, Mate.”

  Dan leaned over and pushed on the monitor. There they could see Wittenborn’s body had been laid out on a series of large trash bags which were placed to make a makeshift carpet of sorts. Brick’s men, now out of their suits and dressed in workmen’s overalls, were methodically cutting up the slain professor’s body up into small pieces which were then deposited into a waiting sack. They worked with precision.

  “Neither was that. Your lady killed a man. And I am now making that inconvenient shard of history go away. It comes with a price. First some answers and then, tomorrow, I’ll come to your office and you will deliver that copy.”

  Frankie George looked at his watch. “Fine. But not here. I am famished and we should be away from the, well, the…”

  “The scene of the crime,” Anna added with a hint of mischief.

  “Yes, right, that. In any case, it may help appearances if we have been seen enjoying a night on the town.”

  “Ok, I’ll drive,” Dan said agreeing with George’s reasonable suggestion. “Know of any good late night spots in Harvard Square?”

  “You want to know the ‘why’,” Francis George said sipping from his pint of ale. He then pointed outside John Harvard’s Ale House window. “There, on Cambridge Commons, is as good a place to start as any I suppose.”

  “Ok, I’ll bite. The start of what?” Burdett asked.

  “To what extent you believe in secret societies, they do exist. My father was proof of that.”

  Dan could not help but notice the disdain in George’s voice. “You don’t seem overly impressed.”

  “He began, at Yale, in the Skull and Bones society. This continued through his Harvard
grad school years and, through this association, gained him entrance into another elite club, the Organization of Strategic Service.”

  “The OSS,” Anna said her interest clearly piqued.

  “Oh So Social,” George said enjoying the joke. “Recruited by William Donovan, the OSS appreciated the tightknit cohesiveness secret societies employed. Freemasons were also sprinkled throughout the top brass of the OSS.”

  “You pointed to the Cambridge Commons. What is the link?” Dan probed.

  “James Otis, he of the oft-quoted ‘Taxation without representation is tyranny’, Samuel Adams, and Paul Revere assembled a militia here on the eve of the Revolutionary War. Freemasons all. So, in a very clear way, our glorious Revolution was the work of a secret society.”

  “You have lost me,” Dan stated.

  “Me too,” Anna chimed in.

  “Ok, let me be a bit clearer,” George agreed. “There are levels of initiation into any of these societies. And for most people their involvement is purely social. Or, more precisely, networking. Being in the club is good for business. For the select few, however, it is deadly serious. A brief history if I may. As a Mason goes through the 32 degrees of the Scottish rite, he ends up giving worship to every Egyptian pagan god, the gods of Persia, gods of India, Greek gods, Babylonian gods, and others. As you come to the 17th degree, the Masons claim that they will give you the password that will give him entrance at the judgment day to the Masonic deity, the great architect of the universe. It is very interesting that this secret password is "Abaddon".