Gordon looked up to the ceiling, thinking. “North central. That’s what, downtown up to North Main and over to Hardy?”
“Pretty much.”
“All the banks in that section?”
“Yes.”
“How was Mr. Kingsbury acting recently?” Lucy asked.
Page shifted his feet and slid his hands in his pockets. “We have a stressful job. We haul loads of cash and currency around. There's a lot of bad folks who would like to lighten our load. Our drivers like to blow off steam. Sometimes they may take it a little too far, but all men are like that, right?”
Gordon chuckled. “As rain.”
“Peter's that way. I don't get much into my employees’ lives as long as they do their jobs. Wait a minute.” He put his fingers in his mouth and whistled. Heads turned. “Don, c’mere.”
A man of about Gordon's age trotted over. “Yes, sir?”
“Anything strange going on with Peter, other than the accident?”
Don sucked air between his teeth. “Nothing more than usual. He's a little free with his money but hey, it's his money. He got all bent out of shape a couple months ago. Said he needed some cash. Was gonna work an extra job or something. Away from here.”
Page turned to Gordon with raised eyebrows. “That all you need?”
Gordon closed his notebook. “Think so. When do you expect Mr. Kingsbury to return to work?”
“Next week.”
Gordon thanked Page as he and Lucy walked out.
Out of earshot, Lucy said, “What was all that about Kingsbury's driving ability?”
“I just want a sense of him as a driver. Think about it: a man like Mr. Kingsbury is an excellent driver. He has to be to pass that driving test. Part of that test includes avoiding things in the road. When you swerve, you're likely to leave rubber on the road. But at the accident site, there were no swerve marks.”
“Are you sure?”
“When I went to the intersection yesterday, I sketched the scene. I didn’t notice any skid marks.”
“What about blood?”
“Nothing either. Maybe someone hosed it away.”
“Wouldn’t the same apply for the rubber?”
“Not necessarily. Skid marks from car tires usually come from pieces of the rubber breaking off and melting into the cement. Much harder to wash away.”
They both got in the car. “What do you think it means?”
Gordon started the car. He turned the wheel and headed back toward downtown. “Not only were there no swerve marks, but I didn’t see any of the darker marks that usually mean someone slammed on the brakes.”
Lucy slowly turned her head to Gordon, her mouth open in surprise. “You don’t mean what I think you mean, do you?”
Gordon tightened his jaw, his muscles flexing. “The only reason I can see for no skid marks on the road is that Kingsbury never tried to stop his car. I think he hit Victor on purpose. To kill him.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Gordon pointed at the activity of the police station. “This is where you can spend a lot of time if you do criminal work.” They sat in the lobby, waiting for Burt Wheeler to come into the lobby. He waved to Mike, the desk sergeant. Armed with his new theory, Gordon wanted to head over to the Amherst Bank and talk with the manager about Kingsbury’s most recent activities, but Lucy insisted they come to the station. “This is getting bigger than a simple hit-and-run,” she had said. “You’re talking murder.”
Gordon acquiesced although he didn’t think it would amount to much.
“Gardner, how in the hell do you have such a pretty lady at your side?” Burt Wheeler strolled over to the bench and plopped himself down. He reached across Gordon and shook Lucy’s hand as she introduced herself. “What brings you to hang around this clown?”
“Research,” Lucy said, “and experience. Gordon is quite passionate when he gets around to it.”
“Passion can only take you so far,” Wheeler said. “After a while, you need evidence.” He turned to Gordon. “So, what is it?”
Gordon withdrew his notebook. “Burt, I want you to hear me out before you start interrupting.”
Wheeler scowled. “Interrupting’s what I do, especially if the theory is cockamamie.”
“Then I’ll talk faster. So, you remember that guy, Victor Tompkins, who got hit by the car? Well, we’ve been doing some more research and…”
“Stop right there,” Wheeler said. “The case is closed. End of story.”
“I know,” Gordon said, “but you might need to reopen it.”
“No can do. The captain doesn’t like to reopen closed cases. Did I mention it was closed?”
Gordon nodded and talked very evenly. “Yes, but just listen. Can you do that? Listen?”
Wheeler narrowed his eyes.
“Want Lucy to say it? Then it won’t be coming from my mouth. Plus, she looks better than me.”
The eyes narrowed more.
“Okay, Lucy, you start.”
Surprised to be put on the spot, Lucy cleared her throat and spoke. “We started looking into Tompkins’s actions leading up to his death. His mother and sister thought he was working up until last Friday. We talked to his boss and found out Tompkins was fired four weeks ago.”
“So?
“So we talked to his boss and got Tompkins’s last route. It’s out east of here. What’s the county?”
“Montgomery,” Gordon said.
“Tompkins visits Montgomery County and something odd happens,” Lucy continued.
“Don’t care,” Wheeler said. “As soon as you said Montgomery County, I stopped listening or caring. Out of our jurisdiction.”
“Even if the weird thing was someone shooting at Tompkins’s car or trying to run him down on the side of a road?” Lucy asked. Her voice had gotten stronger the more she talked.
“Where was he hit?” Wheeler said.
Lucy opened her mouth, paused, then said, “Here in Houston.”
“Bingo,” Wheeler said. “Houston. I’m a Houston police detective. I investigate crimes in Houston. I don’t care what happens in Montgomery County.” He put his hands on his knees and made to stand.
“What if I told you the person behind the wheel was an armored car driver who had an excellent record?” Lucy continued.
“Even the best drivers have accidents,” Wheeler said. “The driver, um, what’s his name?”
“Kingsbury,” Gordon murmured.
“Yeah, in his statement, he said he sneezed and closed his eyes for a second or two. Boom. He hits the victim. It was an accident, pure and simple. The DA might press charges, but I doubt it. He’s too swamped. The family of the victim hasn’t come forward to press charges, so end of story.”
Burt stood. “Besides, what were you planning on doing with this? Your paper already ran the crime beat story this morning. I’m pretty sure your editor won’t want to run a correction.” He patted Gordon on the shoulder. “Nice try, though. Next time, have more evidence.” He strolled out of the lobby and back into the bowels of police headquarters.
Lucy patted Gordon’s arm. “I’m sorry, Ace. Guess we’re done.”
Gordon stood. “Like hell, we’re done. There’s something there. You know it and I know it. C’mon, we’re going to get more evidence.”
“Where?”
“Amherst National Bank.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The lobby of Amherst National Bank was large and spacious. The marble walls gleamed with the late afternoon sun. One featured a large, painted mural of various Texas landmarks and landscapes: the Alamo, bluebonnets, a basic Hill Country scene, the San Jacinto Monument, Sam Houston, Stephen F. Austin, and more. The painting flowed nicely with the Art Deco interior.
Gordon and Lucy asked for the bank manager. Within a few moments, Carl Bradshaw walked up to them, puzzled. “I thought you were working with Gerald.”
“Um, no,” Gordon said. “We’re here to ask you a few questions about one of the armored tr
uck drivers who had this route. Peter Kingsbury.”
“Yes, I know Peter. Good man. Is this about that terrible accident I read about in the paper?”
“It is.”
“Is there something more?”
“How was Mr. Kingsbury as a driver?”
“Fine. Just as good as every other driver who works for Mr. Page.”
“When was the last time Mr. Kingsbury drove a route for you?”
Bradshaw thought a moment. “Last week. Our deliveries always go on Tuesdays. He was in the hospital today when we had our regularly scheduled appointment.”
Lucy said, “Who showed in his place?”
“Well, Sammy, the guard, still came but there was a different driver. Mr. Page phoned ahead and told me of the switch.”
“Is that standard?” Lucy asked.
“Every time.”
“Any issues today?”
“None.”
“What was the new guy’s name?”
“Herbert.”
“How was Mr. Kingsbury acting the last time you saw him?” Gordon asked.
“He was the same. Maybe a little distracted. You'll have to excuse me but I don't see what this has to do with me.”
Another voice spoke up. “That's because Mr. Gardner is tilting at windmills again.”
Gordon recognized the voice and whirled.
Johnny Flynn stood next to another man who wore a bronze name tag with “Gerald” engraved on it.
“Hello, Gordon. What rabbit trail led you here?”
Gordon narrowed his eyes. “I could ask you the same thing.”
“You could, but then I’m working on a legitimate story. You know, the one I was assigned.”
Gordon thought back and remembered the assignment. “The artist?”
In a sweep of his hand, Johnny indicated the mural. “William Silber's last masterpiece. Lucy, doll, you want to snap a photo of it for me? It'll look great next to my name on page one of the style section.”
Lucy's jaw muscles tightened. She offered no response.
“You might take some free advice and get back to the newsroom and let this guy go. Gordie’s already on thin ice. Now, that ice is cracking. I'd hate to see you get all wet.”
“What are you talking about?” Gordon asked.
“Well, naturally you wouldn't know since you've been sneaking around. Imagine Levitz's surprise when he got a call from the sheriff of Montgomery County wondering why he had a reporter snooping around up there.”
Gordon frowned.
“Naturally he denied that he had a reporter in Montgomery County because, well, he never assigned that story. Then he asked the sheriff who was out there. Gordon Gardner was the answer.” Johnny paused and put a finger to his lips. “How loud do you think Levitz can yell?”
“I've heard him,” Gordon muttered. “I've even heard him yell my name.”
“Well, you missed it today. I didn't. I had a front row seat.” He flicked his fingernails along his lapels. “Think he may have even spit on me.”
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” Bradshaw said, “but what has this to do with me and my bank?”
Johnny turned to the manager. “Absolutely nothing, sir. It’s just an inconvenience for you. My apologies.”
“Actually,” Gordon said, “I’ve got some more questions for Mr. Bradshaw.”
“That he doesn’t have to answer because your little story won’t ever see the light of day,” Johnny retorted. “Face it, Gordon: this will likely be your last straw. Of all the shenanigans you’ve pulled in the past, this is by far the most egregious. The only thing left for you to do is clean out your desk.” He inhaled and looked off into the middle distance. “I’m gonna love that desk.”
Bradshaw motioned to Gerald. “Did you provide everything they need for the Silber piece?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then let’s get back to work and let those two sort everything out themselves.” Both bank employees walked back to their jobs.
Johnny’s grin widened in triumph. “Real journalism, Gordon, is doing the jobs you’re assigned.”
“Real journalism,” Gordon muttered, a snarl curling his lip, “is finding the truth when no one else is looking.”
Johnny merely grunted. “Sure, but look where it’s gotten you.” He turned to Lucy. “I’d be happy to give you a lift and put in a good word on your behalf.”
Lucy looked at both men. “I don’t need anyone to stand up for me. But I do need to get these pictures developed. To see what’s what.” She patted her case and winked at Gordon. “Sorry, Ace. I’ll call you if I find anything.” She patted his arm. “Okay, let’s go.”
Gordon Gardner stood alone. He watched Johnny hold the door open for Lucy and walk out. The afternoon sun was low on the horizon and the deep orange blazed into the lobby. Thoughts swirled in his head. He was certain that if he found the answer, Levitz would acquiesce and run his story.
But what was his story? What was the common thread? And even if he knew what it was, where was the proof?
Dejected, he walked to the door of the lobby. He glanced up at the painting again, then stopped.
“There’s something here,” he said. “But I’m not seeing it.”
Another idea clicked into place. Smiling, Gordon walked a little faster.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Gordon drove to the office of his friend, Benjamin Wade, private investigator, rather than to Wade’s house. He was in luck; the office lights were on. Wade’s grin was big and wide.
“Gordon Gardner, what brings you to my door?” He let the reporter into his office.
The desk in the waiting room was empty save for a typewriter, a desk blotter, and a bin of paper. The smell of typewriter ink and oil filled the room.
“Typing your own reports still?” Gordon asked.
“Yup, and will until I can find a secretary. You know how embarrassing it is to be a private eye without a secretary?”
“If you want one with looks, the gal I’ve been working with fits that bill.”
“She the one with you last night?” Wade asked. “Saw your picture in the paper. Not very flattering.”
“Thanks. What are you working on?”
“Still putting the final touches on the Rosenblatt case. I’ve got an appointment with a man named Elmer Weeks tomorrow or the next day.” He fumbled through his desk calendar, flipping pages. “No, three days from now. Who knows what that’s about.”
Gordon gave Wade a long look. “You know, after reading all those files Rosenblatt had, about the Nazis here in Houston, I would have thought that would be bad. It is, but I have a thing now that I just can’t put my finger on. Got a few minutes? I’d like to bend your ear, get your take on something.”
“Sure,” Wade said, “let’s go back to my office. My real office.”
He led the way to his inner office. On one wall stood three metal filing cabinets. On the opposite wall hung a calendar and a portrait of Franklin Roosevelt. The big wooden desk dominated the room. There were two chairs sitting opposite the desk. Wade plopped into one and motioned Gordon to take the other.
“You’re a P.I.,” Gordon said. “You got any liquid refreshment?”
“Gordie, not every real life P.I. stashes a bottle of hooch in his desk for late-night meetings. It’s not like your stories.”
“So that’s a no?”
Wade stood. “Of course not. Whiskey or gin?”
“Whiskey would be great.”
Wade prepared two glasses. Gordon downed his in one gulp.
“That bad, huh?” Wade poured more whiskey into Gordon’s glass.
“Potentially.”
“Lay it on me.”
Gordon took a deep breath and started talking. He began with the assignment from Levitz, the secondary assignment to Bruno Clavell, and then his meeting with Victor’s family. He made sure to mention that, with Victor gone, Naomi would have to do something about her mother.
“That got my ire up,” G
ordon said.
“And I know plenty well what happens when you get your ire up.”
“Something had to make Victor believe he was seeing phantom automobiles,” Gordon went on. That led him to Kermit Kernow, especially with the meds stolen. But that was a dead end. From there, he described how he began looking into Victor Tompkins’s last days, including the meeting with Victor’s employer, his excursion into Montgomery County, the run-in with the first car and the bullet hole in Victor’s car.
“Look, Wade, folks just don’t shoot at cars for no reason. Victor saw something out there and, well, there was that maroon car trying to run him down.”
“You only assume it was running him down. Maybe that farmer didn’t really see what he thought he saw.”
“Sure, but then how does Victor start thinking there are spectral automobiles driving around town?”
“Beats me. The supernatural isn’t in my jurisdiction.”
Once Gordon got going, he forgot the whiskey. “I still think it has something to do with Kernow. What kind of medicine does a shrink give a man?”
“Haven't the foggiest.”
Gordon bit his lip. “Be that as it may, we still have oddities. Peter Kingsbury is the driver who kills Victor by running him down. Kingsbury is an armored car driver who has the Amherst Bank on his route. His coworker said Kingsbury needed some extra cash. There were no skid marks on the pavements. That got me to thinking it might not have been an accident.
Wade leaned back. “What do the cops say about it?”
“Well, that's the thing. They don't say anything.”
“Really? Who caught the Tompkins case?”
“Burt Wheeler.”
Wade made a face that looked like he smelled something bad. “He's not the best. Even when I was a patrol cop, we all knew which detectives needed hand-holding. Wheeler was one.”
“He dirty?”
“Not that I know of. More like clueless. Dense even. He's most likely to zero in on the quickest and easiest answer and, like a bulldog, latch on and never let go. Which means that if you have any hope of dislodging him to see things your way, you're gonna have to have a mountain of proof. Where you at with that?”
The Phantom Automobiles: A Gordon Gardner Investigation Page 7