Postcards from the Apocalypse

by Allan Leverone

  “Here’s a stupid thought. Maybe we’re looking for something Dad left on his computer.”

  “Nah,” Brick answered with a dismissive wave. “He wouldn’t have put anything sensitive on a computer. It’s too easy to hack into the damn things. Hell, we’ve got thirteen year-old kids breaking into DOD computers just for the fun of it, whole new classes of criminals using the internet to steal money and identities. No, Denny was too smart to leave anything important enough to kill for on his computer.”

  For another hour we kept at it, as the sun moved around to the front of the storage building, abandoning any pretense of subtlety and attacking us head-on. We riffled through the pages of books, opened letters and looked in envelopes, dug through trouser pockets. Still nothing. I found an MP3 player and decided to keep it. At least the day wasn’t a total loss. I figured my dad wouldn’t mind; the only music he was listening to these days was being played by angels on harps.

  “Hey, junior.” My uncle startled me out of my reverie and I jumped. I glanced over and found him staring at me with the look of a teacher trying to get through to his dimmest, most hopeless student. “What did you just put in your pocket?”

  “It’s an MP3 player,” I told him, happy I could finally be the expert on something. “You can play music on it.”

  “You can play music on it,” he mimicked me in a falsetto voice. I hated it when he did that. He knew I hated it, of course, which was why he did it. “Do you ever recall your father listening to music? Ever?”

  I shook my head. “Well, no,” I said, “but then again I’ve been gone for a while.”

  “I realize I’m the old fart here,” he said, “but isn’t an MP3 player nothing more than a portable computer hard drive?”

  “Yeah, I guess so,” I said, shrugging my shoulders. I realize how dumb it makes me look that I still didn’t see what he was driving at, but in my defense, it was hot and I was tired.

  “And what could you do with a portable hard drive that looks like an MP3 player?” my uncle asked, in a tone filled with false patience.

  The other shoe finally dropped. “You can put sensitive information on it and keep it with you, and no one would be the wiser,” I answered, happy that I had caught on. Better late than never, after all.

  Uncle Brick straightened up, looking a lot livelier than I felt. “I think we’re done here for today,” he told me, and moved straight to his Mercedes, where he sat in air-conditioned comfort while I tossed all my dad’s stuff back into the giant oven and locked it up.

  When I finally finished, dropping into the blessedly cool car and complaining about his untimely retreat, he simply said, “eighty,” pointing to himself, and “forty-two,” pointing to me. I shut my mouth and let him drive us back to the office.

  ***

  “Well, I’ll be damned.” Brick and I were knocking back a couple of beers and looking at his twenty-one inch, flat screen computer monitor. For an eighty year old, self-proclaimed “fossil,” my uncle sure had some fancy equipment in the office. Right now, that fancy equipment was showing us the information my dad had been holding for Robert Billingsley, presumably while he tried to decide how to handle the situation the man had gotten himself into.

  Glowing on the monitor were two sets of financial records for the accounting firm of Higgins and Dawes, Billingsley’s employer. Or at least they had been his employer, until poor Mr. Billingsley found himself staring up at the underside of a cement truck. One set of records, no doubt the one H&D kept available for public consumption, showed a healthy, thriving business. The other set, which was the accurate one and the discovery of which had gotten Billingsley killed, revealed a company teetering on the verge of utter financial devastation thanks to the looting of the firm, presumably by either Mr. Higgins or Mr. Dawes.

  Clearly Dad hadn’t realized how desperate the looter would be when he realized his treachery had been discovered; otherwise he would have taken more immediate action. Then, of course, he had received a lead shower supplied by one or more unknown assailants, and just like that, the financial shenanigans of Higgins or Dawes became the least of his concerns.

  Uncle Brick theorized that the guilty party or parties at H&D had found out Billingsley was on to them. Perhaps the accountant had confronted them himself, not realizing the extent of the danger he was in. They weren’t aware that Billingsley had managed to smuggle out proof, so they killed him. Shortly after that, Dad was dead himself. If Maggie Billingsley hadn’t come to us with her suspicions, or should I say her certainty, that foul play was involved in the death of her husband, no one would ever have been the wiser.

  The obvious question now, so obvious in fact that even I could see it, was how should we proceed?

  ***

  The following morning, bright and early, Brick and I found ourselves headed uptown to the accounting firm of Higgins and Dawes, where Robert Billingsley had labored for the past seven years. We were dressed in suits and ties, and I couldn’t help appreciating the irony of the fact that had I quit accounting to become a private investigator and my first case was taking me to—where else?—an accounting firm. I could almost hear Allison snickering from three thousand miles away.

  “Shouldn’t we have some sort of plan?” I asked Brick as we walked along the busy sidewalks of Boston’s financial district. All around us, thousands of people hurried to their places of employment, preparing to move billions of dollars of mostly electronic money around the world, making decisions that would directly affect the lives of thousands or maybe even millions of people.

  “We do have a plan.”

  “Really. And what would the plan be, exactly?”

  “We ask Mr. Dawes if he killed Robert Billingsley because Billingsley discovered Dawes has been embezzling money from his own company.”

  “Small talk doesn’t work for you, does it?”

  My uncle laughed and I took that as a sign I should go ahead and ask my next question, since he had been so forthcoming in sharing the intricacies of the plan and all. “I understand the thief had to have been one of the top guys, since the embezzlement is so far-reaching and complete, but what makes you so sure it’s Dawes and not Higgins? Or maybe they’re in on it together.”

  Uncle Brick looked sideways at me, not even slowing his pace as he answered. “George Higgins has been dead for over ten years, which in my long experience makes for one damned near unshakeable alibi.”

  “Ah.” I nodded sagely. “I’m going to stop asking questions now. If you don’t mind, maybe you should lead the interrogation when we arrive at Dawes’s office.”

  “If you insist,” my uncle agreed, and it’s lucky he did, because I was so winded from the pace he was setting that it was going to be at least thirty minutes after our arrival before I would be able to speak without panting like a lovesick hound dog anyway.

  We turned into the massive building housing the offices of Higgins and Dawes. It was constructed of concrete, glass and steel and like most of the construction in this four hundred year old city, reached for the sky to make the most out of the cramped land mass Boston was built on. I sometimes thought it would be a miracle if the whole city didn’t one day just sink into the ocean from the weight of all the buildings and people. I supposed if New York was still above water, Boston would probably be okay for a while yet.

  The offices we were looking for were located on the ninth floor, a fact Brick seemed to know without even looking at the directory located in the lobby. He strode to the bank of elevators, me dutifully following behind and trying to catch my breath, and we stepped into the first available car.

  Walking into the reception area of Higgins and Dawes was like stepping into the very definition of opulence. Plush, dark green carpeting complemented the wood tones in the waiting area, with thick leather easy chairs encircling the large, airy room. Lighting was provided by a huge crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling. The whole thing felt a little like a set from the old TV series, “The Love Boat.” I half expected
Captain Steubing or perhaps Julie to walk around the corner at any moment.

  I whispered to Brick, “Maybe all the money went to pay for that big light.”

  He gave me a look I couldn’t decipher and strolled to the receptionist’s desk. I worked for a pretty high-powered firm when I was in L.A. and I don’t think even the founding partners had desks as big as the one the tiny, platinum-blonde receptionist was sitting behind. The whole scene created a slightly unreal effect, like I was looking at a living, breathing Dali painting or something.

  My uncle was at his most courtly as he approached the desk and told the young woman, “Please tell Mr. Dawes that some friends from Callahan Investigations are here to see him.”

  She picked up the phone and passed the message as requested, presumably to Harold Dawes, then seemed to be doing a lot of listening. Her expression became more and more sour as she got an earful from the person on the other end of the line. The young woman looked up and before she could say anything, Brick said, “To answer your next question, no, we do not have an appointment, but I’m certain he will want to make time in his busy schedule for us. Just advise him that we’re from Callahan Investigations and we’re here regarding Robert Billingsley and a certain item he left in our care prior to his untimely demise.”

  After passing that portion of the message, Blondie listened a little longer and then said, “There are two of them.” I assumed this was meant for Dawes’ ears, since Brick and I already knew there were two of us.

  It was clear the petite blonde receptionist had had more than enough of Brick and me by now, but after another minute or so, she hung up, smiled gamely at us, and said, “Mr. Dawes will see you now.”

  As we followed her down the hall to Dawes’ inner sanctum, two thoughts struck me. First, I could see that not all of Blondie’s attributes involved answering the telephone and directing customer traffic—she was dressed to impress and had the body to do it. Second, there didn’t seem to be much in the way of customer traffic to direct besides the two of us, and we hadn’t even had an appointment.

  We were led into a spacious, elegantly appointed office that made the waiting area we had just left look positively shabby. Seated behind a shiny mahogany desk the approximate size of the old Boston Garden was a portly man who appeared to be in his mid-sixties, complete with white hair and three-piece suit. A gold watch-chain hung from the man’s vest pocket. He looked like the guy from the old “Monopoly” board game. I wondered what he could have been doing that was so important he resisted seeing us, since there didn’t appear to be a single item on the desk in front of him.

  The man rose at our entrance and extended his hand to my uncle and then to me. “Gentlemen,” he said, “I’m Harold Dawes. Please accept my condolences on the tragic loss of Dennis Callahan. Now, how can I help you today?”

  Blondie exited the room, pulling the door closed behind her. It seemed more a matter of form than necessity, since as near as I could tell, there was not a soul in the entire office suite besides the four of us.

  Brick got right to the point. “I think your man Billingsley was a bit more creative than you may have given him credit for. When your people killed him they weren’t able to locate the evidence he had taken of your creative bookkeeping, or perhaps they didn’t realize he had given it to my brother for safekeeping.”

  Dawes sat for a long moment. He appeared to be taken aback by my uncle’s direct approach. Almost as if to himself he muttered, “Oh, they realized it all right.”

  Finally he clasped his hands together and looked up at my uncle. “We’re going to do what we have to do; I believe your brother found that out already. And what makes you think we’re done looking?”

  He didn’t even attempt to deny that he was involved in killing my father! To say I was shocked at the man’s tacit admittance of guilt not just in Billingsley’s murder but in my father’s as well would be an understatement, but Brick didn’t seem fazed in the least. He smiled at Harold Dawes. “Why don’t I save us both a lot of time and energy, and put my cards on the table?”

  Dawes looked back impassively. “Yes, why don’t you?”

  “My concern,” Brick told him, “is for the well-being of the young lady who hired us. Please believe me when I tell you Mrs. Billingsley has no idea where the evidence that got her husband killed is or even what it is. I would like to propose the following: You leave Mrs. Billingsley alone to get on with what’s left of her life, and we will not pursue your firm regarding the dual books you have employed for the past several years.”

  Dawes stared at Brick for a long moment. “Who else knows about this evidence, Mr. Callahan?”

  My uncle looked incredulously at the portly man, and then burst out laughing. “You can’t be serious,” he said. “If I say no one, are you planning on murdering my nephew and me right here in your office?”

  “Since we’re being so candid with one another, I haven’t decided what to do about you yet,” the man replied. He was starting to look more and more menacing to me, but what did I know, it was my first week on the job.

  Uncle Brick finally stopped laughing, wiping tears from his eyes and shaking a little as he tried to suppress another fit of chuckles. I could see the fact that Brick was refusing to take Harold Dawes seriously was really starting to get under the man’s skin. Given what we had just learned about him, I wasn’t convinced this was the best approach, but it was Brick’s show; he was the one with the P.I. license and all the experience. I just thought it would be nice if I could get a little experience, too, before I got killed.

  At last Brick was able to speak. “You should know, Mr. Dawes, that if something, oh, shall we say, untoward happens to either my nephew or me, the evidence of your ongoing financial gymnastics will be forwarded immediately to the Boston Police Department. This evidence is in the hands of someone I trust implicitly, and no, it’s not anyone you will be able to guess. So I strongly suggest you take our offer. Leave Mrs. Billingsley alone, and Callahan Investigations will leave you alone.”

  Dawes’s eyes were smoldering as Brick rose suddenly and marched out of the office. Since I had nothing to say which could add to his little performance, and sitting alone in a room with the man who had murdered my father was more than a little awkward, I thought it might be a good time to take my leave, too.

  We walked out of the skyscraper and into the blazing Boston sunshine. Once again I had trouble keeping up with my uncle, and it was beginning to get a little embarrassing. I mean, he was almost twice my age! I scrambled to his side and said, “You didn’t give that hard drive to anyone for safekeeping, did you?”

  “Hell, no,” he replied. “I don’t know anyone I would want to involve in this mess . . .”

  “Besides me,” I reminded him.

  “Well, yes,” he said, “but you don’t count, because you asked in.”

  “True enough. And this is a lot more interesting than helping rich clients hide money from the IRS.”

  “Less dangerous, too,” Brick added.

  “Did you think it was a little strange,” I asked him, “that the office was as empty as a graveyard?”

  Brick stopped in his tracks and looked at me with, I thought, grudging admiration. Or maybe the sun was in his eyes, I’m not really sure. “I’m impressed,” he said. “That’s an actual observation of a detail, one that could have a bearing on this case. Very well done.”

  I gave my best Aw Shucks grin and said, “You had already noticed that, hadn’t you?”

  “Sure,” he answered. “But don’t forget, I’ve been doing this a lot longer than you. Plus, I have a slight advantage. I know a little more about the accounting firm of Higgins and Dawes than you do.”

  “Care to share?”

  “Certainly, my boy. But let’s wait until we get back to the office, shall we? You almost stepped off the curb right in front of a cab just now. I’m planning on seeing your dad again some day at that big detective agency in the sky, and he won’t have many good things to
say to me if I let you get squashed wandering around the streets of Boston.”

  ***

  Since it wasn’t even lunch time yet, we decided on iced tea instead of beer to cool off with after our cross-town adventure. “So tell me,” I said, wiping the sweat out of my eyes and loosening my tie, “why was that office so quiet this morning?”

  Brick took a big swig of his tea and sighed in satisfaction. He sized me up and said, “Have you ever heard of Jimmy Kilpatrick?”

  “Of course,” I told him. “I haven’t been gone that long. Kilpatrick runs maybe the most ruthless gang in the entire city since Whitey Bulger skipped town. The cops haven’t put him away yet?”

  “No,” my uncle told me, “and there’s a reason for that. ‘Jimmy Kills’ is not just ruthless, he’s smart and ruthless, and that makes him extremely dangerous. But here’s the point: The reason the offices of Higgins and Dawes were so quiet this morning is because the agency has only one major client. Would you care to guess who that is?”

  “Jimmy Kilpatrick,” I said as a finger of icy dread worked its way into my gut. “Oh my God, Dad was killed by Jimmy Kilpatrick?”

  “Not exactly,” my uncle said. “You’re on the right track, but slow down a little. Harold Dawes has been doing creative bookkeeping for the last several years, skimming money from a firm whose only major client is one of the biggest crime lords on the eastern seaboard. Essentially, Dawes has been stealing from . . .”

  “Jimmy Kilpatrick,” I finished, once again feeling stupid that it took me so long to tumble to something Brick had figured out hours ago, maybe days ago. “So Dawes killed not just Billingsley, but also Dad, just to cover his tracks with Kilpatrick?”