Lethal Streets (A Flood and Flood Mystery Book 2)

by Will Rayner

  When he got to the spot, however, it wasn’t a car, it was a truck. And it wasn’t the broad, it was a crossbow wedged under the front bumper. T.J. looked up Post Street, but she was gone, Too many ways to go, too many corners. The truck driver was standing in front of his dray, hovering between perplexity and anger.

  “Call the cops,” T.J. ordered him. “Don’t touch anything and don’t move anything. That’s a murder weapon.” After examining it for a couple of minutes, he added: “Although I think it has twanged its last arrow.”

  Hurrying back down Post, he hoped he was exaggerating the ‘murder weapon’ bit. A knot of people had gathered around the shack but nobody appeared to be hurt. She stood in the shadow of those damn Wells Fargo pillars and watched me, he thought. Watched me walk into the Palace and watched me walk out. Waited for her chance and then took her best shot.

  At the shack, the arrow that had almost got T.J. Flood had impaled a stack of Double Detective magazines. “Those issues are ruined,” the newsie said. “I can’t sell them now.”

  “Sure you can,” T.J. said. “Peddle them as souvenirs. Find a piece of cardboard or something. Make up a great big sign, something like ‘Authentic Souvenir. Pierced by a deadly weapon during an attempted assassination at this very spot.’ Sell ‘em for 50 cents – five times your regular price. Better wait until the cops get here and take away the evidence, though.”

  Waiting for the fuzz to show up, T.J. surveyed the gathering crowd. Must be the most exciting thing to happen on lower Market for weeks, he thought. He kept a wary eye out for the return of the grey cloak, and also glanced from time to time across the street at the Palace. Perhaps the hubbub would penetrate its hushed quarters and she would come out to investigate.

  Chapter 11

  Lieutenant James T. Bracken of San Francisco homicide dug into one of his vest pockets and came up with the stub of an old cigar. He fished in another pocket for a wooden match, flicked it into life with his thumbnail and lit the cigar. The Floods had seen this before. Sam quickly filled his pipe and lit it. T.J. fired up an Old Gold. In no time at all, the atmosphere in Sam’s office was suitably conducive to serious discussion.

  “The thing is, me boys, the thing is, the attempted assassination of young Thomas here in broad daylight yesterday has brought homicide to the rescue,” Bracken said. “Attempted assault with a deadly weapon is such a dastardly crime that it cannot be ignored, indeed not.”

  “That means no more Detective Towser,” Sam said.

  “Detective Towser has cheerfully relinquished the Baggett file and is pursuing other crimes,” Bracken said.

  “Thank God,” T.J. murmured.

  “The thing is,” Bracken continued, “the attempted homicides involving Mr. Baggett and young Mr. Flood here suggest a pattern that is most disturbing. Most disturbing indeed. I greatly fear that this … ah … disturbed female may ultimately succeed, and that is why I am at your service.”

  “She’s not a disturbed female, she’s one crazy broad, Jimbo,” T.J. rasped.

  “Are you suggesting police protection for Flood and Flood?” Sam asked. “That is out of the question. We have our own cases to pursue; we have a living to make.”

  “All I need is a big palooka from patrol clumping along when I’m tailing somebody,” T.J. added.

  “Not at all, not at all, laddies. An extra man on the beat along Bush Street, with a good description of our suspect, thanks to young Thomas, and another one keeping an eye on your abode. Also, increased presence at Mr. Baggett’s residence in case she switches targets again.”

  “If she does, she’ll make preparations,” Sam said. “She had her weapon ready at the train shed and she had her weapon ready yesterday.”

  “She is also very patient, of course she is,” Bracken said. “Staking out young Thomas for … how many days? Then—”

  “Then watching me go over to the Palace and hiding herself at Wells Fargo because she knew I was coming back,” T.J. finished. “And all the time carrying that crossbow under that blinking cloak. Those things must be heavy.”

  “It is one of the lighter crossbows, I’m told,” Jimbo said. “A hunting crossbow is what it is, yes indeed.”

  “People hunt with those contraptions?”

  “Not uncommon at all,” Sam said. “The crossbow is more powerful than the longbow. More killing power. And they can retrieve the projectiles and re-use them. All part of the back-to-nature, life-in-the-raw movement.”

  Dad’s been at the Collier’s again, T.J. thought. Aloud, he said: “If they like life in the raw so much, why don’t they take off the factory-made duds they’ve got on and try hunting while they’re buck naked. Is there an outlet for these bows, I wonder.”

  “Not retail, my boys tell me,” Bracken said. “None have been reported stolen. I’m not even sure how legal they are.” He paused. “It was in perfect working order. The boys say she polished and sharpened the tip of the arrow, which was shiny enough to catch young Thomas’s eye. A crossbow arrow is called a bolt, indeed it is.”

  “I knew that,” T.J. said.

  “There is one other thing,” Sam said. “Thomas uncovered a connection while checking Randolph Baggett’s family history. It appears Mr. Baggett’s father had a young female assistant back in the 1880s.” His voice did not betray the tension between the two Floods about T.J.’s approach to Baggett.

  “I’m all ears, of course I am,” Bracken said.

  “The father was in the lumber business. He moved abruptly from Sacramento to Calaveras County and left his assistant behind.”

  “Knocked her up and ditched her,” T.J. said.

  “Thomas, don’t be so crude.”

  “The thing is,” Bracken said, “your theory is that this assistant bore a child out of wedlock and mommy raises her and whispers in her innocent ear who the father is. The daughter becomes more agitated over the years—”

  “Read, ‘cuckoo’,” T.J. interrupted.

  “And decides to do something about it,” Jimbo continued. “Would this sinning mother have a name, if you don’t mind?”

  “Braun,” Sam said. “The German spelling.” Bracken repeated the name softly to himself. He did not make a note of it.

  “There’s something bothering me,” T.J. said. “How did this broad know where Baggett was going? She knew he took the train to Bakersfield; she knew he was going to a meeting at the Palace. How does she find these things out? Loomis, a neighbor, someone she’s paying off at the telephone exchange?”

  “Derby and Kneith,” Sam said. “Mr. Baggett’s legal representatives. Remember, we do our business through them.”

  “Derby and Kneith,” Bracken repeated. “Would you scribble that down for me, Samuel? I don’t know them.”

  Sam wrote the names on a piece of notepaper and added ‘Braun.’ Jimbo Bracken tucked it away and stood up. “Motive and opportunity,” he said. “It looks like we have motive, of course we do. Now we must work on opportunity. By ‘we’ I mean homicide. We are grateful for Flood and Flood’s assistance, but no dabbling, please. You know what I mean.”

  He took a tentative drag on his cigar stub. It was still alive. “Boys, I think we have something, of course we have.” He put his fedora on and turned toward the door. “You’ll be available this afternoon, won’t you then, in case we need to do some more chin-wagging?”

  “We’ll be here,” Sam said. “The Federal Bureau of Investigation is dropping in for a chat.”

  “The thing is, I didn’t know turning in a false fire alarm was a federal offence,” Bracken said as he waved goodbye with his smoldering cigar.

  “It is apparent that we didn’t fool many people up on Union Street,” Sam said.

  “We fooled them long enough to get what we wanted,” his son replied.

  “Which reminds me,” Sam said. “I’m having lunch with Solly Silverman today. He tells me Sharon has agreed not to work so hard doing good. Tawny’s real name is Elaine Skinner. She’s a runaway from Eugene, Oregon.
Her parents sent down the fare and she took the Shasta Limited home. I’ll give Solly our bill. One hundred dollars – the equivalent of four days’ work.”

  T.J. nodded, It was a reasonable amount. His father could have tacked on such expenses as meal money and gas mileage, but one doesn’t do that to an old friend.

  ****

  Waiting for their visitor, T.J. eased himself into one of Sam’s chairs. “How was Margaret?” he asked. It was his way of apologizing for being so flippant a few days earlier.

  “The same,” Sam said curtly.

  “Contrary to popular opinion in some quarters, this Baggett dance obviously ain’t about to end,” T.J. added. It was also his way of reminding his father that their argument had been largely unnecessary.

  Sam Flood took a deep breath. “We – I – was wrong about this woman from the start,” he said. “So was Baggett, so were his lawyers, so were the police. It is obvious that she is unbalanced and seeking revenge for what happened to her mother 50 years ago.”

  So you agree with my report; big deal, T.J. thought. “Still a dippy dame.” he said.

  “No. She is impetuous and unstable, but extremely cunning. Acquiring that crossbow took planning. She is not ‘dippy,’ as you say. She is quite focused and dangerous. The transcript of your conversation with Mr. Baggett has suggested a motive for this woman’s actions. That is important. A motive is something we never really addressed previously. It can only help lieutenant Bracken’s grasp of the case. I only hope you did not alienate Mr. Baggett with pointed questions.”

  T.J. shrugged. This isn’t a kissy-kissy business, he thought. “A machete, a crossbow – although I suspect she didn’t expect to lose it. She is quite creative in her choice of weapons. One wonders what she will try next—”

  Sam was interrupted by Agnes, who announced the arrival of Special Agent K.C. Whyte. Both Floods stood up to shake his hand. Politeness but not deference. Flood and Flood traveled their own path. Whyte was small and dapper, wearing a dark suit and vest. If the Bureau has a minimum-height requirement, he must have just squeezed by, T.J. thought. Or slipped under the crossbar.

  Pleasantries first, then Special Agent Whyte got down to business. “Mr. Antoine Crespo is of extreme interest to the bureau,” he said. “He was taken into custody this morning upon his return from Honolulu. Several charges are pending. We understand your agency was involved in the raid on his Union Street residence – and in fact provided the impetus for that raid.”

  Antoine, eh, T.J. thought. Pretty fancy name for a white slaver. “We were just having a quiet smoke when all hell broke loose,” he said.

  “Of course. We also understand you had some contact with one of Mr. Crespo’s confederates. A Mr. Manuel Santiago. Mr. Santiago is a Filipino. He has gone to ground. We wonder if he indicated to you his involvement in Mr. Crespo’s affairs. We also wonder whether you might suggest his present whereabouts.”

  T.J. waited for his father to respond. It was his call. They could tell the FBI to take a hike and not reveal their sources. The Floods were not in the business of doing legwork for government agencies. Or he could open up and cooperate fully – and get them a gold star on their report card back in Washington.

  Sam Flood went for cooperation. “We interviewed Mr. Santiago in connection with a case we were pursuing,” he said. “A missing teenage girl. We … ah … persuaded Mr. Santiago to tell us where this girl was being held. He also confessed that he sometimes … ah … procured young females for Mr. Crespo.”

  “Did he, then?” Whyte interjected. He looked directly at T.J. “Your powers of persuasion seem to be quite remarkable.”

  “He actually used the term, ‘collected’,” T.J. said. “He collected girls for Crespo.”

  “He hangs out with the migrant pickers who cone into town from the farm country,” Sam added, recalling the half-packed valise on Santiago’s table. “Try looking for him in Salinas, Watsonville, Soledad.”

  “He’s also a very good dancer,” T.J. said. “Check out the dance halls.”

  A notebook and a pen had appeared in Whyte’s hands. He scribbled a few lines. Then he looked at both the Floods in turn and thought for a moment. “You gentlemen have been frank with me, so I’ll be frank with you. We found on Mr. Crespo’s person some photographs of the young ladies involved. He was in Honolulu, we believe, to show them to an Arab sheikh who was moored there on his yacht.”

  “A bloody flesh-peddler,” T.J. said.

  “Yes. We are assembling evidence for several charges. Kidnapping, forcible confinement, human trafficking. White slavery, in other words, although that is an expression only used by the popular press. His real name is DeFiore. He is Italian. A few years ago, he was trafficking in women in Miami. Snatched them off the beach, spirited them to Cuba and auctioned them. We were about to close in when he skipped. It is apparent he moved his trafficking operation to California.”

  Special Agent K.C. Whyte put away his notebook and took out his watch. All of them stood up together. “I don’t have to remind you that this meeting has been confidential,” he said, examining the immaculate fedora in his small hand. “You will be called upon as witnesses in due course. And, gentlemen, thank you. The bureau is most appreciative.”

  Oh, goody, a gold star, T.J. told himself.

  Chapter 12

  The weekend was spent in various fashion by those concerned. Lieutenant Bracken worked. San Francisco homicide never sleeps. Sam Flood spent the two days helping Amy clean the house on Vallejo Street. T.J. Flood had too much to drink Saturday night and was in turn gregarious, belligerent and sad. Sunday, he nursed his hangover on a bench in Union Square and tried to keep a bloodshot eye out for grey cloaks. His dippy broad spent the two days huddled in her bare light-housekeeping room, alternately plotting and dreaming. In her more rational moments she regretted dropping and losing the crossbow. She knew that if she had stopped to retrieve it, that evil man would have caught her. She had planned to use it more than once, but now she must make other plans. Agnes Wilkins went to a Saturday night movie with a girlfriend and enjoyed a Sunday picnic with her parents. The federal agents, sweating in the robust inland heat, finally found Manuel Santiago dancing on a street corner in Gilroy.

  Meanwhile, a private investigator from Los Angeles named Edwin N. Atherton pushed aside the remnants of his dinner and looked directly at his partner. “We need to bring some more bodies in,” he said. “There’s organized opposition from both sides and we’re falling behind. We promised a timely resolution and we may not deliver, not with our present personnel. We need more boots on the street.”

  “Damn right we do,” his partner said. “This is turning out to be one bitch of a job. But who is it going to be? Who can we trust in this screwed-up burg?”

  “I have an idea about that,” Atherton said. “There’s somebody in the Inspectors Bureau at the Hall of Justice who I think we can trust. We’ll get him to suggest a couple of names.”

  ****

  Jimbo Bracken dropped in at Flood and Flood late Tuesday afternoon. He was not interrupting anything exciting; the Floods were reviewing their financial situation, which remained positive. Most months, income managed to stay ahead of expenses, so they were comfortably in the black. There was nothing on their agenda for the near future, which was a welcome prospect after the hectic pace of the past several days.

  “Ah, an oasis of calm amid the bustle of the city, yes indeed,” Bracken said as he chose a chair. “The thing is, gentlemen, I have some news to pass on.” He reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew his notebook. At least the lieutenant isn’t looking for one of those dead cigars, T.J. thought. Can’t be planning to stay long.

  “The thing is,” Bracken continued, “the fingerprints on that wicked weapon pointed so rudely at young Thomas here the other day match those found on the machete recovered at the Oakland Mole.”

  “So it is the same culprit,” Sam observed. “I don’t suppose we expected anything different.”


  “Indeed we didn’t,” Bracken said. “It is gratifying, however, to have modern police science confirm our suspicions. And some additional sleuthing by yours truly suggests these very same fingerprints may belong to a certain Jane Brown.”

  “Braun-Brown. Of course,” T.J. said. “How did you dig that name up, Jimbo?”

  “Elementary, my dear Thomas,” Bracken said. “I took in hand your very astute observation that our suspect must have some sort of inside information and asked a couple of questions at Messrs. Derby and Kneith, of course I did.”

  Bracken’s hand fluttered toward a jacket pocket, then fell again. He’s run out of stogies, Sam thought with a flash of insight. That’s why he hasn’t lit one of those smelly torpedoes of his. Sam felt the need for his pipe at that moment, but refrained. It wouldn’t be polite. “This Miss Brown actually works there?” he asked.

  “Worked there, Samuel, worked there,” Bracken said. “In the very recent past. She has, as they say, flown the coop, indeed she has. Actually Miss Brown didn’t toil directly for Messrs. Derby and Kneith. She worked in their file registry, which is a joint undertaking by three legal firms.”

  “A central repository,” Sam said. “Cuts down costs. The clerks are not limited to just one employer. Which means she had access to all Derby and Kneith’s paperwork on Randolph Baggett.”

  “Precisely, gentlemen. Dates, correspondence, conferences—”

  “Train rides,” T.J. broke in. “You haven’t collared her yet, obviously. Does San Francisco’s finest know where she lives?”

  “We have an address, Thomas me lad, but the thing is, she’s not there anymore.”

  “On the lam,” Sam said. “I believe that is the correct use of the vernacular. Where was this address, exactly?”

  “And of course, you tossed it,” T.J. added.

  “In the Mission district, indeed it was,” Bracken said. “Small flat, nothing fancy. We conducted a thorough search, but there was nothing incriminating, except for the stub of a crayon. A red crayon. We have fond hopes, indeed we do, that our technical geniuses can lift a fingerprint off that little piece of evidence.”