Burman sneered. “Real cops don’t freeze. They act.”
Despite myself, I blurted, “Hey, I fought the shooter.”
“And got hit once and landed on your ass. Same witness told us that.” His head nodded at the door. “Get out of here. But watch yourself. Something tells me your new career as a P.I. might be a short one. And you won’t be welcomed back here, either.”
I stood, walking around the table. I stared into Burman’s eyes but they revealed nothing. I don’t always mind what people think of me, but, for some strange reason, I liked Burman and sought his approval. That would have to wait for another day.
Leaving the interrogation room, I walked down the hallway toward the front of the station. I heard a strange commotion up ahead. When I rounded the corner, a gaggle of reporters flanked the exit. Flash bulbs went off, blinding me. I held up my hand, shielding my eyes and turned away. One of the hulking officers was right behind me and I thudded into his massive frame. More flash bulbs and the first questions were shouted.
Burman strolled in from behind his two giants and grinned at me. I just about slugged him right then and there. He had set me up, making sure all the reporters saw me.
He stood in front of the small railing, relishing the attention. “Thank you for coming today. I want to make a brief statement about the murder of Wendell Rosenblatt. That’s why y’all are here, right?”
Mild chuckles from the gallery. More flash bulbs in the room.
“Rest assured Mr. Rosenblatt’s killer will be brought to justice. Houston’s finest are on the case and we have substantial leads that we are in the process of following up on. We believe this is an isolated incident and there is no cause for continued alarm.”
One of the reporters called out a question. “What about Wade? How does he fit into all this? Why’d you arrest him?”
Burman turned to me and gave his front-page smile. I dreaded what he’d say next. I was completely in his power and he knew it. “Mr. Wade was present at the scene. In his role as a private investigator, he was working a case. But with the murder, Mr. Wade’s involvement is at an end. He was just filling in some details we needed. Now, my professional detectives will be taking the case from here.” He nodded at me and then indicated the door.
I was dismissed. In front of all the reporters. Damn. The distinct feeling the captain had just killed my career coursed through me.
I waded through the throng, most of them giving me a pathway. I could see in their eyes what they thought of me. When I got to the front door, my reflection in the glass stared back at me. I saw what they saw: a humiliated P.I. who just might need to find a new job tomorrow. I figured all the other cases I was working would have their clients calling my office to tell me they were taking their business elsewhere. I threw open the door and stormed out.
Chapter Five
Outside the station, I walked just fast enough to leave the reporters behind without making it look like I was running with my tail between my legs. Burman made better visuals than I did anyway.
Someone sidled up beside me. “You know, you could get a reputation.”
I knew the voice of Gordon Gardner, reporter for the Houston Post-Dispatch. He wore his typical reporter uniform: brown suit, scuffed shoes, shirt in need of ironing, and a tie slightly askew. He and I were friends, but at that moment, I only saw a reporter.
“What do you want?” I growled.
“The real story.”
I brushed past him, wanting to get as much distance from Burman as possible. I wouldn’t put it past him to make a show of asking just one more question, especially with the photographers at the ready. Gardner strolled along behind me.
It wasn’t too long before I realized an obvious fact: I didn’t have a ride. I stopped and Gardner caught up to me. “Need a lift?”
My mouth twitched in what could only be described as an involuntary smile. “Yeah.”
“Tell me everything?”
I pursed my lips. A realization dawned on me: I needed a way to get my own story out to oppose Burman’s. And now, I had the perfect way. “Yup.” I glanced at my watch. Too late to make the evening edition. “Where’s your car? I’ll tell you on the road. I want to get away from here.”
Gardner nodded and spun his keys around his finger. “This way. I just need a story I can deliver by midnight for the morning edition.”
Minutes later, we were driving out of downtown and back to the neighborhood. I spilled almost everything I knew which, when laid out in some sort of order, didn’t amount to much. I held back on my client’s name. Gardner had his ear to the beat of our town and I didn’t want to chance that he’d know her.
Gardner listened and didn’t interrupt. When I was done, he asked, “So, how do you know the stop in Galveston was unscheduled?”
“Because I spoke with the harbor master. According to his logs, he was to let the ship pass on through to the ship channel. When they got the request to dock, they had to make special accommodations.”
He glanced over at me from behind the wheel of his Ford Lincoln-Zephyr. “You think Rosenblatt had anything to do with the ship?”
“I don’t know. It was one of the things I was going to ask him when I found him.”
Gardner whistled softly. “Man, what kind of clout do you have to have to get a liner to make an unscheduled stop?”
“A lot.” I glanced out the window and peered through the side mirror. I wondered which set of headlights was the tail car Burman had put on me.
“What are you going to do now?”
“I need to talk to my client and see if she has any...”
“She!” Gardner snapped his fingers. “I knew it. This involves a girl, right? Who is she?”
“Can’t say right now.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
I considered. “Won’t. For now. I have a couple of things to work out before I tell you everything.”
“Think we can have a story by morning?”
“Pretty sure, at least an initial one to counter Burman’s. Tell you what. Drop me off at my car and then get busy on your story. Write it up based on the facts I’ve given you, but let me proof it before you send it in. I’ll probably have some more info once I meet with her.”
Gardner nodded and pulled away.
Oak Street at night was bright with street lights. Warm, yellow light emerged from the windows of homes where families were together. I had a pang of regret. I’d had chances to have an easier life, but things hadn’t worked out that way. So far.
I looked at the darkened windows of the house where I had found Rosenblatt. I seriously considered going back in. Despite the police tape, I glanced up and down the street. Cars were parked in driveways and along the curbs. I couldn’t be sure which contained the cops. Surely one would. It’d be the thing I’d have done in Burman’s shoes. So, I climbed into my Pontiac Deluxe convertible and started the engine. I leaned over and opened the glove compartment. My revolver was still there. Good.
I considered lowering the roof. Instead just rolled down the windows. I sped off to see my client and deliver the bad news that the man she hired me to find was dead.
Chapter Six
Lillian Saxton listed her address at the Rice Hotel, a large building in the heart of downtown that, if you looked at it from an airplane, resembled a capital E. She never told me where she was from, but her accent pegged her somewhere along the East Coast. Plus, with the Rice’s price tag, I knew she was rich enough to afford it. Her room was on the tenth floor of the seventeen-story building. I rapped a knuckle on the door.
“Hello, Mr. Wade.” She held open the door to let me in and closed it behind us. She wore a swanky dress, belted at the waist and hitting just mid-shin. The pearls around her neck matched the earrings dangling from her ears. Her red hair was bundled behind her head with two locks flowing down onto her shoulders. In a word, she was stunning.
“Going somewhere, Miss Saxton?” I asked.
“I was about to
head downstairs to the Empire Room and have dinner. Care to join me?”
“It’s a little too rich for my blood.”
“Then I’ll add it to your expense account. And, please, call me Lillian.”
She glided across the carpeted floor. The only sound was the swish of her dress as it moved across her long legs. I gulped and sat in one of the cushioned chairs.
She picked up a cocktail shaker sweating with condensation and gave it a few jerks. The sound of the clanking ice was jarring in the silent room. She poured out two martinis and returned, handing me one. Ice crystals floated in the clear liquid.
She sipped her drink. “What did you want to talk about?”
I downed half the drink in one gulp, letting the gin’s vapor wash away the bad taste in my mouth. “I found Rosenblatt.”
Her eyes widened with expectation. “Where?”
“My leads took me to a house on Oak Street. It was a strange place to find a man who doesn’t live in Houston. But, it turns out that Rosenblatt had an old college buddy who lives here in town. That buddy’s away on vacation right now so Rosenblatt used the house as a place to hide.”
“Did you find anything?” She sipped her drink, her ruby lips pursing over the rim of the glass.
Odd that she didn’t ask about Rosenblatt himself. “I didn’t have time to look because someone was already there.”
Her eyes widened.
“Yeah, and then the cops showed up.”
“So, he’s...where? At the station?”
I looked at her flatly. “The morgue.”
She gasped, losing her confidence for the moment. She put her glass down and collapsed onto the sofa. Trembling fingers reached out and withdrew a cigarette from her silver case. Seeing her distress, I provided the flame from my lighter, then lit one for myself.
“How...” she started but then faltered.
“Some lug shot him,” I said, pausing for effect, “just before he tried to do the same to me.”
She whirled toward me. “Are you okay?”
I gave her a lopsided grin. “I still have the same number of holes in me that I had this morning. But having someone shoot at you clears the mind, you know. And it got me to thinking. Who else might want Rosenblatt and the information he has?”
I let the question linger in the silence.
“Which leads me to another question: what exactly does he have?”
She inhaled deeply and slowly blew out the smoke. Holding the cigarette near her ear, she studied me. Having been in staring contests with defense attorneys in courtroom settings, I could hold my own in that regard. Lillian Saxton could easily have won that battle as well, so I did my best to remain stoic. I almost failed.
“I hired him.”
“To do what?”
Another inhale and exhale. “To find my brother, Samuel.”
I raised an eyebrow. “And where is your brother?”
“If I knew that,” she snapped, “I wouldn’t have hired Wendell.”
The use of Rosenblatt’s first name gave me some new context. “You know what I mean. The manifest listed Barcelona as the ship’s departure port. Your brother is missing in Europe?” The image of the war over there sent my imagination racing.
“Yes. Wendell sent me a wire saying he had found out new information on Samuel’s whereabouts. He told me it was unsafe to let me know, even over the phone, so he was going to deliver the information personally.”
I sat up. “And what were you planning on doing with the information?”
She looked at me as if I were from Mars. “Get him out.”
“Of?”
“Germany.”
Whole realms of possibilities opened up in my mind. I had the distinct feeling you get when you jump off a high dive and plunge into twelve feet of water. What had I gotten myself into?
A knock sounded at the door.
Our eyes met. Hers filled with concern, mine probably showed defense.
“Expecting anyone?” I whispered.
She shook her head.
The knock sounded again, louder and more insistent.
Chapter Seven
I stood and leaned in close to whisper and caught a whiff of her skin and hair. Any other time, it would have been a nice distraction. “I’ll get behind the door.”
She nodded. The edge of her mouth twitched.
I got in position, readied myself and nodded.
“Who is it?” she said.
A muffled voice said, “I have new information on your brother.”
Her brows furrowed. Suddenly another bad taste formed in my mouth.
She turned the knob and opened the door. Whoever it was kicked the door wide. It caught me on the forehead. If that was the intention, it had worked. I made a mental note to keep my hands up the next time this kind of thing happened.
A man dressed in a dark suit stormed into the room. He grabbed Lillian by the wrist and wrung it behind her. She yelped and her knees gave away.
“Where is it?” he demanded, his voice an odd accent I couldn’t place immediately. “It has to be here.”
I shook my head to clear the stars, then charged the guy. I’m not anywhere near linebacker size, but I plowed into him just like he was a quarterback. I caught him off guard and sent him sprawling onto the floor. He released Lillian’s wrist and she scrambled away from the melee.
My momentum carried me on top of the guy. I was in the process of getting up when he elbowed me in the ribs. The wind flew out of my lungs and I rolled off him, gasping for air. We had landed between the coffee table and the sofa, so he had to extricate himself. That was all the delay I needed.
Still heaving for breath, I stood and held up my fists. The man stood and turned to me. I recognized him.
He was the shooter, the man who murdered Wendall Rosenblatt.
He used the momentary pause to his advantage. He put up his fists and assumed a fighter’s stance. With his leg, he moved the coffee table aside, giving him more room to maneuver.
I grabbed the lamp from one of the end tables and hurled it at him. When he ducked, I moved in. I flew with my right, but he parried with his forearm. Good thing I was left-handed. My fist crashed into his jaw with a satisfying crunch. He uttered one word as he fell to the floor.
“Sheisse!”
I blinked at the word. Breathing hard, I turned to Lillian. “You hear that?”
She nodded.
“He’s German. Come on,” I said, motioning to the door, “let’s get out of here.”
She raced around the slumped figure and grabbed her purse from a side table. Then, hand in hand, we ran to the elevator. The car arrived and we got in, plunging straight for the ground floor.
We hurried through the polished marble lobby and out into the gathering dusk. We ran up Texas Avenue to Travis. Dozens of parked cars angled along the curb. Mine was along the north side of the hotel. Seeing my Pontiac, I reached into my pocket to pull out the keys. Then a strange thing happened.
Doors from three of the parked cars opened simultaneously and out stepped a half dozen men. All wore dark suits. Their builds told me they were well muscled. They weren’t holding guns, but I realized they probably had them at the ready. They effectively blocked our way.
We turned away and stopped. A man in an Army uniform stood before us. On either side of him were two MPs, each with a hand resting on their guns.
“Mr. Wade,” the man said, his voice gruff, “you and I need to talk.”
Chapter Eight
Despite the threat these men seemed to pose, I couldn’t help but be relieved.
Pointing at the hotel, I said, “There’s a blasted Nazi in room 1010!”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “We’ll check it out. That’s even more reason to make our escape.” He motioned with his head to a dark sedan with an open door. “Get in.”
Things began to falter in my brain. These Army men not only knew my name but also where I was located. Was I being followed? Now, they wanted
me to get into their car? Alarm bells clanged in my head.
“Now, Mr. Wade.” This time, he motioned with his hand.
Pulling Lillian with me, I started for the car.
“Not her, Mr. Wade,” the Army man said. “I think it best if she goes with Lieutenant Small.”
She and I looked at each other. The fear that had erupted in her eyes from the upstairs fight was still present, but fading. “It’ll be okay,” I said.
“How do you know?”
Well, I didn’t, but that’s what you say when you have no choice, right?
“Don’t worry, Mr. Wade. We’ll meet at a new location, one that can’t be traced.”
We parted and she was whisked away to one of the other cars. I climbed into the sedan and the man settled beside me. I glanced at the man’s name tag: Donnelly. The driver gave one glance at the traffic and then pulled out.
He turned, taking the car onto Main. The evening lights were flickering on and I saw a few couples already in their evening wear. The symphony was playing at the Music Hall. The Metropolitan Movie Theater, with its stories-tall vertical sign illuminating the street, already had lines.
Donnelly extended a hand. “Sorry for all the cloak and dagger stuff, Mr. Wade. I’m Captain Ernest Donnelly.”
I shook the hand but didn’t say anything. It was Donnelly’s show and he was in charge.
“I guess you’re wondering what’s going on.”
“Understatement of the year,” I muttered. I massaged my left hand still smarting from the blow I had landed on the Nazi.
“I’ll tell you,” Donnelly said, “but first let me ask you a question: what were you hired to do?”
I kept my lips tight thinking over my response. Donnelly seemed to know quite a lot, but maybe not everything. “What do you think I was doing?”
Donnelly smirked. “I think you were hired by Miss Lillian Saxton to locate the reporter Wendell Rosenblatt, recently returned from Europe. I believe she said her brother was missing in the war zone and she needed Rosenblatt’s help to find him. Having located the brother, Samuel, Rosenblatt was making his way back to Houston to give Miss Saxton a report. Soon after disembarking in Galveston on an unannounced stop by his liner, Rosenblatt went missing.” He paused, glancing over at me. “That about it?”
Wading Into War: A Benjamin Wade Mystery Page 2