A pear-shaped woman in polyester pants entered the office, her chafing thighs the only sound for a few seconds. She set down a tray with a carafe of coffee, bottled waters, orange juice, and a tomato juice. I also spotted sugar and cream, two important staples for Maggie and me. More chafing, and then Mary disappeared as Granville waved, “Thank you, Mary. You’re the best, as always.”
The corners of his mouth turned up at the corners. “What can I say? You have to keep them motivated. Maybe she’ll turn the corner someday.”
He extended a hand toward the tray, and Maggie had I nearly butted heads lunging for the coffee.
“Oh, sorry. Ladies first.”
“Whatever,” she said, her mahogany eyes peeking up at me. “We can act like scavengers at the same time.”
I gave a quick smile to Granville, who pushed his rolling chair back a tad, then turned his attention back to his iPad mini
Our focused quest to consume coffee was caused by sleep deficiency—Maggie and I had been up almost the entire night. Upon concluding that the former DEA agent had indeed confiscated Javier’s actual fedora, virtually assuring us he was still in the city for an exact purpose we’d yet to completely understand, we’d proceeded to Motel 9, a pay-by-the-hour rat hole on the outskirts of the city. Months prior, one of my spouse-cheating cases had brought me to the fleabag. I was almost devoured by a spider web of rusted metal fencing before I survived the disturbing peanut butter episode that left me never wanting to eat the substance again in my life. Through it all, I managed to capture the images on my digital camera for our client. Success, even at the expense of future nightmares, couldn’t be overlooked in the PI business.
Unfortunately, my second trip to Motel 9 didn’t provide the same positive results. Essentially, we struck out, and not many people could say that about Motel 9.
Beleaguered, on our final stop of the night, we toured an apartment complex where drug dealers, prostitutes, and pimps ran roughshod over the compound. Broken syringes and crack pipes were scattered across the grounds. Every person we asked about Javier either responded with a vicious laugh or a plea for some type of illicit drug. On one occasion, a tall redhead offered a special, late night, fifty-percent discount for a threesome. The interaction between Maggie and the redhead reminded me that Maggie was ex-DEA, not ex-cop. While I laughed it off, my diminutive partner took a confrontational stance, threatening to take her in. When I asked to where, the hooker jumped in and said, “Oh, but I’d much rather be handcuffed and put in the naughty corner.” I cracked up while Maggie mumbled something under her breath before returning to our car.
With nothing more than a hat in our possession and a possible sighting by two teens, our trail to Javier had hit an impasse, and so had our ability to think straight. We headed to my place to get in a power nap. I gave Maggie my bed, since I didn’t want to expose her to a night of catcalls from Big Al. I took the couch, my mind stuck on an endless series of dead-end leads to find Javier, to try to understand his end game of this exercise.
I wasn’t a great sleeper even in a relaxed mental state of mind. With Maggie’s father lurking in the city, possibly planning another attempted murder clawing at the back of my thoughts, my brain never completely shut down.
Prior to running out my condo door fifteen minutes before our planned meeting with Granville, I managed to burn my cheap coffeemaker, creating a nauseating stench that led to a foul response from Big Al. “Full of crap. Full of crap. Full of crap.”
Slurping a hot mouthful of black coffee with three packages of sugar, I let the warmth soothe my throat all the way down.
“How’s the coffee? Did Mary make a good batch this time?” Granville asked.
“Mary did excellent work,” Maggie said, grasping the mug with both hands.
“It looks like you two spent the night on the park benches in Dealey Plaza. No offense,” Granville said.
Knowing we didn’t want to piss him off, Maggie responded with a simple, “Not much sleep.” And then I could see her lips press together.
“Alisa said you wanted to discuss an area that is near and dear to my heart, the JFK assassination. It relates to this case that kept you up all night?” Granville propped a hand under his chin, then rocked back in his chair.
“Possibly,” I said, now seated, taking another sip of liquid energy. “I can only give you so much information. I have to maintain client confidentiality. I hope you understand.” Even though Granville was a client on one case didn’t mean I could share every detail of this case.
He nodded, gesturing with his hand for me to continue while increasing the pace of his rocking motion.
“Can you give us a feel for the political environment in Dallas, around the country, even the world, near the time Kennedy was assassinated?”
Granville inhaled and adjusted his thick-rimmed glasses. “That’s the kind of question I live for. Honestly, I’ve given four-hour lectures on this very same topic. I’m sure you don’t have that kind of time.”
We could have four minutes, for all I knew. “We are pressed for time. Can you try to summarize? A CliffsNotes version.”
“For starters, Kennedy was our first Catholic president. That and the fact he was a wealthy man from the Northeast made people in Texas not trust him or his politics, at least people in the political arena. Kennedy’s trip to Texas had been planned for some time, negotiated to a degree. John Connelly, the Texas governor who rode in the same vehicle as Kennedy, was said to have been cautious about being seen with Kennedy, despite the fact he was also a Democrat. But back then a Texas Democrat was not that same animal as one from Massachusetts, especially one who supported unions.”
I nodded, letting the overall vibe of the era sink in a bit.
“Were you aware a US senator and the UN ambassador, among others, told Kennedy that Dallas was too dangerous to visit?” Granville asked, his forearms resting against his desk. “Yet the Secret Service did not adjust his security detail.”
“What was the danger?” I asked.
“It came from every direction. Back in those days, organized crime had its roots in a lot of businesses, different cities, not just in the Northeast. New Orleans and Dallas had its share of mafia-like activity. JFK’s brother, Robert, was attorney general, and had made it his mission to identify the mobsters and find people who would turn on them. It really created a huge amount of noise and panic in mob-run cities throughout the country, and in the unions.”
“You specifically mentioned Dallas?”
“There’s definitely a Dallas/New Orleans connection. Oswald visited New Orleans. Crime boss Carlos Marcello ran the scene down there; Joseph Campisi here in Dallas. Allegedly.” He used air quotes and chuckled slightly, as Maggie and I gave each other the eye, recalling Alisa’s reciting her research several hours earlier.
“Isn’t that one of the JFK conspiracy theories, the mob being involved?”
“Certainly. It’s one of many theories. Of course, many people have pointed to the Oswald-Soviet Union connection. But with the mafia, or mob, I’ve read several possible conspiracy scenarios. Various names have been tossed around. Some you could say had motive. Interestingly enough, the mob folks were very much connected to the scene playing out in Cuba, a well-known adversary of the United States, and Kennedy in particular.”
“The Bay of Pigs,” I said.
“Cuban Missile Crisis,” Maggie added.
“The Cuban Missile Crisis actually was seen by some as an embarrassment to the Soviet leader, Nikita Khrushchev. On the other hand, the Bay of Pigs and Kennedy’s overall Cuba policy were viewed as a public defeat for the president. By some accounts, the U.S. government apparently sponsored eight assassination attempts on Castro in the early days. It was a different world back then, as far as how much information was shared, what citizens were privy to. Everyone in the Castro government wanted Kennedy dead.”
“So it’s safe to say that anyone who was anti-Castro was likely a big supporter of Kennedy?”
/>
Granville nodded. “While a few blamed Kennedy for screwing up the Bay of Pigs invasion, he truly served as a beacon of hope for so many people, many in the younger generation, many from outside of this country. You remember his famous quote? ‘Ask not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for your country.’ Peace Corps enrollment increased exponentially for years after that speech.” He popped his pointer finger on the desk, his passion for the topic evident.
“Back to the dangerous environment here in Texas,” I said, shifting in my seat. “You mentioned Connelly. LBJ was Kennedy’s vice president, and obviously, he was appointed president when Kennedy was shot. Did—”
“What a picture that is.” Granville’s eyes looked to the window, his thoughts obviously elsewhere. “The first lady, Jackie, standing on Air Force One next to Johnson as he was being sworn in by a local federal judge, Sarah T. Hughes. So many people crowded on the plane as it sat on the tarmac at Love Field Airport.”
I recalled the picture he was describing, especially the empty look in the first lady’s face. How she stood there with so many people looking over her shoulder. It seemed so invasive to her life. But, as we’ve learned since then, she and her husband endured a lot of complications in their marriage, their personal world. Living under that enormous spotlight must create tremendous tension…not anything I would ever voluntarily seek.
“I can see it in your eyes. You’ve seen that same photo. Am I right?” he asked.
“Yep. Not easy to forget.” I looked at Maggie, who also confirmed her visual knowledge of the photo.
“Just two hours after Kennedy was assassinated, Jackie stood on the plane wearing the same pink Chanel suit. They say that LBJ suggested she turn at an angle so that when the photographer, Cecil Stoughton, took the snapshot it wouldn’t pick up the blood stains from her husband.”
“So LBJ was riding in the car behind the president and the governor, right?”
“He, along with his wife, Lady Bird Johnson. Texas Senator Ralph Yarborough also rode in that second car.”
“Obviously, LBJ wasn’t injured.” I made more of a statement.
“Johnson had suffered a heart attack eight years prior, so there were initial rumors that he might have suffered another one, but like so many other pieces of information that came out of this event, it was fiction.
I licked my lips and realized my mouth was parched. Too much pure caffeine. I leaned over and picked up a bottled water, cracked the cap, and took a swig.
“Have you heard any theories about LBJ somehow being connected to the assassination?” I almost bit my tongue when the words fell off my lips. It sounded ludicrous, but my thoughts kept going back to the murdered librarian. Maybe it was because my simple mind was connecting the political figures to two crimes fifty years apart.
“Sadly, yes. There have been numerous books written on this very topic, all of which are chronicled down in our museum, of course.”
“Of course.”
“Many point to the fact that Johnson believed he was going to be dropped from the Kennedy ticket in the 1964 election. One book outlines a plot where Johnson was the mastermind with the help of an Austin attorney. The author points to evidence of a partial fingerprint found near the window on the sixth floor belonging to a Johnson colleague.”
“Wow.”
“And then there’s the extended theory of the assassination being funded by Texas oil magnates H.L. Hunt and Clint Murchison.”
“Clint Junior was the original owner of the Cowboys.”
Maggie cocked an eyebrow, as Granville nodded his whole body.
“Does the name Hank Fitzwater come up in any of these theories?”
I could see Maggie lean forward as Granville drummed his fingers on his desk.
“Of all the names that have been thrown out there in various conspiracies theories, I don’t recall that name coming up. But, if my political science history mind is working correctly, I think I recall him being an aide to LBJ.”
I nodded, my eyes gravitating toward a swirling blue and gold pattern in the office rug under his desk. Definitely not cheap.
The door to the office burst open and without turning, I knew it was Mary by the thigh swishes. “Granville…uh, we have a situation by the window on the sixth floor. I think we need your help to…calm some nerves.”
I looked back and saw her jaw stick out, unmoving.
“Oh, I understand,” Granville said, popping out of his chair. “People come from all over the world, and when they actually look at that window, it creates such a rush of emotions. Not all the same, mind you. But it’s almost like we need to have a psychiatrist on staff. Anyway, it shouldn’t take me long. Have another drink. Back in a jiffy.”
The door shut, and Maggie turned her head my way. I could see gears cranking behind those deep eyes.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” She moved her hand to her lap, and I could see it shaking.
I nodded. “The librarian murder. Her father, an aide to LBJ, who very possibly could have been behind the assassination. I guess when I say it, it sounds absurd. But when Granville recites the theories and supposed evidence, it at least sounds plausible.”
“But was it plausible to my father?”
“Granville said that Hank Fitzwater’s name never came up in all the research and books he’s seen. And Granville is the authoritative source.”
“I’m not trying to put my father’s prints on that librarian’s murder. It’s the last thing I want. But if he did do it, I need to know. And I need to know why. It could help us figure out what he might do next.”
I thought about the research that Alisa and Justin were working on last night when we left The Jewel. I pulled out my cell and found no text messages from Alisa. I pushed up from my chair to stimulate some blood flow to the brain and found myself near a wall with a corkboard, all sorts of flyers attached. One mentioned the dedication of the new works of Russian artist Dmitry Merinov at the Dallas Museum of Arts today. I also found a number of flyers dedicated to upcoming musicals at Fair Park in South Dallas, my old neck of the woods, as well as Wyly Theatre in the Arts District, which made me think about Renee Dubois. Maybe my mind went there because she was the one who recommended me to Granville.
“Booker, you still with me?”
“Uh, yeah. Sometimes I can drift off in my own thoughts. The Fitzwater murder. Yes, it would help a great deal if we could get our hands on the library video footage. Alisa is meeting with that computer hacker this morning, I think.”
I typed in a quick note to Alisa just as the office door swung open.
“Okay, where were we?” Granville asked, blowing by us. “Yes, Lyndon Baines Johnson. A complicated man. He pushed through the Civil Rights Act, yet was caught on tape saying some pretty awful things, racially speaking.”
I felt a buzz in my pocket, and I read a quick text back from Alisa.
Josh just showed up. Says he knows u. Already working
Tapping the back of my phone, I picked my brain. I hadn’t known a Josh since elementary school, and he’d moved away.
I realized Granville had been speaking, but it sounded more like white noise at this point.
“The day Kennedy died is the day modern cynicism was born. Hope for so many was blown away with a single bullet, as one theory states. I’ve equated Kennedy’s assassination to that of a high-powered bomb, with shrapnel tearing through the very fabric of this country and many parts of the world.”
I nodded from behind my chair, agreeing with everything he’d just said, at least what part had registered in my brain that never sleeps. While his was a metaphor, I knew all too well what real shrapnel felt like puncturing your skin.
“What other questions can I answer for you?”
Glancing at Maggie, I wanted to ask Granville if he could make a definitive connection between the librarian murder and the attempt on Dominic Ferrigamo. On top of that, I would have really appreciated his insight into who Javier mig
ht be targeting next. But I knew I couldn’t go there.
“I can look at both of you and realize you’re investigating an ominous, potentially dangerous case.”
He threw out a hand looking for confirmation, but Maggie and I both remained straight-faced.
“Okay, maybe you can’t talk about it. I get it. It’s just that…” Granville got antsy, wiping his face with his hand, then he popped out of his ergonomic chair and took four steps to the two corner windows. I noticed the crystal-clear blue sky in the backdrop behind a couple of nearby city buildings.
“Do you need to share something before we take off? Something you think we should know?”
He turned around with a hand in his pocket, the other one speaking louder than his voice, which sounded stressed. “Fifty-plus years ago, Dallas became known as the City of Hate. Think about that. All across the country, people looked at Dallas as a pariah. I grew up in rural Ohio and didn’t move here until just after graduating college, but I can still recall hearing people talk about Dallas. Most of it was hyperbole, but I think you get where I’m going?”
Taking another peek at Maggie, I turned back to Granville and said, “There are a lot of people out there with badges and uniforms ensuring that the people of Dallas are kept safe. Many of the civic leaders want to also protect the city’s much different reputation. Maggie and I, as private investigators, are doing our part as well.”
I tapped Maggie on the shoulder and gave her the signal we needed to get going.
My phone buzzed just then and I read Alisa’s text.
Research on potential targets only found 1 of note; prez in town today
A wave of heat shot up my spine, and I could feel my eyeballs burning.
“I wasn’t sure if you were aware that the president is in town. Today,” Granville poked a finger on his desk again. “He’s throwing out the first pitch at the Rangers game this afternoon, then he has some fundraiser at a millionaire’s home in Highland Park.”
BOOKER Box Set #1 (Books 1-3: A Private Investigator Thriller Series of Crime and Suspense) Page 65