The Fitzgerald Ruse

by Mark de Castrique

  Nathan stood and walked to his satchel. “So, I got you a little business gift.” He bent down and pulled out a pistol. A bright red bow encircled the barrel. “I know Nakayla likes her .25 Colt, but I thought you’d want something with a little more horsepower.”

  I took the gun. The balance felt good and the weight light.

  “A Kimber Ultra Carry II,” Nathan said. “I prefer it for concealment. Less than five inches tall and weighs a little over a pound. Small, sweet, and deadly. The clip holds only seven rounds but the forty-five caliber silvertips have the stopping power to get the job done.” He reached back in the satchel. “But just in case, here’s an extra magazine and two boxes of ammo. I also got you a Galco shoulder rig that you can exchange if it’s not comfortable. I like it because the gun’s horizontal under your arm. You can draw it quicker.”

  “This is too much, Nathan. I can’t accept it.”

  “Of course you can.” He patted me on the back. “Especially if you ever want a referral out of my company.” He stretched out the double loops of the harness with both hands. “Slip these on and we’ll adjust it. The gun’s under your left arm and the extra magazine fits in a sleeve below your right.”

  The rig fit well, and when I put on my sport coat, only a slight bulge on my left side gave any indication that more than my ribs lay underneath.

  Nathan stepped back and admired his creation. “Looks sharp, doesn’t he?”

  “Like he’s ready for the private-eye episode of Project Runway,” Nakayla said. “A regular Tim Gunn.”

  I buttoned my jacket. “Let’s not get carried away. The cover of GQ will suffice.”

  Nathan turned serious. “Both clips are full, but I didn’t load a round into the chamber. I belong to a pistol club that has a practice range off the road to Weaverville. I gave them your name for a guest pass. I don’t want the first time you fire it to be a life or death situation.”

  “I’d as soon that day never came,” I said.

  “Me either.” Nakayla handed me our copy of the phone work order. “The installer’s name was Vince Freese.”

  I folded the sheet and slipped it in the inside pocket of my jacket. “I’ll give it to Newland, although I doubt the guy had anything to do with the bugging.”

  “Right now we can’t rule out anybody or anything,” Nathan said. “So watch your back.”

  I patted the pistol under my coat. “Don’t worry. I’m armed and dangerous.”

  “That’s exactly why I’m worried,” Nakayla said. “When you get overconfident, then you are dangerous—to yourself.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “Well, I don’t know whose tale is stranger, yours or Ethel Barkley’s.” Detective Newland rocked back on the rear legs of his chair and folded his arms across his chest.

  We sat opposite each other at a table in one of the police department’s interview rooms. Newland’s partner, Tuck Efird, leaned against the wall by the door, a bemused smile playing across his lips.

  I ignored him and focused on Newland. “The woman may be a little dingy, but enough kernels of truth seemed to be sprinkled through her story that I’m not dismissing anything out of hand.”

  “Especially when you’ve got a hand with such great Napoleonic lines,” Efird said.

  I glared at him.

  “Hey, that’s what she told us,” Newland said. “And then you throw in Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves and a Nazi treasure chest.”

  I tapped the surveillance mikes sitting on the table. A larger transmitter rested beside them, the device Nathan found attached to our junction box. “These didn’t come from Radio Shack.”

  Efird’s smile broadened into a grin. He walked behind me and gently squeezed my shoulders with his long fingers. “Relax, Sam. We tease the guys we like. But I have to tell you, this is the most bizarre set of circumstances I’ve seen.”

  I tilted my head back till I could look him in the eye. “The only thing I see is Amanda Whitfield’s body. I don’t give a damn how bizarre the circumstances might seem to you.”

  Efird jerked his hands from my shoulders like I’d become electrified. The front legs of Newland’s chair hit the floor with a bang.

  The older detective leaned over the table. His blood-shot eyes held mine with a pained look.

  “Sorry,” I said. “That was uncalled for. I know you want her killer as much as I do.”

  Newland’s gaze went to Efird behind me. Whatever response his partner gave him must have been a signal to let it go. “Okay. Now what about this army buddy. How’s he fit in?”

  The detective had zeroed in on the point I was least comfortable discussing. I didn’t want to lie to the man. He was counting on me to do everything I could to help him.

  “Calvin gave me the warning when he came stateside. He’ll work the case his way, but I don’t know how much support he’ll be able to give us.”

  “Does he know about the attack on you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And Amanda’s murder?”

  “I’ve briefed him on what we know.”

  Newland nodded. “I’m not one to get into a turf war, but it’s a local murder case, not a theft and smuggling incident ten thousand miles away.”

  “According to Calvin, we lost two buddies and I’m walking on a metal pole because of that incident.”

  Again the detective’s tired eyes appraised me, and I sensed we reached an understanding.

  “Where’s Calvin now?”

  “I don’t know.” I told the truth. I didn’t know where Calvin was at the moment. “It wouldn’t surprise me if he showed up here.”

  “Have you got any pictures of these Blackwater guys?”

  “Ex-Blackwater,” I corrected. “Calvin might, or I can get a message to Baghdad. You’ve got my rough description of Hernandez and Lucas. I can work with a sketch artist.”

  “Why not go straight to Blackwater?” Efird asked. “Their headquarters are in North Carolina. A call from the state police should get their attention.”

  Newland looked at me. “What do you think?”

  “Blackwater’s a tight-lipped outfit. They like to play by their own rules. But we’re in the States now. The downside could be your having to give up too much information to get their cooperation.”

  “Was Blackwater aware of your Ali Baba investigation?” Newland asked.

  “Yeah. I suspect they were doing a little investigation of their own. When you run a private army, you like to keep your dirty laundry hidden.”

  Efird walked around to the same side of the table as Newland and slid into a chair. “Sounds like you don’t care for Blackwater.”

  I shrugged. “My career in the U.S. Army was spent in upholding the honor of my country by seeing that our soldiers obeyed our laws. Now we’re outsourcing military operations to so-called contractors who lobby our spineless Congress for immunity from civil prosecutions while refusing to submit to the jurisdiction of the armed forces they claim to be part of. They wrap themselves in the flag while setting themselves above the law.”

  I felt the old anger boil up against the politicians and ideologues who threw around terms like sacrifice and patriotism to muzzle anyone who challenged them.

  Newland closed the notepad in front of him. “Like turning over our police work to Nathan Armitage’s rent-a-cops without holding them to our code of conduct.”

  “Except in this case, Nathan’s rent-a-cop is the victim. I trust him a hell of a lot more than anyone from Blackwater.”

  “We’ll bear that in mind.” Newland shot a sideways glance at his partner.

  “That we will,” Efird agreed.

  I realized I’d accomplished all I could for the moment. “So, how can I help?”

  “Tell us what you’re up to,” Newland said without hesitation. “We know you’re not going to sit on the sidelines.”

  “Ethel Barkley is my client. I’m going to try and recover what she entrusted to me.”

  “And if you find it?”

&
nbsp; “Then I guess you can take it from her. But you won’t get it from me without a warrant.”

  “We’re on the same side here,” Efird said.

  “Absolutely. The side of the law. So have the warrant ready.” I stood. “In the meantime, I expect you’ll give Ethel a grilling about her husband and brother partying with the German POWs.”

  “Among a few other things,” Newland said. “Where will you be?”

  “Somewhere in the past.” I reached for the doorknob, and saw it swing away.

  Ted and Al Newland stood in front of me. The twin on the left leaned in. “Uncle Newly, can you come out a second?”

  “I was just leaving,” I said.

  “You probably ought to stay.” The other twin stuck out his arm like a tollgate and I stepped aside as Detective Newland left.

  When the door closed, Efird said, “Something bad’s going down.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “The twin called him Uncle Newly. They’re more formal at work. The only time I’ve heard the boys lapse into the family names were when they were under pressure. More specifically, during a shootout.”

  And they wanted me to stay. My mind jumped to Nakayla. The night before I’d endured intense agony when I thought she lay dead on our office floor. Was she all right now?

  In less than a minute, Newland returned. His grim expression confirmed Efird’s fear. “Well, we won’t be interviewing Ethel Barkley. They found her in her apartment. Somebody smashed in the little old lady’s skull.”

  Three sheriff’s deputy cars lined the circle in front of the entrance to the main lobby of Golden Oaks. The crime had occurred in the county, and the jurisdiction of its investigation would probably require interdepartmental cooperation. I’d driven separately from Newland and Efird, but they’d put me between two Asheville patrol cars whose flashing lights and sirens cleared traffic.

  I parked beside a fire hydrant, figuring the authorities had better things to do than give me a ticket, and followed Newland and Efird into the building. Just beyond the front desk, residents stood in silence, some leaning on walkers and others on canes. Death was a frequent visitor, but murder shocked them. Captain stood in the center of the crowd and shook his head. He gestured over his shoulder with his thumb, signaling that he’d like to speak with me later.

  Two deputies leaned against the wall outside of Ethel Barkley’s door. Newland and Efird knew them. Newland asked me to hang back while they spoke. The four men formed a huddle, and after a few minutes, Newland waved me to join them.

  “This is Sam Blackman,” he said. “I have no doubt a case he’s working ties into Barkley’s death and the murder of Amanda Whitfield. I can vouch for him.”

  “You want him cleared for the scene?” one of the deputies asked.

  “Yeah. But first we want to hear what you’ve got.”

  The deputy looked at his partner.

  The other officer shrugged. “I don’t think the Sheriff will have a problem.” He winked at me and stuck out his hand. “Everybody knows Sam Blackman. I’m Todd Kramer. Pleasure to meet you.”

  We shook and I repeated the process with Deputy Clint Settle.

  “From what we understand,” Settle began, “the residents had started some kind of patrol to guard Mrs. Barkley. We don’t know why.”

  “I suggested it,” I said, and deferred to Newland.

  The old cop cleared his throat. “I’ll fill in the details later, but, in short, Sam was holding a lockbox that belonged to Barkley. When Amanda Whitfield was murdered last night, the lockbox was the only item taken from Sam’s office.”

  Deputy Kramer whistled softly. “And now Barkley’s dead.”

  “We don’t know what’s in the lockbox or if the same person came here and killed Barkley,” Newland said. “Why do that if they possessed the lockbox? And how’d they get past the security gate and Sam’s unofficial patrol?”

  “Flowers,” Deputy Settle said. “There was a delivery van that brought a vase of flowers. The driver said he was supposed to give them to Mrs. Barkley personally.”

  “Who from?” Efird asked.

  “That’s the interesting part. The card reads, ‘I promise I’ll find who took it,’ and it’s signed Sam Blackman.”

  A shudder ran down my spine. Someone had used my name to gain entrance to Ethel Barkley’s apartment. Someone had worked very quickly.

  “What time was this?” Newland asked.

  “About eleven.” Deputy Settle pulled a notepad from his chest pocket. “A Dorothy Jefferson saw Ethel Barkley admit him and close the door. She described the man as quote—‘one of those foreigners.’ The front desk said he was possibly Hispanic, but no one remembers an accent. His van was the typical Ford Econoline, white without any company name or logo.”

  “Somebody get a plate?” I asked.

  “I checked,” Settle said. “Their video camera at the front gate only tapes the incoming lane and North Carolina doesn’t have front license plates. Wouldn’t have mattered. They don’t run a security recording.”

  “We’ll need to contact all the rental companies,” Newland said.

  “Did he tell everyone the flowers were from me?” I asked.

  “Yes,” Settle said. “And everyone knew Ethel’d had the front desk call you this morning and that you’d been by to see her. They thought you were very sweet to send flowers.”

  “Damn,” Efird muttered. “How’d he know you came to see Barkley?”

  “The bugs in the office. Nakayla and I talked about her and her money this morning before Nathan discovered them.”

  “And we came to see her right behind Sam,” Newland said. “Somebody thought the old lady knew something.”

  “When did the deliveryman leave?” I asked.

  The two deputies looked at each other. “Nobody knows for sure,” Settle said. “The Jefferson woman got worried when fifteen minutes passed and the guy never came out. She knocked on the door, but there was no answer. She went for help. By the time they got someone with a passkey, another five minutes had gone by. When they opened the apartment, they found Barkley dead in the bedroom, and no deliveryman.”

  “Windows?” Newland asked.

  Settle nodded. “The one in the bedroom was unlocked and the screen ajar. Ethel Barkley’s apartment faces the rear woods where someone could slip out the window unnoticed. No one saw the van leave, and at eleven-thirty there’s a lot of incoming traffic as visitors arrive for lunch.”

  Newland scowled. “So from eleven to eleven-thirty we have an unidentified man on the premises, and for approximately twenty minutes of that time he was in our victim’s apartment.”

  “Yes,” Settle agreed. “He could have killed her immediately or only a few seconds before the Golden Oaks staff member entered.”

  Newland turned to Efird. “I think it’s time we examine the crime scene.”

  Efird carried a black satchel that made him look like a country doctor. “Mobile lab on the way?”

  Settle nodded. “It’s coming from the north end of the county. Should be here in about thirty minutes.”

  Efird opened the satchel and handed me gloves and shoe covers. At the rate I was going through them, I’d be wise to stock my own.

  We found Ethel Barkley on her bedroom floor, face down with her thick glasses protruding from under her forehead. She wore the same lavender dress I’d seen her in less than six hours earlier. A large splotch of congealed blood matted her white hair into a tangled clump against her skull.

  The wrinkles on the bedspread showed someone had either sat or lain on top of it. A pillow had been pulled from against the headboard and tossed by the closet door. While Newland and Efird bent over the body, I took a closer look at the pillow. A damp spot in the center slightly darkened the white linen. It wasn’t blood, but appeared to be saliva with traces of mucus.

  If Ethel Barkley’s assailant had used the pillow to smother her, then why bash in her head? I saw the lamp from the nightstand on the flo
or a few yards from the body. The power cord had been jerked from the wall socket, indicating the lamp hadn’t been simply knocked over during a struggle. The square, gold-plated base had the heft to inflict the fatal damage to Ethel’s head.

  The blow had probably hurled her forward, which meant she’d been facing the bedroom door, possibly making an attempt to escape her attacker. I glanced at the pillow and then knelt beside Ethel’s outstretched right arm. Her little finger, slender as a child’s, angled from her hand at nearly ninety degrees.

  “He used the pillow to stifle her cries as he tortured her.” I pointed to the dislocated finger. “Have the lab check the pillowcase.”

  “I wonder if she gave up what he wanted?” Efird asked.

  Newland took a closer look at the damaged hand. “Hard to say. The most stubborn person I knew was my grandmother. You could have set her on fire and she wouldn’t budge once her mind was made up.”

  “Especially if Ethel Barkley was protecting something she valued more than her life.” I got to my feet. “Where are the flowers?”

  We found them in a clear glass vase in the kitchen. Twelve cut carnations—the kind of bouquet you could buy at any large grocery store. The hand-printed message with my forged signature was clipped to a stem; the paper was an unlined three-by-five note card.

  “These guys improvise fast,” Efird said.

  Newland turned to me. “They murdered two women in cold blood. If they didn’t get what they want here, they’ll come back to their next best source.”

  “Me,” I said.

  “Or your partner, Nakayla. Anybody else you talked about before you found those bugs?”

  “I know we discussed Hewitt Donaldson and that Ethel was his aunt.” A disturbing thought flashed. “And I told Nakayla Calvin Stuart had warned me.” I’d said more than that. I’d told her Calvin had scared off the man who attacked me. Now they knew Calvin was in Asheville. I’d have to get word to him as soon as possible.