The Fitzgerald Ruse

by Mark de Castrique

  “A kit for casting lead figures. I had molds for an infantryman, cavalryman, and cannon. You melted the lead in a little cooker, poured it in the mold, and then painted the finished piece after it cooled. If it broke, you just re-melted and cast it again. God knows how much lead I absorbed.”

  “And your mother had taken it?”

  Barkley looked at his cousin. “You remember that old butcher’s block table she had in our kitchen?”

  Donaldson nodded.

  “Mother had the burner going under my ladle and she was melting down my soldiers. I told her to stop but she said she’d buy me more fishing weights. That’s where I got my supply of lead. Beside her on the floor sat an old chest. It contained papers and the kind of books my father used to write in. Ledger books I guess.”

  “Anything else?” I prompted.

  “No cash or jewels. I saw something wrapped in pretty paper. I asked her if it was a birthday present and she said it was for someone who would never have another birthday.”

  “The gift for Fitzgerald,” Donaldson said. “The one Aunt Ethel wanted you to have if she couldn’t pay you.”

  “What?” Barkley eyed me warily. “Whatever’s in there is my property.”

  “No. That was the arrangement,” I said. “And that’s why I have a contract that goes beyond her death.”

  “I want to see it in writing,” Barkley said.

  Donaldson clucked his tongue with disapproval. “You’re pissing on a friend, Terry. A verbal agreement is binding where it can be proven to have occurred. I didn’t know about that wrapped gift until Sam told me what your mother told him.”

  Barkley grumbled under his breath, and then continued his story. “Well, she melted down my toy soldiers and poured the lead in a pool over the top of the chest. Then she took half a potato and pressed it into the cooling surface.”

  “A potato?” I asked.

  “Yes. She made me stand back because the potato’s moisture sizzled and splattered the lead. She wore an insulated oven mitten. She waited a few minutes and then cut the potato away. I saw a swastika raised on the seal.”

  “She’d carved the mold into the potato,” I said. “Clever. What year was this?”

  “I’m not sure. Probably 1950. I was old enough to know we’d beaten the Germans in the war. Mother said we should be kind to them.”

  “1950,” I repeated.

  “The year Pelley was released from prison,” Donaldson said. “The news would have made the papers back here.”

  “And she got things ready for him with a decorative flourish. Did you ever see the chest again?” I asked Barkley.

  “No. I knew she had a safe-deposit box, but she kept its contents a secret. I suspected it held the chest.”

  Donaldson gave a barely perceptible nod signaling he thought his cousin was telling the truth. “As far as I know, Pelley never came back to Asheville. If money was involved, I can’t believe he wouldn’t have worked out some method for getting it.”

  “Unless he worried he was under constant surveillance,” I said.

  “Yes,” Donaldson agreed. “In the 1950s, our government saw spies and saboteurs on every street corner. Although I suspect Senator Joseph McCarthy would have given Adolph Hitler a plea bargain if he could have turned in a couple of mom and pop Communists in Peoria, Illinois.”

  Barkley abruptly stood and walked away from the table, his movements stiff and agitated. “You two refuse to look at the obvious explanation. Pelley had no reason to contact my mother because there was no money that belonged to him. End of story.”

  “You could be right,” I said. “Or Pelley didn’t know there was anything left in the Silver Legion of America’s coffers. It doesn’t matter. You’ve confirmed that ledger books and possible account numbers were in a box sealed with a swastika. That’s blood in the water and these sharks aren’t going to go away until we give them what they want.”

  “We don’t have anything to give them,” Donaldson said.

  “Yes, we do.”

  “What?” Donaldson and Barkley asked together.

  In an instant I recalled the end of one of my favorite movies, The Maltese Falcon, and Sam Spade answering the police detective’s question, “What’s this?” as the officer lifted the heavy bird. I was counting on my thieves to be as obsessed as the villains Sam Spade took down.

  “What do we give them?” I held out my open, empty palm. “The, uh, stuff that dreams are made of.”

  Chapter Twenty

  We were in our customary seats, Nakayla on the sofa and Nathan and I in the armchairs. They’d listened without interruption as I briefed them on my meeting with Donaldson and Barkley. Then I’d laid out the plan for Nathan burying the decoy.

  “I’ll take care of getting the box and stressing it to look old,” he said. “The lead and potato-mold trick should work as well for creating a similar seal.”

  “What about me?” Nakayla asked.

  “You need to carry on with business as usual,” I said.

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “You’ve got to be kidding. After three days of being in business, three people are dead. We’re averaging a body a day. I’d prefer we try business not as usual.”

  We were heading toward the argument I dreaded. No matter how equal our partnership, I wanted her out of harm’s way. “You and I’ll stay in the office today. I’ll return phone calls to the media and say I think Evan Lucas’ death solves the two murders.”

  “And what was the motive?” she asked.

  A good question and one that any good reporter would ask. “Money,” I said, and looked to Nathan for support.

  He nodded. “They’ll believe it because we believe it. Sam’s just giving them a simplified version. With a little digging, reporters will learn Ethel Barkley had a sizable bank account and they’ll conclude that Lucas mistook Sam’s access to her safe-deposit box to be a withdrawal of cash.”

  “I’ll tell them I think Lucas killed Amanda Whitfield while searching our office, and then he went to Ethel Barkley’s apartment the next day. My story doesn’t need to pass a thorough examination, it just needs to generate headlines in the morning that make Hernandez and his pals think I’m letting down my guard.”

  Nakayla considered my argument. “And then what do I do tomorrow?”

  “I’m going to call in sick. You’ll be here and tell that to anyone who asks. I’ll say the same thing to Calvin in case they’re monitoring his cell phone. Then when I’m sneaking around Beaver Lake, they’ll be more suspicious.”

  Nakayla slid off the sofa and paced behind it. “No. You’re too vulnerable. What’s to keep them from jumping you as soon as you dig up Nathan’s box?”

  “I’ll have men in place,” Nathan said. “But I think Hernandez will wait to see what Sam does before making a move.”

  “We’ll stay together tomorrow night,” I told Nakayla. “Let’s pick up some steaks and wine to make it look like an evening in. Nathan, have your men select a spot at the apartment where they’d prefer I park the CR-V. I’d like it as isolated as possible in case these guys put up a fight. We’ll have the manpower to overwhelm them, and I don’t want any shots fired if we can avoid it. The police will be more forgiving of our vigilante action if things go down quietly.”

  “You gave Efird the chance to be alpha dog,” Nathan said.

  Nakayla leaned over the sofa and stared down at us. “He can still bite you. That’s the second thing I don’t like about the plan, cutting out the police.”

  “I’ll call Efird as soon as we see that they’re making a move.”

  “With what?” she asked. “You think your cell phone’s compromised, and I wouldn’t trust the apartment’s landline.”

  “I’ll get a prepaid cell.”

  Nathan shook his head. “If someone’s tailing you, it looks like you’re not in this alone. I’ll drop two secure cells off later today. I agree with Nakayla that we need the police as soon as we know Hernandez and his men are hooked. I
also don’t like us not being able to talk. Something goes wrong with every plan.”

  “Should you get a phone for Calvin?” Nakayla asked.

  “We won’t see him till tomorrow night,” I said. “He needs to stay clear.”

  Nakayla circled around us and stared out the window. “Where are your men coming from, Nathan? This operation’s quite a few notches up from routine security.”

  “I have contacts from the service. These guys are first-rate. They’ve all seen action and are used to working together. They’ll be in town later this afternoon.”

  “Please tell me they’re not coming from Moyock,” she said.

  Moyock. The headquarters of Blackwater.

  Nathan’s lips tightened, and then he said softly. “These people killed my employee. I’ll use whoever and whatever it takes.”

  Justice and revenge. I’d debated Nakayla on those motives for Calvin and me, and had completely forgotten that Nathan Armitage carried his own personal anger. The vision of Amanda Whitfield’s twisted body had to be burned in his mind. I hoped it hadn’t clouded his judgment. If our enemies still had allies in Blackwater, they might know every detail of our plan.

  “Oh, my God,” Nakayla whispered.

  “I trust them with my life,” Nathan said.

  She didn’t hear his assurance, but stepped closer to the window. “It’s him. The third guy. The one from the Grove Park.”

  Nathan’s two good legs got him to the window a few seconds ahead of me. “Where?”

  “By the reproduction of Thomas Wolfe’s angel.”

  I stepped beside her as she pointed to the nearest corner of Pack Square in front of Pack Place, the building housing the Asheville Art Museum, a theatrical stage, and other cultural organizations.

  A man wearing khaki pants, an open-necked shirt, and a blue blazer waited by the sculpture’s base. Our third-story window wasn’t so high that I couldn’t make out the light beard cropped close to his angular chin, and I had no doubt that he’d been watching us at the Grove Park the day before. Now he was scoping out our office.

  He glanced up. The three of us stepped back into the shadows.

  My heart raced. “If Hernandez shows, we’ll call Efird. The guy’s right outside the police station.”

  Nathan pulled out his cell. “They’ll need a few minutes to organize. I’d better get downstairs where I can follow him if he leaves.” He started for the door.

  Two men crossed the street. I saw a gray ponytail bobbing against a dark suit. “Wait. Donaldson and Barkley are down there. They must be going to the courthouse. Damn. I wish I’d shown them the sketch.”

  Nakayla had brought us several copies of the composite the police artist had created. She held one in her hand and said, “A good likeness.”

  To my amazement, the bearded man stepped forward as Donaldson and Barkley approached. They exchanged a few words. Our suspect looked up at our office window, and then he and Barkley walked down Biltmore Avenue. Donaldson continued in the direction of the courthouse.

  Nathan still held his phone halfway to his ear. “What the hell was that about?”

  Nakayla turned to me. “Has Donaldson played us for suckers?”

  My stomach flipped. Not only had Nathan brought Blackwater into our ruse, I’d taken Donaldson for an ally. Somewhere I’d missed a step. “I don’t know, but we’re going to have to watch our backs.”

  “You need to tell Efird,” Nakayla said.

  “But we don’t want to spook our mystery man if he’ll lead us to Hernandez. And we don’t know how Barkley and Donaldson fit in.”

  Nathan picked up a copy of the artist’s sketch. “It’s definitely him. I didn’t see him at the Grove Park but this is the man. I agree with Nakayla. We can’t shut Efird out. If the police get him to talk, then we can break the case without using you or the decoy box as bait.”

  They were right. “Okay. But I don’t want to be involved. Remember, I’m supposed to think that Lucas was working solo. Tell Efird you saw him on the street walking with another man and then describe Barkley.”

  “What about Donaldson?” Nathan asked.

  “Let’s leave him out of it. He knows you and might wonder why he didn’t see you.” I looked out the window. “If you were walking on the other side of Biltmore Avenue, you wouldn’t have seen Donaldson because he was around the corner.”

  Nathan nodded. “All right. I’ll call Efird from the street. Will you stay here?”

  I glanced at my watch. Eleven-forty-five. “No. Our story is that Nakayla and I left for lunch at eleven-thirty, right after we gave you a copy of the artist’s sketch. You didn’t call us because you wanted to get to Efird right away. That ought to put you in his good graces.”

  “We’d better hustle,” Nakayla said. “Not that Efird would have reason to check, but we’ll want to be in a restaurant if he calls.”

  “I have a better idea. Let’s go to Malaprop’s. I need to pick up a copy of The Great Gatsby. We could’ve been browsing for thirty minutes before ordering something to eat.”

  Malaprop’s Bookstore & Café was only a few blocks away, but the opposite direction from where Nathan would phone Detective Efird. Nakayla and I slipped out the back door of our building without encountering other tenants, and in less than ten minutes I was scanning the fiction bookshelves for F. Scott Fitzgerald.

  I found a paperback edition of The Great Gatsby published in 2004. Although the page count seemed different from the first edition in Ethel’s apartment, I remembered that the sentence I suspected to contain the code appeared near the end. Flipping from the back, I’d turned only ten pages when I saw “The Swastika Holding Company” at the top of 170. Whether my deduction bore any connection to the truth didn’t matter. The word swastika in the sentence and the swastika seal on the lockbox provided enough of a link to fit my purpose. In fact, if somehow Donaldson was tied into the conspiracy, I might drop that tidbit of information in his presence to further enhance the bait.

  I paid for the book and joined Nakayla in the café section of the store, where she waited in front of the bakery display.

  “See something you like?”

  “No. A little late for a muffin. Why don’t we walk down to Old Europe? You’ve got your receipt that shows we were here.”

  Old Europe Bistro had a great selection of soups, salads, and sandwiches, but the killer items I couldn’t resist were their gourmet cookies. Usually several had my name on them.

  We’d gone about half a block toward the restaurant when my phone vibrated on my belt. The ID read Nathan’s cell. I caught Nakayla’s arm and pulled her into a side alley.

  “Sam. Have you finished your lunch?” Nathan’s voiced sounded odd—more formal than usual.

  “Yes. What’s up?”

  “I’m at the police station. You need to get over here. Efird wants to talk to you.”

  I wondered why Efird hadn’t called me himself. Had the detective learned we were working behind his back? Was Nathan trying to warn me? “All right. Nakayla and I’ll come straight there. Has anything changed?”

  He hesitated a few seconds. “Not really. I’m sure you’ll be free to go about your business as planned. Just an unexpected twist. We’ll be in interview room three.” He hung up.

  I clipped the phone to my belt. “Well, that was interesting.”

  “Did they catch the guy?”

  “I don’t know. Nathan said he was calling for Efird and someone must have been within earshot. But our plans haven’t changed, so the guy must still be at large.” I curled The Great Gatsby. “Hide this in your purse and let’s see what Nathan means by an unexpected twist.”

  By the time we reached Pack Square, my stump had started to ache. The sky had grown overcast and the rising humidity coupled with my physical exertion had increased the moisture in my prosthetic’s sleeve to where I needed a dry one. As soon as I finished with Efird, I’d make the change in my office. Then I needed to return calls to the media before I missed thei
r deadlines.

  At the door to the station, I took a final glance overhead. Rain appeared imminent. Although the job would be messy, a heavy downpour would help insure the burial of the decoy by Nathan’s men would go undetected. If the forecast held true, colder, clearer weather would follow, and my task of digging up the box would be easier. More importantly, I’d be easier to observe.

  We were admitted through the reception area and went unescorted to the interview rooms. Nakayla and I’d spent many hours there during the investigation of her sister’s murder and I knew the layout of the Asheville Police Department as well as I knew my apartment.

  The door of interview room three was shut. I leaned close to Nakayla’s ear. “Let’s take our cue from Nathan. I have no idea what this is about.”

  “You mean play dumb. Well, you’re the undisputed master.” She rapped her knuckles on the door hard enough to wake the dead.

  “Come in.” Detective Efird’s voice boomed.

  Nakayla pushed open the door. Efird and Nathan sat on the near side of the table, half-turned in their wooden chairs to see us. Seated across from them, a man held the artist’s sketch in front of his face like a mask. He whipped the drawing aside to reveal the flesh-and-blood original. A broad smile split the beard. “Congratulations, Ms. Robertson. A most impressive display of observation and detailed memory.”

  Nathan stood, sweeping his arm toward the stranger. “Let me introduce Craig Keith, special agent for the FBI and liaison with the Department of Homeland Security for Domestic Terrorism.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Agent Keith said. “You’ve made me a celebrity in the Bureau, a person of police interest whose likeness has been faxed to every law enforcement agency in the state of North Carolina. How many FBI agents can say they were a suspect in their own case?” He waved us to take a seat in the extra chairs cluttering the room. “But I guess it’s only fair.” His icy-blue eyes focused on me. “I had you pegged as a suspect in your case, ex-Chief Warrant Officer Sam Blackman. And for the record, I wouldn’t have hesitated to bust your one-legged ass if the evidence substantiated an arrest.”

  I looked at the sketch he’d laid on the table. “Your cartoon face has a better personality. Maybe you should keep that drawing on your shoulders, since your real head seems to be located elsewhere on your anatomy.”