Code of Deceit: A Mystery/Detective novel (David Mason series)

by John Foxjohn

  “Sounds good. Where’re you staying?”

  “Ramada on Montrose.”

  “They have a good restaurant there, if that’s OK with you. How about seven tomorrow night?”

  “I’ll let you go fight crime. I need to get busy.”

  David smiled. It would be good to talk to Terry. They both got to Viet Nam the same day and served a year in the same unit. He hung up and started the tedious task of sorting the papers Joe had retrieved: utility bills, check book stubs, bank statements. He opened the statements and glanced at them. No one killed her for the money she had in the bank. She made a small deposit every month and two days before her death she possessed a whopping thirty-two dollars in her checking account. He shook his head. She had a hundred and seventy-six dollars in savings. At the bottom, he stumbled on a $5,000 policy in Kathleen Harris’ name from Unity Life, with a home office in Chicago.

  Not much life insurance for someone to kill her over, but people had killed for a lot less. He telephoned the home office in Chicago and they gave him a local number. When he phoned the office on Widmar Street, he chatted with a secretary. She notified him the insurance manager would be back from lunch at one.

  He glanced at his watch, twelve-thirty. He ambled to Henry’s office, but Henry wasn’t in, and decided to drive by the office. He checked by Spinks’ office, but it was empty. He told Peggy, the secretary, he’d be in the car.

  She didn’t look up, just made an umph sound and kept working. In her mid-sixties, Peggy had worked in the homicide division for thirty years. Because her physical appearance resembled Henry’s, David often teased him about Peggy being his mother.

  Located in a small strip mall, Unity Life Insurance didn’t appear to be an established business. Sitting behind a desk in the entrance, the receptionist greeted people and answered the phone. She directed David to a William Mailer’s office.

  Mailer stood and shook David’s hand. Beefy and red-faced, in his mid-fifties, he wore a brown western style jacket, dark blue shirt and a yellow tie. “What can I do for you, detective?” he asked after David introduced himself.

  As David sized him up, Mailer resembled a big canary. He hoped he didn’t have any trouble with him. Most insurance companies tried to help, but many small ones had an over-inflated opinion of themselves. He explained Mrs. Harris’ death and her insurance policy. Mailer heaved from his chair and searched a file cabinet behind him.

  “Here it is.” His chair groaned when he settled his bulk back in. “Yes, she has been with our company a long time. I regret she’s dead.” With an anxious expression, he asked, “She didn’t commit suicide, did she?”

  David didn’t think he cared if she was dead, but maybe he wasn’t being fair to the man. “Looks like a homicide.”

  An audible sigh escaped from him. “How can we at Unity Life assist you?”

  He decided he had the correct first impression. Mailer didn’t care. He slouched in his chair. “I need to know who the beneficiary is.”

  Mailer blew air through his fat lips. “I’m afraid I can’t help you, detective.”

  David rolled his eyes. He sat up and leaned forward. “Why not? Are you telling me you don’t know?”

  “Oh, no. I know, but I can’t divulge confidential information to you.”

  David rubbed his mouth. He’s going to attempt to get official with me and use big words. “Listen. This isn’t my first rodeo. I happen to know, this information doesn’t violate the policyholder’s confidentiality. It can’t. She’s dead.”

  “Detective. I know our company policy, and it prohibits me from giving you this information.”

  David’s eyes narrowed and he gritted his teeth. “Listen, fella. We both know I can get it, and if I go to all the trouble of getting a court order, I’m going to seize and freeze all business activity in this insurance agency.”

  “You can’t do that.”

  “Dang right I can. I’ll consider you under investigation for this murder, and I’ll get a court order to freeze everything. If you think I’m not serious, try me.”

  Mailer shuddered and sank farther in his chair. “Okay, hang on a minute,” he grumbled.

  He wrote a name and address on a piece of paper, and handed it to David. Daughter, Elizabeth Elaine Porter, 2228 Holcomb #225, Houston, Texas.

  “Thank you. You’ve been a great help.”

  Leaving the insurance office, David decided he’d better go by the daughter’s apartment. He laughed to himself. Acting helped more in his job than anything.

  Not receiving an answer after knocking several times on Porter’s apartment door, he found the offices and talked to the building superintendent. Worried, he told David she worked as a teacher at Herman Elementary, but she wouldn’t arrive home until about five or so. David left after assuring him she hadn’t committed a crime.

  He called the dispatcher to get the school’s address after leaving the apartment complex. Since it was three, she should still be there. One thing he’d learned, it’s always best to confront suspects or make arrests at the place they work. People behave better at work than in the comfort of their home.

  School appeared ready to let out when he arrived. Buses parked in a circular drive flanked by trees, and parents lined up to get their kids. Inside the office door, David hesitated. He’d hoped to escape the rumble of the crowded hallway, but it wasn’t much better in the office. Several boisterous kids loitered near the long counter that dominated the space. Two secretaries sat at desks with phones stuck in their ears. Harried, both appeared to talk to angry parents, and at the same time, control the kids who jostled each other.

  Fingers tapping on the Formica top, David waited. Noise from the outside alerted him the door behind him opened. He turned as a female enter the office. Light reflected off the blonde streaks in her wavy brown hair. Attractive and slender, she stood five six, proportioned in all the right places. Besides her obvious beauty, the way she held her chin high while she walked set her apart. She had pride and class.

  Ooohwee, he thought. That one is a fox. If all teachers looked like her, he’d go back to school.

  Red crept up his neck when she turned and caught him ogling her. She gazed into his eyes and smiled.

  He liked her blue eyes and the way she looked straight at him. Tiny light specks glimmered in her eyes. Her look said, “I know you checked me out, but you’re a man and can’t help it.” He smiled in return.

  While she checked her mailbox on the far wall, David leaned over, trying to see her name, but a kid close to him saw his gun in the shoulder holster under his coat.

  “Why are you carrying a gun?” he bellowed.

  David snatched his coat closed. Little brat. Why don’t you get on the intercom and announce it? He gave the kid a tight smile.

  Quiet engulfed the room. Everyone’s eyes threw darts at David. Papers on the desk snapped from the air of a small fan. An older man taking small, quick steps and adjusting his tie approached from a back office. He stood, shifting from foot to foot, but his body tensed when David reached into his coat pocket.

  “I’m Homicide Detective David Mason with the Houston Police Department,” he laid his badge and ID on the counter. “I need to speak to the principal.”

  A relieved sigh escaped from the man’s mouth.

  Someone tugged on his coat. “Have you killed anyone?” the loud-mouthed kid asked.

  David’s eyebrows rose and he bent and smiled, tussling the kid’s hair. “Not a good question to ask, bub.” He’d hoped to make his appearance unannounced, but thanks to the kid, his plan flew out the window. He didn’t blame the kid, though. He’d have done the same thing in the kid’s place.

  “May I help you?” the man asked.

  David adjusted his coat. “I need to speak to the principal in private.”

  “I’m John Pearson, the principal. Come into my office.”

  Diplomas and plaques on the wall, and live potted plants in the office brought a smile to David’s face. Those stap
les, along with the principal’s cluttered desk, reminded him of his school days. He’d had plenty of opportunities to visit the principal’s office.

  “What can I do for you?” Pearson said, settling into his chair and motioning for David to sit down.

  “I need to speak with Elizabeth Elaine Porter.”

  Pearson sat back in his chair and tilted his head. “You need to speak to Beth Porter?”

  David took a deep breath. He hated this part. “Sir, we found her mother shot to death this morning.”

  “Oh, no.” Pearson hung his head. “This is awful.”

  David waited. This information affected different people in different ways. Pearson liked Elizabeth Porter a lot. David had to be careful with him. He wouldn’t be the first person to lie to the police in an attempt to protect someone.

  With moist eyes, Pearson stood. “I saw Beth in the office a minute ago. I’ll see if she’s still there.”

  David leaned forward holding up a hand. “I need to talk to you, first.”

  Pearson pointed a finger at his chest. “Me? Why?”

  David removed his spiral notebook and pen, flipped to a blank page, and wrote “first interview with John Pearson, Elizabeth’s Porter’s boss.” He looked up. “Do you know what time Elizabeth Porter arrived at work this morning?”

  Frowning, Pearson scratched his face. With a hard edge to his voice, he said, “I saw her in the cafeteria at seven-thirty.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Sitting back in his seat, Pearson glared at David.

  From his expression, the man’s interest in the teacher lacked professionalism.

  “Detective, what’s this about? What’re you up to? You can’t suspect Beth had anything to do with this. There’s not a more caring person in this world. She’s incapable of killing anyone, let alone her own mother.”

  David put his chin on his steepled fingers. “Mr. Pearson, I don’t know if she did or did not kill her mother. I’ve never met the woman. I do know I have investigated over two hundred homicides, and you’d be surprised how many friends and relatives committed them. People you’d never suspect. Ones who are ‘incapable’ of killing anyone.”

  “You don’t know Beth.”

  David nodded in agreement. “You’re right, I don’t. But I have a job to do.”

  Pearson nodded. “I see your point. I don’t know what time Beth arrived at work this morning, but I talked to her at seven-thirty. I have a job to do too, and that’s supervising the teachers. She had duty in the cafeteria. Beth doesn’t need supervision, but I go by all the teachers’ duty stations every morning to make sure they’ve arrived.”

  David nodded and Pearson strode out, leaving the door open.

  David looked out the open door where secretaries who seemed busy when he entered, and the kids who wouldn’t behave, now stood or sat, gawking into the office, trying to hear why a homicide detective sat in the principal’s office.

  “Beth. Come here, please.”

  David didn’t see who Pearson talked to, but was glad she was still there. His happiness disappeared when the teacher with the nice butt answered. He dropped his head. He didn’t want to give her this news.

  “Police officer needs to speak with you,” Pearson said.

  Her eyebrows rose and her head jerked back. “Me? What about?”

  Pearson put his hand on her shoulder. “It’d be best if he told you.”

  With hesitant steps, she crept in and closed the door.

  Remember, she’s a suspect, David cautioned himself. Watch her eyes. If they go left, she’s lying. Right OK, up, making up, he remembered the instructor saying in army interrogation school. Just because she’s sexy doesn’t mean she didn’t kill someone. Kids kill their parents all the time.

  Elizabeth Porter bit her lip and sat with her arms crossed when David indicated her to have a seat.

  “Ms. Porter, I’m Homicide Detective David Mason from the Houston Police Department.”

  Her eyes flickered as if she recognized his name. He wondered how she knew his name or if he had imagined it. Without going into detail, David told her about her mother’s death.

  Disbelieving shock radiated from her, and a strangled cry.

  He cocked his head, concentrated to see if she faked her grief. If she did, she acted well. He leaned forward. “Ms. Porter. I’m sorry. I need to ask you some questions.

  Looking up, she still sobbed, and tears streamed down her cheeks. It took all of his willpower to resist the urge to lean over and hold her. Remember she’s a suspect.

  She told him it had been a week since she’d seen her mother.

  “Where were you this morning about seven forty-five?”

  While writing, he glanced up at her. She looked right. Good, he’d sure hate to have to arrest her.

  “I got up this morning at six-fifteen. Jogged for twenty minutes around my apartment. Took a shower, and arrived at school before seven-thirty. I’ve been here ever since.”

  “Did anyone see you jogging?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Do you live alone?”

  She frowned. “Yes. I’m not married.”

  “Did you have company at your house last night?”

  She sat straight. “I didn’t have a man sleep over, if that’s what you’re asking.” Her eyes grew large. “Am I a suspect?”

  David looked into those beautiful blue eyes. “Yes, Ms. Porter, you are.”

  With tears rolling down her cheeks, she crossed her arms across her chest. “Detective. That’s fine that I’m a suspect. You need to do your job. I understand this. Maybe if you’d worry more about my mother’s homicide than if I slept with someone last night, you’d catch the killer faster.”

  David sat in his car for a long time. He felt like a jerk. Elizabeth Porter’s flat statement brought him back to earth. She was right, which made him feel worse. He thought he might be getting too cynical. He had to deliver the worst possible news to someone and all he could think about was how she looked. He wouldn’t blame her if she never spoke to him again.

  Chapter 3

  Persistent ringing woke David the next morning. He reached over to answer. “Yeah.”

  “Good morning, sunshine. It’s time to rise and go to work,” Lieutenant Spinks said.

  David rubbed his eyes. “What time is it?”

  “It’s six-fifteen and we have a homicide. We need you to get to 2617 Fairacres.”

  David sat on the side of the bed. The jerk loved to get him up. “Can’t anyone in this town kill anyone at a decent hour?”

  “Nope. They do this just to ruin your beauty sleep.”

  He stretched, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with one fist. “Don’t these people know I’m off?”

  “You aren’t off. You’re on call. And I’m calling.”

  “Have you called Henry?”

  “Yep. He’s already on the way. You need to get there yourself.”

  In the shower, cold water sprayed his face, waking him in a hurry. Four suits hung in the closet, in order by designer. David scowled. His clothes weren’t spaced right, and he adjusted the hangers a hand-span apart.

  His dark blue three-piece Inghirami went on fast. Moving with skilled practice, his hands tied the Dolce and Gabbana woven silk tie in a Windsor knot.

  With his breakfront Bianchi shoulder holster on, David removed his Model 1911 .45 from his nightstand’s top drawer and snapped it into the holster under his arm. He took out a large silver railroad watch, a gift from his grandfather. He’d added a gold chain with a .41 derringer fastened to the other end. He slid the derringer into his vest’s left pocket, and the watch into the right pocket with the gold chain looped over a button. Most people knew about the watch, but no one knew about the derringer. He’d done this on a whim after he’d read a western in which the main character carried a derringer attached to his watch. The derringer saved the character’s life several times, but David had never drawn his.

  Hot, humid air hit Davi
d in the face when he hurried outside. The humidity never seemed to leave, not even in the morning. He tasted salt in the wind blowing off the ship channel.

  David pulled up to the address on Fairacres and put his suit coat on. About a mile from the nearest neighbor, surrounded by warehouses, the house sat at the end of a cul-de-sac. Blue lights flashed like signal beacons from several squad cars. The house might have been nice at one time, but now, white paint flaked and the sagging front porch leaned at an odd angle.

  David shook his head. He wasn’t in the mood to look at a dead body this morning.

  Henry ambled to meet David.

  “What do we have, Henry?”

  “Good morning to you. Did you get up on the wrong side of the bed?”

  “Nope. Just had to get up’s all.”

  A crooked grin spread across Henry’s face. “You must’ve been up late last night. Anyone I know?”

  “What—do—we—have—Henry?”

  “Okay,” Henry said, getting serious. “It simple. Someone kicked in the front door, shot and killed the old man and woman who lived here. It looks like a burglary gone bad.”

  David took a deep breath. He had two bodies to look at. He dropped his chin to his chest, glancing at Henry from the top of his eyes. “A burglary?”

  “Yep. That’s what it looks like.”

  David scratched the side of his head. When did burglars start kicking in doors and shooting people? Henry, a veteran detective, didn’t always put much thought or energy into a crime scene. Henry’s jocular attitude and his tendency to play the dumb old country boy clashed with the job. He let out s deep breath. “Who found the bodies?”

  Henry pointed to a squad car where a young white male sat in the back seat with the door open, face in his hands, and long, stringy blond hair hanging down.

  “Victim’s son. He comes by every morning on his way to work to check on them. Said he walked up and found the door kicked in. Rushed in and discovered his parents shot to death, and called the police.”

  David hung his head and looked at the ground for a moment. He took a deep breath and let it out. “Let’s go inside and look.”