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

by John Foxjohn

  “I hope you don’t believe it all,” David said.

  “Well,” he laughed, “it was good.”

  David smiled. “Okay, you can believe that.”

  A wide, grey-haired man in a suit too big for him strolled up and interrupted them. Shorter than David, he outweighed David by fifty pounds.

  “Who do you have here, Carl?” he asked.

  “Mr. Mayor, I’d like for you to meet Inspector William Patterson, Detective Sergeant David Mason, and Detective Henry Carrington.”

  The man shook hands with Patterson, and then said, “Pores told me good things about you, William.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  He stepped up to Henry. “This one I’ve been anxious to meet. Young man, our city’s proud of you.”

  Henry tucked his chin in, his face a beet’s color, but looked at the mayor with raised eyebrows. “Uh—thank you.”

  “How long have you been on the department, Sergeant?”

  Henry’s mouth twitched and he raised an eyebrow. “Eighteen years, sir.”

  “That’s good. Can I call you David?”

  “Mr. Mayor,” Pores began, but the mayor interrupted him.

  “It’s good to have a detective of your caliber on the department.”

  Henry scratched his head. “Thank you sir, but I prefer not to be called David.”

  Pryor’s eyes widened, face red. “I’m sorry. What would you like for me to call you?”

  David dropped his face in both hands. Patterson turned away. David thought Henry could have gone along with the new mayor.

  “I like to be called Henry Carrington.”

  While the mayor talked to Henry, the media jostled and maneuvered for position, and a van with a radar dish tried to back in, but the crowd wouldn’t move for them. They ended up leaving it where it was. David glanced at Henry, smiling at his partner’s predicament.

  Pryor’s beefy face turned as red as a fire truck. “Oh.”

  “Sorry, Mr. Mayor, I should’ve introduced them to you separately,” Pores said.

  “You tried to tell me and I interrupted you. It’s my fault.”

  David’s opinion went up when he said this. Pryor stepped up to David. “I take it you’re Detective Sergeant Mason.”

  David thought about saying, no sir, I’m Henry Carrington, but decided not to. “Yes, sir.”

  A short, skinny male in a blue Tofa suit interrupted them. “Mr. Mayor, it’s time for the news conference.”

  “Yes, right. Thank you, Tully.”

  Pryor stepped to the podium, and the officers sat in the chairs behind him. News people, sensing the conference was about to start, pushed close to hear better.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m glad to see you came today. As you all know, I ran on the promise I’d do something about the crime in our city, and one reason I decided to hold this news conference in front of the police department. I have with me our police chief, our homicide chief, and two of our city’s fine detectives.” He turned and indicated the officers.

  Sitting straight in his chair, David adjusted his suit. He sure knows how to play to a crowd. He’s a good public speaker. Maybe why he got elected.

  “We’ve already implemented changes in our police department that are going to have an immediate impact. But that’s not why we’re here today.” He paused for effect.

  Bored, David leaned back in his chair. He wanted to jump up and tell the news they were here wasting time so the mayor could get more political brownie points.

  “As I’m sure you are aware,” Pryor continued, “the American Bar Association honors a law enforcement officer every year with the Law Enforcement Officer of the Year award. This year, for the first time, a Houston police officer has received this honor.”

  “I’d like to announce,” he continued, “the law enforcement officer of the year, Detective Sergeant David Mason.”

  David sat, open-mouthed, unbelieving.

  Henry leaned over, “Quit catching flies and go get your award.”

  ***

  Armageddon Steel Works, located on Westminster on Houston’s west side, sat between Monsanto and Exxon refineries. Boilers emitting smoke towered above the buildings, and oil, gas, and chemicals odors made David’s nose itch when he and Henry got out of their car.

  With a fancy red brick front, large tinted windows facing the parking lot, and a huge fabricated metal building attached to the back, the business covered about four acres.

  David and Henry entered and a smiling secretary greeted them. They identified themselves and told her they needed to speak to someone in charge. Her smile disappeared first, followed by the friendliness.

  She told them to have a seat and she’d see if someone could talk to them.

  Minutes later, she returned and informed them everyone was too busy and told them to come back the next day.

  Henry stood, placed his hands on her desk and leaned forward. “Ma’am, we ain’t coming back tomorrow. We’re homicide detectives, and we need to talk to someone, now.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Officer, I’m sure I made myself clear.”

  Henry grinned at her. “Yes, ma’am. I understood what you said. I think the problem here is you haven’t understood me. You see, it’s simple. You either go back and tell who’s in charge we want to speak to them, or we go back there and tell them ourselves.”

  She flounced back into the offices.

  “Good job, Henry. Your charm does it every time.”

  “I don’t think she likes cops,” Henry said.

  David laughed. “It looks that way. But how can someone not like us? We’re always so cordial.”

  A few minutes later, the unsmiling secretary returned with an older male following. “I’m Herman Mans, district manager. Can I help you?”

  “Mr. Mans, I’m Detective Sergeant David Mason and this is Detective Henry Carrington. We’d like to speak to you in private.”

  “Follow me.”

  He led them through the back offices. Several people peeked at them from doorways. Henry leaned over. “Do I have buggers hanging out?”

  David grinned and shook his head.

  When they took a seat, David informed Mans they needed to talk to him about an employee named Andrew Carlin.

  “Andy Carlin?” he asked, shocked.

  “Yep, does this surprise you?”

  “Yeah, it does. He’s our best welder. Best employee, too.

  “How long has he worked here?” Henry asked.

  “About three years. He has never called in sick and never missed a day of work. His work’s first class, and I happen to know his supervisor believes he’s the best welder he’s ever seen.”

  “How well do you know him?” David asked.

  “Not well. I know him when I see him, which isn’t often. He works the night shift.”

  “Who’s his supervisor?” Henry asked.

  “Donald Lee. He’s been with the company twenty-seven years. Can I ask you what you’re investigating?”

  “We’re investigating attempted capital murder of a police officer,” David said.

  Man’s eyes widened. “What can I do to help?”

  Henry, spiral notebook in lap, looked up. “We need Mr. Lee’s home address and phone number. Also need to know what hours Andrew Carlin worked last Saturday.”

  Mans reached and thumbed through a Rolodex. He wrote an address and phone number on a business card, and handed it to Henry. “Here it is. Other answer’s simple. Andrew Carlin didn’t work last Saturday.”

  “How’d you know off the top of your head?” David asked.

  “We’re not open on Saturdays.”

  Chapter 17

  Palm Boulevard in South Houston was a good neighborhood with tidy houses and clean, well-kept yards. With a wide median, palm trees grew in the middle, separating two traffic lanes. David and Henry strode to the door and rapped, expecting to find someone who had worked the night shift to be asleep, but Donald Lee answered the door right away.


  “Come in. I have coffee making.” He turned and lumbered toward the kitchen without glancing back.

  David scratched his ear. They were expected. He perked up as the coffee’s fresh brewed aroma wafted through the house.

  “You two want coffee?”

  Henry refused, but David accepted. Lee placed a cup on the table and they sat.

  “We’re expected,” David said.

  “Yep, Mr. Mans called.”

  “What’d he tell you?” Henry asked.

  “He told me to cooperate. What do you want to know?”

  “What do you know about Andrew Carlin?”

  “He’s a good employee,” Lee said.

  “What else?” Henry asked.

  “That’s all. I know nothing about him outside of work. Andy’s a loner. He’s also the quietest person I’ve ever known.”

  “Who’re his friends on the job?” David asked.

  “He doesn’t have any.”

  “None?”

  “Nope. He’s a complete loner. I’ve no idea where he lives, if he has a phone, wife, or girlfriend.”

  “And no one else does?” David asked.

  “I doubt it. All I know is he loves guns and likes to shoot.”

  David and Henry exchanged a glance. “Why do you say that?” David asked.

  “Other employees have run into him at the shooting range on Dawson Road,” Lee said.

  David nodded. “Thanks for the coffee.”

  David stopped outside and took a deep breath of fresh cut grass as a woman next door mowed patterns in rye grass in her yard. As he looked around, several people raked leaves and others pruned hedges.

  “This looks to be our boy,” Henry said.

  “Yeah.”

  “We caught a break with the shooting range,” Henry said.

  “Why’s that?”

  “It’s owned by Herb Aderson.”

  “Do you know him?”

  “Yep. He retired as an inspector from the department a few years ago. He spent time in burglary, and he’s a sharp cookie.”

  “Good,” David replied. “I think we need a sharp cookie on this one.”

  “When do we go see him?”

  “Now.”

  Henry nodded. “Thought you’d say that.”

  David and Henry pulled into the gravel parking lot at Aderson Shooting Range on Dawson.

  “Hey, Henry. I didn’t expect to see you here,” Aderson said as they approached.

  David stood back while Henry shook hands with the retired officer. Tall with a strong build, he had a marine drill sergeant appearance.

  “Herb, I’d like you to meet my partner, David Mason.”

  He stepped forward, shaking David’s hand with a strong grip. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Mason. Most of it wasn’t good.”

  David wondered if he referred to turning McMillian and Brophy in. Aderson was from the old school. David smiled and cocked his head. “I guess someone’s been truthful with you.”

  Aderson let out a short laugh. “I’ve heard good things from people I respect.” He turned to Henry. “Ya’ll aren’t here to exchange pleasantries. Who’re you investigating?”

  “We suspect Andrew Carlin may have shot David,” Henry said.

  “Naw, he didn’t do that.”

  His blunt statement took David and Henry by surprise. “What makes you so pasitive?” David asked.

  Furrows creased his brow. “You’re alive. You’d be dead if he shot at you.”

  “You heard about the shooting?” Henry asked.

  Straightening his coat, David wondered why he was so sure Carlin didn’t fire the shot. He had motive, but unlike the retired captain, doubts lingered in David’s mind.

  “Yeah, I heard.”

  “Is Carlin good?” Henry asked.

  “I shot lead on a department shooting team who won eleven years in a row. Not to brag, but people consider me the best rifle shot in the country.”

  Henry nodded.

  “I can’t touch Carlin. He’s three times better than me.”

  “Wow,” Henry said. “He must be awesome.”

  “He can strike matches at fifty feet ten out of ten times. He wouldn’t have missed.”

  “He didn’t miss,” David said. David told him what had happened.

  “I still don’t think Carlin did it. Why do you suspect him, anyway?”

  “I shot and killed his father when he was sixteen,” David said. “Is he capable of killing someone?”

  Aderson thought for a moment, scratching his head. “I haven’t talked to him much, but yes, if he had reason, he’s capable.”

  “What does he shoot with?” David asked.

  “He has several rifles as well as pistols. But he more often than not uses his Winchester .270.”

  David and Henry sat in the car after leaving the range, and David tapped on the steering wheel. Talking a deep breath, he turned to Henry. “What do you think?”

  Henry leaned back in the seat, rubbing his mouth. “Herb’s sharp. But I think he’s wrong on this one. I believe Carlin is our man.”

  David continued tapping without speaking. Everything pointed at Carlin, and that bothered him. Their silence lingered, and then David started the car, but didn’t put it in gear. “I’m not sure about Carlin.” He rubbed his face.

  “Why not? What’s bothering you?”

  “Henry—we have a shooter who can follow a cop without getting caught. Go into an abandoned building, shoot a cop, leave no evidence, and get through a police barricade. Only thing left is a spent casing left on purpose, which points to him. Everything points to him, and it shouldn’t.”

  ***

  Several miles away, a young white male stood and looked at the small orange target one hundred yards away. He held the Winchester .270 with the butt perched on his leg. He jacked open the bolt and took a bullet from his pocket.

  He smiled as he looked at the bullet with sunlight reflecting off the casing. He wondered why assassins on TV always blew on the bullet before they loaded it in the gun.

  He shrugged and blew the dust off like he’d seen. Maybe he should write their names on the bullets.

  ***

  David, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands, sighed when his phone rang. He let out a tired breath and answered on the second ring. “Mason.”

  A short, mean laugh transmitted over the phone. “Well, Mr. Homicide Detective, I see you’re still on the job?”

  David shook his head. He’d put up with this stuff ever since he turned in the two cops. These calls came in on his private line and at home, which only cops had access to. Threatening, calling him names, from people without guts enough to say things to his face. He rubbed his face. “Yeah. I’m on the job. Who’s this?”

  Another vicious laugh. “You messed up, Mason.”

  He leaned back in his seat and let out a breath. “It’s not the first time. Who is this?”

  “Mason, I called because I wanted to hear your voice.”

  “Is that so.”

  “When you violate the code, you should expect someone to blow you away.”

  “I’m not worried.”

  “You should be. You’re dead, Mason.”

  David chuckled.

  “You think this is funny, do you?”

  ”Yeah I do. I’ve had bullies try to pull this crap on me all my life. I found out one thing about your kind over the years.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Bullies and idiots who call on the phone are cowards. You don’t have guts enough to come here and face me. Only way you’d ever mess with me is behind my back, and I watch my back, turd face.”

  “You keep laughing.”

  David shook his head, hanging up. He would not let these jerks intimidate him. With his desk cleaned and his papers filed, he plodded to his vehicle parked in the back lot. He pulled out his keys, but stopped. His driver’s door stood open a few inches.

  He had closed and locked his door. He never left h
is car unlocked. Sadly, he shook his head. He was seeing buggers where none existed. He’d forgotten.

  Opening the door, he sat behind the wheel. Big birds fluttered in his stomach. Hairs stood on his neck. Something wasn’t right. He couldn’t reach the brake. Someone had moved his seat back.

  Edging around the red car, he couldn’t find anything unusual, except the driver’s door open and the seat moved back. He might have left the door open, but he didn’t move his seat.

  Two officers walked by and turned to look at him. Embarrassed, he didn’t blame them. He imagined how funny he must look standing in the parking lot staring at his car. He was letting his imagination run wild, and he had a date with Beth.

  As he inserted his key in the ignition, he froze. Three wires dangled below his steering column.

  Uh-oh. His hand trembled with the door latch and he eased out. He almost missed it. His heart thudded. He stooped, looking under the front. Nothing. Engine’s in the back, he told himself.

  Peeking under the rear, he took a deep breath to calm his nerves, took his suit coat off, and slid underneath. As his gaze followed the wires, his heart almost leaped from his mouth. They ended with four dynamite sticks.

  He didn’t know what to do. Wanting to get out from under the car, he was afraid to move. He might bump something. He knew little about explosives, but did know this was a lot of dynamite.

  Tires crunched in the parking lot when a car pulled up next to him. He heard a door open, but couldn’t see.

  “What are you doing under that car,” a voice demanded.

  He breathed a relieved sigh when the police radio squawked. “Listen to me,” he said, voice trembling. “I’m David Mason from homicide, and this is my car.”

  “In that case, you won’t mind showing me your ID.”

  “At the moment, I do.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I’m lying here staring at a big bomb. Get the bomb squad here.”

  “What?”

  David took in a deep breath and let it out, trying to calm his shot nerves. “There’s—four—sticks—of—dynamite—under—my—car. Get the bomb squad here.”

  “Okay,” he heard the officer say, “but I’m moving mine first.”

  Forty-five minutes later, David stood on the steps talking to Henry, who had pulled in a few minutes before, explaining what had happened. Both stared as Lieutenant Hiram Partin approached, carrying a wrapped package.