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

by John Foxjohn

  “You got lucky,” he said.

  Henry stepped back, pointing. “What’s that?”

  Partin smiled. “Only four sticks of sixty percent dynamite. Who’s going to investigate this?”

  David gave him a you-got-to-be-kidding look. “I’m investigating this.”

  “You’re darn straight,” Henry said.

  David rubbed his face. “What did it look like under there?” he asked.

  “Four sticks, like I said. Blasting cap in one, and wires running to the ignition. If you’d turned the ignition, we’d be hunting your pieces right now. This was the real deal.”

  David ground his teeth together. His biceps bulged while he clenched and unclenched his fists. They’d tried to kill him, and it had to be the one who called. It was time to take action. If he let this go, they may not miss the next time. Twice now, someone tried to kill him. But he didn’t think they were the same person, which didn’t make him feel better. He had two different people or groups who wanted him dead.

  “What do you want me to do with this?” Partin asked.

  “Is it safe to take it to Joe in crime lab?” David asked.

  “Yeah, it’s safe now. You got lucky twice.”

  “We know one,” Henry said. “What’s the other?”

  As squad cars who responded to the bomb call left, someone yelled out a window, “Too bad, Mason.”

  David waved at him with a half of a peace sign and turned back to the lieutenant.

  “What’s the other?” David asked.

  “There’s no way to trace exploded dynamite.”

  David’s head snapped up. “We can trace this?”

  “Yep, dynamite is controlled. These sticks have a serial number on them. Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms can tell you right off where it came from.”

  “I want those serial numbers,” David said.

  Partin smiled. “I thought you would.” He handed David the numbers written on paper. “Do you want me to take the bomb to the crime lab?”

  “I’m not taking it,” David said.

  Henry didn’t say anything, but his mouth puckered in a half grin, half smirk as he shook his head.

  “What now?” Henry asked when Partin left.

  David looked at his watch. “I’m going to the crime lab to talk to Joe. ATF is closed. Get on the phone and get someone we can talk to in an hour.”

  Henry laughed. “What if the federal boys won’t open up?”

  “Go to their house and drag them there,” David said.

  David ran by his office before going to the crime lab. Beth answered the phone right away.

  “Darling, I’m sorry. I got tied up at work and I don’t know when I’m going to get through.” He couldn’t tell her someone else tried to kill him.

  “That’s OK. I’m glad you called. If you don’t get a chance to eat, come on over and I’ll feed you.”

  “I might be late.”

  “I don’t mind. No school tomorrow. I have some spaghetti in the fridge and I can make a salad.”

  With a mischievous grin, he said, “I’m more interested in dessert.”

  She called him bad and hung up. How did he ever deserved her.

  David marched down the hall, past several janitors busy vacuuming carpet. Joe Hughes sat talking on the phone when David entered. He indicated a chair with his head.

  “Have you had a chance to look at the dynamite?” David asked when he hung up.

  “Yeah, it has several prints on it, but we have no way of lifting them, unless you can come up with one of your little secrets you won’t tell me how you come about. I’ve asked everyone I know and no one knows how to do it,” Joe said.

  “I know how to do it. I’ll want them matched in a hurry.”

  “I would too, if this had been stuck under my car. But even if we lift them, we have to have something to match them to.”

  “Leave that to me.” David reached across his desk, picked up the phone, and dialed a number.

  “Personnel,” a voice said on the other end.

  “Let me speak to Captain Walters,” David said.

  “This is Walters.”

  “Captain. David Mason in homicide.”

  “How’s it going, David?”

  “Fine, Captain. I’m in a hurry. I need Brophy and McMillian’s print charts brought to the crime scene unit for comparison right away.”

  “Okay, I’ll get them right over.”

  Joe’s mouth fell open. “You think those two did this?”

  “Yeah. I do, Joe.”

  Henry ambled in. “ATF will have the offices open in a few minutes. They said not to dally. He wasn’t going to stay long.”

  “Let’s go.” David jumped up to leave.

  “Hey wait a minute,” Joe yelled. “You didn’t tell me how to get the prints off the dynamite.”

  David turned. “Dust them and put the dynamite on the Xerox and copy the prints.”

  Joe’s eyes became as large as a hubcap. “Will that make them explode?”

  “I don’t think so,” David yelled over his shoulder as they left.

  Before they were out, they heard Joe screech, “What do you mean you don’t think so?”

  David didn’t stop. He hoped it wouldn’t make it explode. He liked Joe.

  Chapter 18

  David and Henry found the door to the Rayburn Federal Building locked. Knocking on the glass, David peered inside and a security guard let them in and directed them to an office on the second floor.

  Lawrence Plummer waited for them. “What do you need?”

  David handed him the list with the serial numbers on it. “I need to track down this dynamite.”

  “This couldn’t wait?”

  “No—it couldn’t. Someone tried to blow me to pieces.”

  “What you need to do is file a report with us in the morning. This is a federal crime and we’ll handle it.”

  David stood. “I don’t think so. It might be a federal crime, but it has to be against the law in Texas to attempt to blow a cop to little pieces. Since I’m the cop they tried to blow up, I’ll handle it.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Plummer handed David a paper with Harkness Construction written on it. “Dynamite’s registered to them.”

  Henry glanced at his watch. “Seven-fifteen. No way they’re open now.”

  “They’re going to be.” David picked up Plummer’s phone and called police communications, who gave David the business address. David told them to call the owner and have him meet them there in thirty minutes. He also told the dispatcher to tell the owner if he didn’t show up, they’d come and get him.

  An overweight man with grey streaks and a craggy face waited at the construction company’s front door with his arms across his chest when they strode up. “This better be important, or this police department’s going to hear from my lawyer.”

  Not in the mood for bull, David pointed his finger at him. “Nobody cares about your lawyer. If you don’t open up, you will need him.”

  Henry caught David’s arm. “Easy,” he said out the corner of his mouth. “Mr. Harkness, we need information on your missing dynamite.”

  “I don’t have any dynamite missing. Do you have a search warrant?”

  David’s eyes narrowed and he rubbed his hands together. He took a deep breath. “We can get one. If I need to go to that trouble, I’m going to be more ticked off than I am already.” He pointed at the man. “Rest assured, I am highly ticked off now. We have in our possession four sticks of dynamite registered to you. Someone used the dynamite in a bomb. If there’s none missing, you gave it to someone. We’ve already talked to ATF. You do not have a license to sell it.”

  He held his hands out, palms forward. “I haven’t done anything wrong. I follow all federal regulations with explosives.”

  “Then you won’t mind telling us who got the dynamite from you,” Henry said.

  “Come with me.”

  Once in the office, he turned the lights on, sat behind his
desk, and pulled a large ledger from the top drawer.

  David handed Harkness the list with the serial numbers, and he thumbed through the ledger. His hands stopped and his mouth puckered. His face turned catfish bell ywhite.

  David’s eyes narrowed to pin points. “Who had that dynamite?”

  “Detective—I uh—I swear to—God I didn’t know.”

  “You didn’t know what?” Henry asked.

  “My—my—my brother-in-law asked for them. Said he had to blow stumps on his farm.”

  David cocked his head with a disbelieving smile. “Your brother-in-law told you he wanted to blow stumps with four sticks of sixty percent dynamite?”

  “Y—es.”

  “Where did he plan on blowing them to, Oklahoma?” Henry asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  David leaned forward. He knew the answer but had to know for sure. “Who’s the brother-in-law?”

  “Do I need a lawyer?”

  David placed his hands on the desk and leaned closer. “What you need is to tell me the person’s name who had that dynamite. My patience is running out.”

  “Joseph McMillian.”

  David nodded. “I want to use your phone.”

  David called dispatch and told them to send a car to the construction company and transfer him to the crime scene unit. Joe answered the phone on the first ring.

  “Been expecting your call. I have a perfect match.”

  “McMillian.”

  “You got it.”

  “Joe, will you do me a favor?”

  “Sure.”

  “Find a judge. Get an arrest warrant on Brophy and McMillian.”

  “No problem,” Joe said. “Should have it in thirty minutes.”

  They heard a knocking on the door when David hung up. Henry ambled to the front door and led the patrol officers back to the office.

  “What ya got.”

  David pointed to Harkness slumped in his chair, looking like an old boxer who had taken too many punches. “Arrest him.”

  Harkness didn’t appear to have heard.

  “What’s the charge?” the officer asked.

  “Conspiracy to commit capital murder of a police officer, stupid in public, and we’ll add more later.”

  They handcuffed him, and the younger officer led Harkness out to the patrol unit. David told the other one to book him, throw him in jail, but don’t let him use the phone, yet.

  Henry rubbed his hands together when they left with Harkness. “Do you think we can prove conspiracy?”

  “Nope.”

  “Why arrest him?”

  “Two reasons. I don’t know what they are, but he has bound to have broken some law.”

  “And?”

  “He won’t be able to warn McMillian.”

  Henry nodded. “Thought so.”

  An hour later, Henry turned the car into Hurricane Harbor parking lot on Houston’s Northwest side. Henry had the arrest warrant in his hand when they approached apartment 127.

  Brophy and McMillian had come in thirty minutes before. “How are we going to handle this?” Henry asked.

  David seethed and didn’t answer. When Henry knocked on the door, footsteps sounded on the other side. David didn’t wait. He reared back and kicked the door in.

  Shattering, the door hit whoever had looked through the peephole. David and Henry followed, guns drawn. McMillian lay on the floor, bleeding where the door had hit him in the head. Brophy raised his hands in the air, backed against the wall, and screamed, “I’m not armed.”

  Henry stuck his model 19 .38 in his face, cocked the hammer back, and said, “Please do something stupid.”

  David pointed his .45 at McMillian. “Now, who is blown away?”

  Chapter 19

  At nine-thirty Monday morning, Willis Tatum shuffled into the courthouse. He spent fifteen minutes going over the charge sheet on his two clients. He shook his head, walking out. They’d messed this one up for good. Wouldn’t listen to him. He strolled to a nearby drug store, made a purchase, and returned to the jail. He asked the jailer if he’d bring his two clients into the interview room. When the jailer inspected what was in the bag, he asked Tatum if his little gift was what he thought it was.

  Tatum nodded as the jailer sauntered away with a huge grin.

  Behind wire mesh, McMillian and Brophy didn’t look cocky now. Tatum sat in the chair on the opposite side. A small window with a wooden ledge jutted out. Tatum set the brown bag on the ledge for the two prisoners.

  “What’s that?” Brophy demanded.

  “Present I got for you two,” Tatum said. “I told you to stay away from Mason, didn’t I?”

  “Yeah.”

  “But you wouldn’t listen to my advice, would you?”

  Neither ex-cop said anything.

  “I also told you what would happen. The district attorney is going to ask for forfeiture of your bail and he’ll get it, too. Nor will there be another bail hearing. You’re here until your court date, at least. Also, as of this minute, you need an attorney bad, and I’m not it.”

  He stood and strolled out.

  McMillian picked up the brown bag off the ledge. He yelled after Tatum, and threw the Vaseline jar against the wall.

  ***

  Henry and David pulled into the parking lot together Saturday morning. Dragging from a late night out with Ronny and Gail, David made a direct assault on the coffee in the break room.

  He and Beth had met them at a quiet bar called The Businessman’s Bar and Grill. Beth had never met Gail, and had met Ronny only once. As with strangers, they started with strained small talk.

  After the women got comfortable with each other, David said, “Ronny, I need to talk to you in private for a few minutes.”

  “What’s the matter, Bub?” Ronny asked when they stepped outside.

  “I think I have a lead on the sniper.”

  “Who?”

  “Andrew Carlin.”

  Ronny frowned. “Name’s familiar. Who’s he?”

  “Andrew Carlin is Kenneth Carlin’s son.”

  “I’m not sure I remember—wait a minute. He’s the one we had to shoot a long time ago. What was it, five years or so?”

  “Yeah. That’s the one.”

  “His son’s just a kid.”

  “Ronny, he’s almost twenty-two now.”

  “That old?”

  David filled him in on what they had so far.

  “Aderson’s a good man,” Ronny said. “Henry’s right. He’s sharp.”

  Gail stuck her head out the door to call them in, interrupting their talk.

  “Let’s not say anything to the girls about this,” Ronny said.

  “Okay, but if I’m right about him, you’d better watch yourself, too.”

  “We both had better. If it’s Carlin, he’ll try again, David.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  They danced, switching partners back and forth, and talked. Both David and Ronny told stories about old cases.

  Beth and Gail hit it off. As it turned out, Gail had a teaching certificate, but never taught. She’d gotten married and started a family. She and Ronny decided it would be best for her to stay at home until the kids got older.

  Now, David was paying for the late night. He filled up a cup full of coffee and trudged to his desk. Henry stepped in as the phone rang.

  Henry slouched in a chair.

  “Mason.”

  “Detective Sergeant David Mason?” the voice on the other end asked.

  “That’s me.”

  “I wanted to tell you, you’re a low down snake in the grass.”

  David laughed. “You called me up to tell me something I already know?”

  Henry lean forward with a questioning look on his face, and David held up an index finger.

  “I hope the next time someone shoots you, they do the job right,” the voice said, and the phone clicked in David’s ear.

  “Someone telling me I’m a snake in the grass,” David
said to Henry’s questioning look.

  “Ah,” Henry said. “Must be someone who knows you.”

  David chuckled.

  “How many phone calls like that do you get?”

  “A few. It’s no big deal.” He decided not to tell Henry about the ones at home. “They arrested Fontaneau last night,” David said, changing the subject. “We’re going to have to arraign him sometime this morning.”

  Henry slouched in his seat and made a face. “I’ll do it.”

  “Good. I’m going to communications for a few. I want to look at the dispatch logs from the night the sniper shot me.”

  Communications, Houston Police Department’s nerve center, took up the entire basement. With over two hundred dispatchers and supervisors, the area resembled an ant bed.

  Dispatch recorded all phone and radio calls coming into or going out, storing the tapes for several years. Officers could request from communications a written transcript because the tapes themselves didn’t leave the storage area.

  David had requested a hard copy on the night the sniper shot him. He sat, drinking coffee in the supervisor’s office, reading the report and dispatch log.

  First officer arrived on the scene one minute and eleven seconds after the shots fired report. Dispatcher had made two separate calls. First one, shots fired. Someone in the restaurant must have the police on speed dial.

  Second call, officer down. This second call must have been when Beth ran in to have them call. They reported the entire area sealed off at two minutes and fifty-three seconds. David’s eyes widened. That was fast. Whoever supervised for patrol was good.

  First officer must have been close. The department stressed patrolling the business district at night to prevent burglaries. He set the report down and leaned back. In less than three minutes, they had sealed the area. He scratched his head. How did the shooter fire a shot, clean up the place, and get out in less than three minutes? Not just get out of the building. He also had to get past the police barricade.

  Larry Faulkner, a new detective, waited in David’s office when he returned.

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  David wondered why they didn’t go to the lieutenant. But he knew the answer. “Yeah, whatcha got?”