by Paul Henke
Gumshoe
The Van Owen Case
by
Paul Henke
Good Read Publishing Ltd
Copyright © 2016 Paul Henke
The right of Paul Henke to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The exceptions to this are the historic characters described.
Paul Henke
“An unquenchable thirst for daring and creativity” The Sunday Times
The Tears Series:
A MILLION TEARS
THE TEARS OF WAR AND PEACE
SILENT TEARS
TEARS UNTIL DAWN
SHADOW OF A TEAR
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DÉBCLE
MAYHEM
CHAOS
HAVOC
CORRUPTION
TURMOIL
ANARCHY
Also by Paul Henke
PHOENIX RISING
THE SEVENTH CIRCLE
NEVER A WINNER
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The Gumshoe.
The Vanowen Case
1
On the wall opposite the window was a painting of a hunting scene. Men in redcoats riding to hounds with an exhausted looking fox out in front. The fox was looking over its shoulder with a terrified look on its face. Who could blame it? It was about to be torn to ribbons. I felt sympathy for the fox. I knew what it was to run in terror. If the Nazis had caught me my life would have ended; painfully and slowly. I’d seen the painting in a second hand shop that sold the unwanted rubbish of the rich. I’d taken a fancy to it. I didn’t believe for one second the signature of George Stubbs in the bottom right hand corner.
I was what’s known as a gumshoe. In other words a PI - Private Investigator. My name and profession was written in black letters across the window panel of the door to my office. The building I was in was about 10 years old, contained over 50 small businesses and had a couple of receptionists at a desk just inside the main hallway. My office was 2A - second floor opposite the lift. The window looked out on to Broadway so not a bad place to be. Respectable, not flashy and with a reasonable rent. There was also a second office behind me. That would be mine one day once I’d hired a secretary. I figured I needed a few more clients before that happened.
The desk, two chairs, low cupboard and a filing cabinet were all new. A coffee making machine sat on the cupboard. It had been in constant use since I’d opened for business. The walls were white. The terms of the lease made it clear they should stay that way. I’d been there 3 weeks.
My name’s Frank O’Brian. I’m 27 years old. But I feel a lot older. The last few years had been a rollercoaster of a ride.
War had broken out in Europe when I came to the end of my law degree at one of the lesser known mid-western universities where I had spent four years being bored out of my skull. After graduating I was recruited by a New York law firm - lousy money but with the promise of a good future. If I worked hard, kept my nose clean, followed the path of righteousness I would make partner in about 10 years. That was the carrot. The stick was, I’d better get some billing hours under my belt and contribute significantly to the coffers of the company or I’d be clearing my desk. I didn’t like the job from the start but there was nothing I could do about it. So I knuckled down, gritted my teeth, girded up my loins - whatever the hell that is - and shoved my nose to the grindstone.
The USA announced we were at war with Japan following the surprise attack by the Japs on Pearl Harbour on 8 December 1941. Japan’s allies were Germany and Italy so they threw in behind the Japs and we said okay, enough was enough, it was time we returned to Europe to sort out the Germans again! If the Japs hadn’t attacked us I reckon we’d never have gone to war - a state of affairs desired by many Americans - and if we hadn’t, the world would have turned out a different place, of that there can be little doubt. Then, 6 months later, everything changed. It was the 22nd June 1942. The day sticks in my memory for two reasons. The first was because of the events of the day, and the second, because it was my 24th birthday.
I didn’t have many friends outside of work. To be more accurate, I had no friends outside of work and those inside were barely more than acquaintances. So I kept the fact that it was my birthday to myself.
I was at a morning meeting with Charles (Chuck) Williams, one of the partners, and some clients. The clients were a couple of shysters who worked for a crime boss. Mafia in other words. These mafiosos were a real pair. In their twenties, one was the son of the big boss in New York and the other was his first cousin. That was one of the strengths of their organisation - the first of the three effs - family, the other two being friends and fear.
After I’d graduated, I’d thought I’d enter corporate law - the lucrative end of the legal profession. Instead, I found myself working in criminal law where the scumbags hung out and the money was mediocre at best.
So there I was, in this meeting, in one of the half dozen plush meeting rooms scattered throughout the building, listening to what was going down. I admit I wasn’t giving the meeting my full attention. In fact, I was doodling on a yellow legal pad, wondering when the clients would stop lying. Actually, I wasn’t so much doodling as drawing caricatures of the two criminals sitting opposite. It was a skill I was born with. When I was at school I used to entertain my fellow pupils with my drawings of teachers and pupils, usually poking fun at them. Most of them laughed, some were offended. Once, I went too far and I had my lights punched out. I should add that the boy who knocked the crap out of me was two years older and 12 inches taller. The next day I joined a gym and began to learn the noble art of boxing. The irony was, by the time I was competent, the guy who had beaten me had left school and gone on to college.
After I left school I kept boxing and also started taking swimming seriously. I made the first swimming team at the university and helped the fraternity to win more than its fair share of trophies. These trophies were the silver cup kind as well as the two legged, attractive kind. A brilliant brain was one thing, but athletic prowess was a bigger pull when it came to the ladies.
‘Hey, you!’
I looked up from my pad and across the table at a man by the name of Antonio (Sonny) Lamberti. He was the cousin. ‘Me?’
‘Yeah, you. What are you up to?’
‘Taking notes, listening closely and,’ here I wandered from the script, ‘trying to figure out what’s the truth and what’s not.’
‘Are you calling us liars?’ This time it was Roberto (Robbo) Perini who spoke. He was the son of the Godfather of the Perini crime family.
I guess I was not only bored I was disgusted. I was disgusted with the system, the firm and myself for being there. Charles Williams knew they were guilty, I knew they were guilty and they sure as hell also knew they were guilty. But that’s the thing with the system. Innocent until proven guilty in a court of law! However, in spite of the
many and nasty crimes committed by the Perinis, and the frequency of arrests, few had actually ended up in court and those that did were usually declared innocent. From the District Attorney to the lowest beat cop, all and sundry knew that the family used extortion, bribery (occasionally) and outright threats (often), to get the verdict they wanted. From time to time a lowly foot soldier would be thrown to the wolves but even then, any sentences handed down, were a joke. A year or two in jail, treated with respect thanks to the family, a bonus paid for their trouble and the crooks came out to continue their careers. The figures looked reasonable from a law enforcement stand point and everyone was happy. Except the victims. But then they didn’t count.
The robbery they had committed had started out nastily and went rapidly downhill. They had entered a jewellers on Parsons Boulevard, Queens, and pointed a couple of shooters at the staff. They ordered a bag to be filled with diamond necklaces and bracelets from the display cabinet situated between the staff and customers.
Sonny said something to his cousin and called him Robbo. One of the staff gasped and said something along the lines of, ‘You’re Robbo Perini.’ Which was incredibly stupid. Robbo shot him and then the cousins panicked and ran out of the shop!
Recognising Perini wasn’t difficult. His eye pigmentation was known as ocular. His eyes were white with a slight red colour in the irises. To attempt a robbery looking like he did showed either a level of stupidity or a disregard for reality and a belief in his own power that was self-delusional.
Arrests were made, depositions taken, bail agreed and the result was they were sitting opposite me with Williams at the head of the table. The stenographer knew which notes to take and which to ignore. She was well trained that way.
Everyone in the system knew they were guilty. Everyone was playing the game. The level of collusion was sickening and looking at the two across from me I felt a real anger building up. I wanted to reach across the table and rip their heads off. The man they had killed had been in his thirties, married with a baby on the way. According to all those who knew him, a good guy even if he wasn’t all that bright.
By now, the witnesses had changed their testimony. Others had come forward to swear the two erstwhile robbers had been miles away at the time. Furthermore, they were decent, law abiding citizens, who would never have been involved in anything so dastardly as robbery and murder. Besides, why would they bother? They both came from a wealthy family, one that had earned its money legitimately through hard work and clever business acumen.
‘Are you calling us liars?’ Robbo asked.
‘Not so much liars as being economical with the truth.’
‘What are you saying?’ This time it was Sonny who spoke.
I’d had enough. ‘Yes, okay. I’m calling you liars. You pair wouldn’t know the truth if it bit you on the backside. We’re a law firm. Even though we know you’re lying we encourage you to stick to your story, don’t say anything you shouldn’t and make damned sure we can all pretend you’re innocent. Client lawyer confidentiality is a farce. We all know it, but just for the record I know you’re a pair of lying cretins. But let’s get on with the show.’
Perini looked at Williams who had gone a nice shade of puce and said, ‘Can he talk to me like that?’
‘No! He damned well can’t. Frank, get out. I’ll speak to you later.’
I stood up and said, ‘Don’t bother. I quit.’ I threw my pad across the desk and it landed facing Perini. It was caricature of him on the body of a donkey. ‘For you.’
I walked out. That was me all over. In French, la grand geste. I forgot to say, my grandparents were French and I speak the language fluently.
2
Returning to my desk I knew what I’d find but I checked all six drawers anyway. There was nothing of personal value to lift. I hadn’t even bothered hanging up my law degree. My desk and chair were in a cubby-hole, the wooden screens were chest high and the room held 42 similar cubby-holes. I know. I’d counted them. I said goodbye to a few of the others who looked up when I passed, but mainly the occupants of the room had their heads down and were either on the phones or busy writing notes.
When I walked out of the front door I had a feeling of freedom. It was liberating. No more 7am to 7pm weekdays plus Saturdays added for good measure. If you put in less than a 90 hour week you were slacking. The American dream. Hard work, eventually lots of money, marriage, kids, an early death. With the proper planning, ideal for the next generation after inheritance taxes were taken into account. Cynical? Probably. Accurate? Definitely.
Outside on the sidewalk the air was humid. I was wearing a grey suit and white button down shirt with a red power tie. I pulled the tie loose and undid a couple of shirt buttons. I was still hot so I took off my jacket and slung it over my right shoulder. I walked a couple of blocks, noticed the time was coming up to midday and went into a diner for a cup of coffee. My one addiction, wasn’t alcohol or tobacco, it was caffeine.
The diner was still pretty empty. The air-conditioning was blasting out refreshingly cold air and I put my jacket back on. It was fairly big by diner standards, holding some 20 booths each suitable for 4 people, six at a push. The owner sat in the back office, the waitresses worked their butts off and the cashier at the end of the counter collected the money. The place ran efficiently and was busy during the morning rush hour and the lunch time crush. The table tops were mottled green formica, the seat covering maroon plastic and the place smelt of cooked meat with a backdrop of coffee. The coffee was why I used the place. It was excellent.
I sat on the stool near the checkout and Zelda approached with a pot of coffee in her hand. She didn’t need telling. She poured me a cup.
‘You’re early,’ she greeted me.
I smiled. I liked Zelda. I guessed she was in her late thirties or early forties, black, of West Indian extraction, mother of four, never married and always cheery. She claimed she was off men for life but I wasn’t so sure. She had a kind heart and struck me as the sort who needed companionship. She was well padded, or maybe better described as a pleasant handful. Whatever, she exuded her femininity without any effort whatsoever.
‘You won’t be seeing me for a while,’ I replied. I picked up the coffee and took an appreciative sip. No milk, no sugar, just right.
‘Why not, honey?’
‘I got canned today.’
‘You? Canned? I don’t believe it. Why, I’ve heard all your stories. You practically run the place.’
‘Ha, ha, very funny Zelda.’ She knew that I never said anything about my job. It was easier that way. It meant I didn’t have to work out what was confidential and what was suitable for the general public. Also, I was close mouthed at the best of times. ‘More accurately, I quit about an hour before I was canned. Net result is the same.’
‘Want to talk about it?’ She cast a look around the room. Nobody was wanting a coffee refill or looking for service so she leant forward and rested her elbows on the counter.
I took some more coffee before replying. ‘I guess I’d had enough. There are only so many lies a person can listen to before they become contaminated by what’s going on around them.’
‘My, my, but that sure is real profound. Especially when you’re cold stone sober.’
I grinned. ‘I always am.’ Which was true. As far as I could recollect I’d never been drunk in my life. Don’t get me wrong. I enjoy the odd beer or glass of wine. I’d even been known to drink a whisky or two, but never to excess. I just didn’t like the idea of losing control. I’d been to a couple of office parties and seen what drink could do. It wasn’t the lowering of inhibitions, it was more the loosening of tongues. Too much was said to the wrong people and people, especially partners in law firms, had long memories behind their friendly smiles. Most lawyers could teach crocodiles how to behave. Of course, they in turn would have learnt their lessons from politicians.
‘So how come you got canned?’
I sighed. Now I was talking about it, re
ality was hitting home. ‘Like I said, not so much canned as quit.’
‘Okay. Why’d you quit?’
‘I’d had enough.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘Maybe I’ll hang up my own shingle.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Start my own law practice.’
‘That takes money. Especially here in New York.’
‘Maybe I’ll go and find me a nice little town somewhere, open an office, find the right woman, raise a couple of kids. You know. The American dream without the stress and early heart attack.’
Zelda chuckled. ‘You?’ She shook her head. ‘I can’t see it happening. You’re too young.’
‘I’ll have you know I’m twenty-four today.’
‘Hey! Happy birthday. In that case the coffee is on the house. Want some apple pie? I made it myself. Also on the house.’
I nodded. ‘Thanks Zelda. I don’t mind if I do.’
While she busied herself slicing off a chunk of pie I looked at myself in the mirror that lined the wall behind the shelves. I raised the coffee to my reflection and took a drink. Saluting back at me was a man with short brown hair, brown eyes, a lean face and a square-cut jaw. What marred my good looks was my nose. It was slightly crooked from having been broken during a boxing match. I was 6ft tall, weighed 140lbs and still managed to keep myself reasonably fit by running around a park near where I lived. I didn’t run as often as I would have liked but that was the pressure of work. So one good thing came out of the morning. I’d have time to do more running and might even get back into swimming.
The thought brought me up short. I wasn’t a spendthrift by any stretch of the imagination. I’d been earning enough to get by on. I had a small inheritance from a dead aunt that amounted to a shade over $2,000 dollars that I hadn’t touched so I wouldn’t starve, at least for a while. But one thing was certain. I needed to find a job sooner rather than later. The idea of my own place took root and began to grow. I was getting excited at the thought when the second event that was to change my life occurred.