One Lost Soul More: A Clancy Evans Mystery (Clancy Evans PI Book 1)

by M. Glenn Graves

  “Yikes. That hurts,” I said.

  “Hurt like hell.”

  I didn’t know what else to say. One way to really stop talking to someone is to have one of you die. It was none of my business why his mother had refused to talk to him or why she had even refused to see him. I was curious, but it was something between them. Good breeding kept me from asking more. I doubt if Roosevelt Washington would have told me much. He was intentionally obtuse.

  He looked at his watch. “Time to go.”

  “You just got here,” I mildly protested.

  “Can we talk some more?” he said.

  “Sure. How long are you in town?”

  “As long as it takes. How about dinner?”

  “I assume you mean tonight.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I usually eat three times a day, sometimes more. I expend a lot of energy.”

  “More than talking.”

  “Yeah. Pick you up at seven? My treat.”

  “How can I refuse? Same restaurant?”

  “Not on your life. We must sample the cuisine of other delights,” he said in mock earnest.

  “Seven it is.”

  “Dogs won’t mind?”

  “They will, but I’ll convince them you’re okay.”

  “Nice to have somebody put in a good word for you now and then. Seven.”

  “See you at seven.”

  He opened and closed the door in a matter of seconds and was gone. I turned to face my colleagues on the floor. They were watching my every move.

  “No questions, please. I haven’t seen the man in twenty-eight years. It takes time to get reacquainted. Gimme a break.”

  I waited for some response but was met only with their silent stares. I found a couple of dog treats and tried to bribe them. They took the treats but their facial expressions remained placid. Canine criticism.

  I sat on the sofa but couldn’t read. I was curious about why after so many years a lost friend had come strolling back into my life. It wasn’t like we had been lovers or anything. We were friends. Time was that we were good friends. We had been through a lot together. More than most folks.

  Somehow we had lost contact after high school. That happens to people. Happens even to good friends. I had more questions than answers. It was the curse of being an investigator. It was the curse of having an investigator’s personality. I couldn’t help but wonder.

  I flipped through the pages of my Baldacci novel, but my mind wouldn’t allow me to read. Why would Roosevelt Drexel Washington come back into my life after twenty-eight years? Why would anyone do that? He wanted something. That had to be it. He wanted something from me and was simply afraid to ask without getting reacquainted after so many years.

  I stared out the window that overlooked Granby Avenue. The traffic was flowing in a normal mad rush for the late afternoon. Busy people were heading home. I was home, wishing that I were a busy person. Instead of being in the hot pursuit of some sinister criminal, I was wondering why an old friend from my high school days had suddenly shown up.

  I ruled out money. He didn’t look at all like he needed money. I think it was the BMW that was my first clue, but then that line about the Jag being in the shop was the clincher. Great detectives figure out stuff like that.

  It wasn’t out of some kind of desperation. He was much too calm and self-assured for that. I felt at ease talking with him, even though he was vague at times.

  I was wasting my time on this. There was no way I was going to figure out some long-ago and far-away friend by sitting in this chair wondering about it.

  4

  I stared at the monitor in front of me. The screen displayed the usual kind of computer-photo. Today I was using some beach scene from what appeared to be the South Pacific. Paradise, somewhere in the world.

  “I need your help, please,” I said in a rather non-commanding voice.

  I tried to practice this voice often. I wanted to develop a sort of strong-will sound, without being dictatorial. The “please” as a tag line softened the strong-will too much, but did kill the dictatorship.

  “Whatever you desire, Toots,” the computer-generated, sultry alto voice I had created for Rogers answered me.

  “I wish you wouldn’t call me Toots.”

  “A bit testy after your midday excursion are we? Don’t make your roots turn darker. I was simply being friendly. What do you need?”

  “Find all you can on Roosevelt Drexel Washington. Post high school.”

  “Is that three different birds, or just a covey of surnames for one thug?”

  “One. Old friend of mine. Likely not a thug. Let me know when you find something.”

  “Mixing business with pleasure?” Rogers said.

  “Routine check. Haven’t heard from him in twenty-eight years. Need to know something soon.”

  “Soon, Dearie?”

  “Dinner at seven. He’s picking me up shortly before that. You handle that kind of pressure?”

  “No pressure at all. I function at a higher level than most, but you already know that.”

  My computer, Rogers, had been with me what seemed like forever. I smiled when I recalled my old physics professor telling me that there was no such thing as artificial intelligence. He was convinced that machines could never learn to think. Pity I couldn’t tell him he was wrong. Not only could she think, but she had an attitude. That part I wish I could alter, but I was afraid of mucking up the keen abilities she had processing vital data I needed for my cases. As it is with people, you have to accept the quirky with the cool. Unfortunately, Rogers was good and knew it.

  I didn’t build her alone. I had some help from my dear Uncle Walters. He loved the attitude that came with our construction.

  I busied myself with getting ready for dinner. I thought a dress would be nice, but I wanted to carry my Smith and Wesson, so I opted for my dark blue pants suit. Something told me that this might turn into a business dinner, so I had to be prepared. The dress would have been nice for a change, but I had no illusions about being sexy. I gave up sexy years ago in lieu of a hard work ethic. I spend more time deducing than seducing. Not my style.

  I was just finishing some last minute necessary touches to my nose and cheeks when Rogers alerted me. Sam barked behind me to make sure I had heard her.

  “Hey, Babes, you might want to hear this before your night on the town with Mr. Wonderful-from-your-past.”

  “I never said he was Mr. Wonderful anything. Where do you get this stuff?”

  “I read and absorb. I have a lot to learn, you know. Still building my database.”

  “Maybe I need to reprogram some of your features.”

  “Just listen, Sweetie Pie. Roosevelt Drexel Washington graduated from the University of Virginia Magna Cum Laude. B.S. in History and Sociology. Worked for Senator John Barker Thomas for one year. Went to Harvard and studied law off and on for the next six years. Got his law degree from Harvard. Turned down a job with John Barker Thomas & Associates the year he graduated. That’s a law firm in Manhattan, just so you know. Roosevelt accepted instead the opportunity to study abroad at Oxford. English Literature. Imagine that. Then the same year he was commissioned as a United States Naval Commander with a specialty in foreign languages. That’s probably why it took him six years at Harvard. He was busy elsewhere studying. The Navy had him doing all sorts of things, including training with the Navy SEALS. Yeah, he was one of those as well.”

  “Anything more?”

  “Not enough for you? I found nothing else, at least not yet. Let me check the Pentagon to see if they have anything. There should be something out there about his resigning his commission as an officer, if, in fact, he has resigned his commission.”

  “Should I ask you about that Pentagon checking?”

  “No.”

  “And if you find nothing on him as to resigning his commission, he’s still an officer?”

  “And a gentleman.”

  “Let’s hope so.”

  5

/>   “You like the view?” Rosey asked in his smooth-as-silk voice.

  “Not bad for Norfolk.”

  We were atop the Dominion Tower in downtown Norfolk, being seated at a cozy table for two next to an east side window looking out towards the harbor of the Elizabeth River. The Vintage Kitchen Restaurant had a great view if you like looking at water.

  “First time in Norfolk?” I asked. Ever the snooping detective.

  “No. What suits your appetite this evening?”

  “Do you have recommendations?”

  “As a matter of fact … excellent Five-Spice Duck Breast and Preserved Leg with orange menage a trois, they call it. However, for my taste, the 21-day aged beef tenderloin, center cut, is the way to go if you be hungry.”

  “The duck sounds more to my taste buds at present.”

  The waiter arrived promptly as if on cue and Rosey ordered for both of us. Gentleman, indeed.

  “So why do people consult with you?” I asked when my entrée had been placed in front of me.

  “I have answers.”

  “Always?”

  “Always.”

  “What do people consult with you regarding?”

  “Problems. I offer solutions.”

  “For a price.”

  “I’m an entrepreneur. There has to be a price.”

  “So what is your field, beyond that vaguely descriptive answers and benign consultation?”

  “Need to know basis.”

  “Polite way of saying you can’t tell me.”

  “Not in your best interest to know that.”

  “Can’t I be the judge of that?”

  “Not this time.”

  “So why have you come out of my closet from so many years back?”

  “You’re not glad to see me?” Another Michael Jordan smile erupted and was wonderful to behold.

  “Depends on what you want from me.”

  “Sounds cold.”

  “The truth sometimes sounds that way.”

  “Ah…. the truth. So that is what this is about.”

  “I would like to move in that direction.”

  “Abstract truth?”

  “No. Practical truth. What do you want?”

  Silence gathered around our little corner. I concentrated on my duck while waiting for him to answer. He was busy chewing a mouthful of tenderloin. I was slightly annoyed at the tap dancing we were doing up to this point. Whatever the ‘orange menage a trois’ was, it was good.

  “Did you ever solve your father’s murder?”

  It was the bolt from the blue that I never expected. I was angling somewhere upstream from wherever I thought that Rosey was fishing. I had no idea what he wanted of me, but the last thing I would imagine was that question.

  It was the nagging emptiness that had plagued me for nearly three decades and counting. By the time I had come out of my mild depression after my father’s death, most of the clues had grown cold. There was only some vague description about a car hurriedly leaving the scene of the crime and nothing more. There had been no one around to help me.

  “No.”

  I started to offer some lame excuses, but I knew that it would serve no good purpose to talk along those lines. Rosey and I had talked long hours in the night during the years after my father was killed. I was frustrated and Rosey tried to help. I do remember that he was able to calm me and help me focus on my life.

  “Why do you come with this question after nearly three decades? Curious?”

  “No. Wanted to offer some help.”

  “So offer.”

  “Would you like a clue to the death of your father?”

  “Is this a game?”

  “Not likely.”

  “Then what the hell do you mean … would I like a clue?”

  “I just wanted to know if you are interested in pursuing something that might take you back to that thirty-two year old crime.”

  “You have something?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did you get this?”

  “Consulting.”

  I sighed deeply. I was growing weary of this game with Rosey.

  “I think I’ve had enough, Mr. Washington. I don’t really know you anymore. You are certainly not the young fellow I last saw leaving for UVA and his dreams. I am tired of playing this game with you. Either tell me something, or let’s end this now. I am slowly losing my taste for orange duck.”

  “Fair. No games here. In my work I have learned to be vague. Survival of the fittest. I trust no one. I can afford to trust no one. I consult for lots of people, some good, some … not so good. I don’t judge their morals. I simply find out what they want found out and they pay me a high premium because I am the best. If what they ask me to do violates my morals, then I don’t do it. Period. End of negotiations. I don’t question their morals, but I do live by mine. Most of my work is amoral. Needs no strings, nor emotions. I get information and give it the ones who employ me. End of story.”

  “The government included in your clientele?”

  “Yes.”

  “Military?”

  “Yes. You want a Rolodex review?”

  “No. Idle curiosity.”

  “Be careful, Clancy. Don’t play around with curiosity that is idle. If you need to know something, ask. If not, don’t ask.”

  “So, you’re telling me that if I knew everything about you, my life just might be in jeopardy, or that it would not bode well for me at any rate.”

  “Something like that.”

  “Okay. Tell me what you have on my father’s murder.”

  6

  There was a crescent moon barely visible over Rosey’s right shoulder. The angle of our table was not right for a good view of it. I took another sip of my passable Chardonnay waiting for him to provide me with a clue.

  “You like this place?”

  “Everything but the wine,” I said.

  “Norfolk, I mean.”

  “It grows on you.”

  “Sometimes I miss Clancyville,” he said.

  “Ever go back?”

  He shook his head and downed his last bit of brandy.

  “No reason,” he said.

  “No friends or relatives back there?”

  “Not that I can remember.”

  “No yearning to see the old places we walked and fished?”

  He smiled, but it had no emotion in it.

  “Nostalgia is not my cup of tea. Don’t want the enemies discovering too much about me. Best to stay in the cities.”

  “Live longer that way?”

  “I have no pretense about living long. My work teaches me to enjoy the moment, when you can.”

  “No goals for a long life?”

  “Survival. Nothing more. Besides, none of us are long for this world.”

  “Philosopher or seer?”

  “Realist.”

  He paid for dinner and we left the restaurant. The breeze from the east was chilly in the night. Norfolk was cold most of the time.

  We were in his BMW heading north before we spoke again.

  “Thanks for dinner. Good to see you again.”

  “Same here, Clancy. You look good.”

  “Don’t flatter me. I live alone with two dogs. How good could I possibly look?”

  “Together.”

  “Pardon?”

  “You have it together. That looks good on you.”

  “Little do you know. The dogs have it together. I live with them.”

  He smiled again, with more feeling.

  “Where are you taking me? I live the other direction,” I said.

  “To your clue.”

  “Show and tell?”

  “Just show. When I consult, I don’t divulge information on my subjects. Bad for business. Sort of my in-house ethics code.”

  “So, you’re going to drive me some place, park the car, point to something and then drive me back to my apartment. I’m supposed to figure out what you showed me and how that is a clue for my fath
er’s murder.”

  “Something like that. All except the pointing. I won’t do that either. You’re a detective. When you see things, you get to figure out how they be clues.”

  “Are you always cryptic?”

  “Knight the Obscure.”

  “Line from English lit?”

  “Nickname I picked up along the way.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Vigilant and enigmatic.”

  “Vigilant?”

  “Yeah. One of those round-table guys from Arthurian legends.”

  “Oh, that kind of knight. I was thinking of moonless and cloudy.”

  “You be smart for a small-town kid.”

  “I read a lot.”

  He parked the BMW along a tall chain-link fence that had three barbed-wire lines running across the top. The industry on the other side of the fence was lit up by thousands of lights. It was a deserted area except for the fact that the parking lot behind the fence was nearly full of cars and trucks. The building itself was four stories high and covered several city blocks. We were parked near the main entrance of the gate that was directly in front of the main entrance to the building. Night lights were hidden behind the excessive shrubbery that adorned the long walkway from the parking area to the double doors. The American flag was flapping in the strong breeze on the right side. Patriotism reigned supreme. The sign on the left side of the building read Craven Malone Industries, Inc.

  “Nice spot. Come here often?”

  “I be persistent in my work.”

  “Client?”

  “Wouldn’t be wise to answer that. Less is better.”

  He turned the BMW around and headed back to Norfolk. I had the feeling I had just been given the clue. Except for the obvious, I was clueless. Craven Malone Industries, Incorporated. Whatever that held in store for me, I knew I would investigate. Rosey likewise figured I would investigate as well.

  “You can’t even tell me how or what, correct?”

  “I can’t tell you anything, especially how or what.”

  “Can you tell me how I can get in touch with you if I need you?”

  He reached inside of his shirt pocket and handed me a card. It was professionally done. Washington Consulting. There were phone and fax numbers listed. Nothing else.