“If you call that number, a secretary will talk with you. You can arrange an appointment with me. If you send a fax, a secretary will receive it and send you a response. I will get a copy of your fax. If you reverse those last four digits of the phone number, call that number, you will talk one on one with me anytime, anyplace.”
“Knight the Obscure.”
Another Michael Jordan smile and I knew the evening was over.
7
“He kills people, my lovely,” Rogers said.
“Whattaya mean?”
“Did I stutter? Kills. Eliminates. Settles. Wipes out. Murders. Which of those terms do you not understand, Missy?”
“What are you talking about?” I was sipping only my second cup of coffee. The sun was up but my brain was still full of cobwebs. I was waiting for something inside to awaken.
“Your knight in shiny black armor, Roosevelt Drexel Washington, kills people.”
“And you know this how?”
“Research, Darling, research. It’s what I do. You told me to find out everything. You think I stopped after that morsel of data I gave you last evening?”
“I’m surrounded by vigilance.”
“Is that some kind of crack?”
“No crack. Connecting dots of conversations. Nothing important. Let me get another cup of wake-up and I’ll give you what undivided attention I can muster so early.”
“Early? Way past early, Babe. Eight fifty-three to be exact. Check that… eight fifty-four now. We’re burning daylight.”
“Where do you get these expressions?”
“I watch movies at night. Say, what’s wrong with you anyway? Being a bit testy today are we? Okay, so here’s the scoop, Miss Sunshine. Mr. Washington was trained as a Navy SEAL. Just after his commissioning as an officer, he was assigned to Special Ops for the Navy investigations into violations of human rights in Korea, Thailand, North Viet Nam, and mainland China. And, get this, baby doll, he speaks all four of those languages including what some say is the hardest of all, Mandarin Chinese. If that is not enough, add some minor dialects to those named, of which I’d say offhand there are many. Too numerous to count. If you want my opinion of Mr. Washington, I’d say that he uses a good deal more than ten percent of his brain.”
I finished my third cup while listening. I walked to the kitchen, poured another and returned. I sat on the sofa. It was more comfortable than the chair in front of Rogers’ monitor. The chair was there for show, as if somebody, namely me, sat there working on the computer. I seldom did that. Didn’t have to.
“Didn’t you tell me last night you had nothing on him after the law degree and his Navy commission?”
“That was last night, Honey Child. I got into the US Navy’s records after you had long retired and garnered all of this delicious stuff on him. Most of it, as you might expect, is classified. In fact, there was one file that was sealed so tightly, I haven’t been able to open it. Yet. It must be a real fountain of subversive data on the man and some mission.”
“You mentioned killing. Where does the killing come in?”
“Nothing documented, mind you. The Navy is not stupid. However, they are careless. You know me, Babe, I read between the lines and think. When they send in a covert team of SEALs headed by Roosevelt Drexel Washington himself who is trained to kill people, and they want some North Viet Nam leader to be eradicated, then my binary brain begins to calculate. It takes no intelligent computer to know that we replace leaders around the world. Most of it is covert. He’s been involved in seventeen of those missions.”
“How long was he involved in that?”
“The last date I found on such a mission while he was working for the US Navy is 2009. After that date, he really does fall off the radar, so to speak. Nothing there. Just that last file I couldn’t crack.”
“You didn’t find anything about his private company?”
“What private company?”
“Washington Consulting.”
“My bad. I must’ve missed that somewhere. Nothing came up with that handle. Maybe he works for them. Let me check.”
Sam had just returned from his morning escapade. Blackie was napping on her bed under the front window. The sun was beginning to invade the room fully. I fixed myself an English muffin and drank some orange juice. By the time I had showered and changed, Rogers was stalking me once more.
“Washington Consulting is a company owned by Fielder, Young, Lawson, & Associates, a law firm in D.C. They specialize in criminal law. Reputation is five star. I found it in the D.C. Chamber of Commerce section. They have four secretaries, excuse me, Office Assistants. There’s a VP in accounting, marketing, internal affairs, and a ubiquitous heading called investigations. None of the names provided are even remotely similar to your Mr. Wonderful. He must be a peon.”
“Not likely. You heard him talk when he was here.”
“He was talking to the dogs, Clancy. What kind of CEO does that, to say nothing of needed gray matter?”
“He was being sociable.”
“He was patronizing you. Don’t kid yourself. Nice voice, good looking, strong, sure of himself, but these big companies don’t put folks with those traits in charge.”
“Trust me, Sugar Lips, he is no peon. He must be a silent partner or …”
I was pacing now. I could think better doing this.
“Or what? Tell me what you are thinking. Don’t hold out on me.”
“Not holding out. Thinking. If you want to hide, you work for some organization that specializes in what you do best. If what you do best are clandestine investigations, then you’re not listed as an employee. You don’t exist. What better way to do clandestine research than to do it without anyone knowing you exist.”
“Except the company who employees you.”
“Except them.”
“So, you think that Mr. Smooth Voice Wonderful took some risk coming to see you. He made contact with an actual person who knows him. Knows that he does exist. That would be dangerous for a man in that kind of business. Correct?”
“Deathly.”
8
I borrowed my friend Margie’s truck to take Sam and Blackie to the vet. It was time for their shots and worming. Sam tolerated the dubious ordeal. Blackie was less than thrilled with it all. Neither dog enjoyed the annual ritual, but they knew they had to do it. The only fringe they got for it was riding in the truck. Something about dogs and trucks. Spiritual kinship. And the treats that the vet provided.
By the time I fed them and they settled down for their mid-afternoon nap, I was munching away on my ham and cheese on rye sandwich waiting for Rogers to enlighten me about Craven Malone Industries, Inc. It was what she did best. Well, that’s not entirely true. Her research was usually flawless, but her insights were often the bits that save my life. I created her (along with Uncle Walters), but I was still amazed at her ability to process data with a human-like function. Better than human. She had an attitude, but she had no attachments, except to me. We were friends.
“They’re big, love. Really.”
“I knew that without research.”
“I don’t mean large, honey. I mean they define the term big. You know, photo of the company logo in the encyclopedia next to the word conglomerate. They own cheese factories, wineries, car companies, health foods, magazines, and acres upon acres of real estate. Oh, yeah, they’re into chemical things as well. They have been around several decades consuming lesser entities. Old money making more and more money.”
“All legal?”
“Well, it appears so. However, I did come across some accusations on file against their media concerns. One of their magazines was sued a while back.”
“What were the accusations?”
“A district attorney filed charges against the magazine named Lusty alleging criminal activity against children. I’m thinking child pornography.”
“Specifics?”
“No, not in the documents I found. I had the feeling that t
his guy, the D.A., Fitzwaller McCann, was thinking these people were using children in their sleazy publication.”
“Fitzwaller McCann? Is that one of your made-up names, Dearie?”
“Moí? Not this time, Lambchops. He’s for real. Well, he was.”
“Dead?”
“Retired, most likely. I told you this occurred a while back.”
“How long back?”
“1973.”
Suddenly I was more than a little interested.
“Do you have more on this?”
“Only that McCann was the D.A. in Detroit at the time. Lusty was based in Detroit even though they had a nationwide distribution back then.”
“So what happened?”
“To Fitz?”
“To the charges, his potential case against them.”
“Nothing that I can find. He must have dropped the charges. No follow up anywhere.”
“Reason?”
“I can guess, but there are no documents anywhere to be found. I have accessed everything online and hidden in the Detroit system. I’m thinking here that the case against Lusty died before it got off the ground.”
“And the magazine?”
“Alive and well. In fact, it has spawned three more magazines similar in nature, all appealing to the variances in human depravity. Beasty appeals to those of you who love animals. Zesty to those who like the males only. And Busty for those of you driven to the female of the species. Shall I go online and place an order for all four colorful magazines for your perusal?”
“You’re not making any of this up, are you?”
“I am not using one bit of my creativity.”
“Don’t place an order just yet. Keep checking on anything else you can find regarding Craven Malone Industries as well as those glossy publications. See if there are any other law suits or just allegations against the company. Anything will likely help me at this point. In the meantime, I’m going to Detroit to see Fitzwaller McCann. Find an address for me while I pack.”
9
I landed before ten the next morning. I rented a Blazer and headed north out of Detroit towards some remote lake property owned by Mr. Fitzwaller McCann. Having never been to Northern Michigan, I wanted to be prepared for any kind of setting. We detectives try hard to have contingency plans. Most of the time. Maps and GPS. And I actually prefer maps as well as driving Blazers.
It turned out that Mr. Fitzwaller McCann lived nowhere near Detroit. My keen powers of detecting uncovered this after I had driven for some four hours north on I-75 to Indian River. I took Exit 310 off of the interstate and turned right just under Lake Huron. Rogers found the address and then created a map with step by step directions through Map Quest on the internet. She added some possible excursions in case I had extra time.
I was now heading east on M-68. I passed through Afton, Tower and Onaway. At Millersburg I stopped to ask directions since I thought I was close enough so that people would know who and what I was talking about. McCann’s place was supposedly on Lake Nettie.
A polite old man at a One Stop Food Mart directed me to Highway 638 out of Millersburg. He said it was about five miles to Lake Nettie, give or take. It turned out to be give.
I followed the signs to Lake Nettie and then on to where I hoped that Miss Roger’s diligence and precision would take me. It was close to 4:30 when I found the place. I had been thinking sub-division when I should have been thinking estate. The Fitzwaller McCann home was more like a lodge than a single family dwelling. It was situated, as the internet had pointed out, on Lake Nettie as well as the Ocqueoc River with its own private Lake Ann. Nearly surrounded by woods, it was remote and larger than life. Likely cost was somewhere above the price of my apartment. And my car. Together.
I checked the rearview mirror to see if there were any remnants of cheese crackers in my teeth. My auburn-red hair looked as good as it was going to look. I was wearing my tweed sport coat with an unusual burgundy stripe running occasionally in it, khaki pants, and cordovan loafers. Casual business. There was no gun to hide under my jacket because of flying into Detroit. I expected no trouble from Fitzwaller McCann requiring the use of a weapon. I was armed with my brain and ever-present charm. Yikes.
I rang the door chimes and waited in front of the beveled cut glass door. I expected the butler to escort me inside once he arrived. An attractive, elderly lady opened the door. She was wearing white slacks and a short-sleeved flowered top. Her hair was short and unnaturally brown.
“May I help you?” she said.
“I’m Clancy Evans. I would like to speak with Mr. Fitzwaller McCann.”
“Come in.”
I stepped into the foyer under the skylight. I followed the graceful woman. We passed under one of those candlelight chandeliers heading towards a mammoth great room that overlooked the lake. It wasn’t the grand cathedral ceiling or the multiple sky lights that caught my attention. Rather, it was the massive floor to ceiling stone fireplace. Think ski lodge for a hundred guests somewhere in Colorado. I was offered the large leather chair by the beautiful yet mammoth stone hearth.
“Fitz is down on the dock tinkering with the boat. He loves his boats and divides his time between tinkering and fishing. Mostly he tinkers. He’s no mechanic, but he loves to play around with those things. It’s like he has completely forgotten that he was a – or, forgive me. I rattle on sometimes. May I ask your business with my husband?”
“I want to talk with him about an investigation he was conducting in the early seventies.”
“Oh, my. That would be some years back. We retired in 1973. He was the District Attorney for the metropolitan area of Detroit, you know. That was more than thirty years ago, my dear.”
Judging ages has never been one of my fortes, but this lady had to be in her early seventies if she were a day. Her face showed some signs of aging, but only slightly. She was obviously upper crust by the way she carried herself and had handled me so far.
“You retired young,” I said.
She smiled pleasantly.
“Yes, we did. May I offer you something to drink?”
“That would be good.”
I waited for a list of items from which to choose. It never came. The awkward silence left me thinking that something was missing here.
“Do you have any Scotch and soda?” I said.
She walked to the bar and began working on my drink.
“On the rocks?” she finally said.
“Yes, please.”
She returned with my drink. She sat down. I was drinking alone. This was usual for me. I sipped and waited.
“My name is Clancy,” I said again hoping that she would offer me hers.
“Charming name,” she said with that high society air. I was about to hate her when she broke my train of resolute anger. “I’m Ann. Ann McCann. Where are you from Clancy?”
“Norfolk, Virginia.”
“That’s a long way to come to talk with my husband.”
“I’m investigating a murder that goes back more than three decades. I try to follow all clues.”
“You’re a policeman – woman?”
“Private investigator.”
“Oh, how interesting. You don’t look to be that old. I don’t think I know any women who are private detectives. Do you like your work?” her voice was too pleasant.
She may have been upper crust, but she was not overly bright. I needed to move on to Fitzwaller McCann.
“Sometimes,” I said and finished my Scotch. “May I walk down to the lake and talk with your husband?”
“Yes, that would be fine. No, wait. I’ll take you. It’s such a lovely day. I need to be outside anyway. I haven’t been out all day. Come this way.”
I followed her down some stairs to another extravagant level of the home and then out into a sun room that maybe had been a deck once upon a time. We passed through the sun room quickly, out onto a real deck and then down another set of steps to a lovely flower garden on both sides of the w
alkway. The step-stone pathway led to the boat dock on the lake.
Her husband was tinkering with an 80-foot cabin cruiser. Being the astute detective, I was beginning to sense that this place reeked of money.
“Captain, permission to come aboard?” she said losing her socialite voice and asking like a commoner. I thought that this was her attempt at humor until Fitz answered her.
“Permission granted,” came this stern, authoritarian voice.
I began thinking Twilight Zone immediately.
I followed her as she maneuvered her slightly aging body deftly into the boat. She was a young seventy something for sure.
“This is Clancy—I’m sorry, what did you say your last name was again?”
“Evans.”
“Yes. Miss Evans has come to talk with you about an old case.”
I think I expected Captain Ahab to turn and greet us, judging from the voice he had used with her, and the stuff I had read about district attorneys. Instead, a small, wiry man a good two inches shorter than I stood up and almost smiled at me. He was less than daunting.
“What case?” he said flatly. He obviously was a busy man and had no time for such trivial matters as I might carry with me.
“I think I will go back to the house, Captain. You two can talk about this without my help. Permission to go ashore, Captain?”
“Permission granted,” he waved his hand in the direction of the shore and house.
I watched her leave.
“What do you want to know?” the Captain said to me.
“What happened to the case you were developing against Lusty magazine?”
Being the ever observant private eye, I noticed a slight flinch at the mention of the magazine. It was as if I had shot a blow dart into his side and he grimaced slightly from the slight pain.
“Don’t remember it.”
“Early seventies. You were investigating Lusty magazine for crimes against children.”
“You must have me confused with someone else.”
One Lost Soul More: A Clancy Evans Mystery (Clancy Evans PI Book 1) Page 4