The Iniquitous Investigator (A Nick Williams Mystery Book 8)

by Frank W. Butterfield

  "Captain," I said as we shook. "Thanks for being available at the last minute."

  He nodded and said, "We're glad to be able to help out at a time like this. Who's flying with us?"

  I introduced him to my father, Lettie, and Marnie.

  To Lettie, he said, "Please let me offer you my condolences."

  "Thank you, Captain."

  "Are you from Georgia?" he asked.

  "No. We're San Francisco natives. We're going to be with family."

  I looked over at Carter, who hadn't said anything. A tear was running down his cheek. I walked over and took him by the arm. Pulling him back over to the car, I said, "You should go." I sucked in a breath. I couldn't help myself. "If you want." My stomach hurt as I said it, but I had to.

  He looked down at me. Using the back of his hand, he wiped the tear off his face. "No. Absolutely not. We've been over this, Nick. This is where I belong." He took me by the shoulders and leaned down into my face. His eyes locked on mine. "You're my family, Nick. I love you."

  I was having trouble speaking, so I just nodded.

  . . .

  Once we were home, I realized that Ron Kimble had finished his work in the office. Carter and I both now had our own desks. My desk had been my father's. It had been built for the room from the same wood and in the same style as the walls and ceiling. Carter's desk was a little heavier, stained a darker color, and looked like Teddy Roosevelt might have once owned it. I stood there for a moment and looked around the room.

  The two desks were facing each other. They sat next to the tall floor-to-ceiling window that looked out over Sacramento Street.

  I heard Carter coming down the stairs. "Hey, Chief!"

  "Yes, Boss?"

  Walking into the room, he stopped short. "Is that my desk?"

  I nodded. "Yeah. Waddaya think?"

  He moved over and stood in front of it. "Nice. I like it." He wiggled his eyebrows at me. "It's larger than yours."

  I laughed. "Yeah. Did you see this?" I pointed to a glass trophy case, which was empty.

  Carter smiled and said, "Good." Opening a big closet that stood against the wall, he pulled out a box.

  "What's that?"

  "Your trophies."

  I watched as he put the box on his desk. The first thing he brought out was a model Lockheed Constellation. Holding it in his hand, he flew it through the air while making a buzzing sound. He flew it over to the trophy case. I walked over and opened the glass lid. He made it look like the plane was landing on the purple velvet cloth and then positioned it at left end of the case, pointing the nose at an angle. I leaned over and looked at it. Someone had painted the words "Laconic Lumberjack" in the same way they were painted on the actual Connie. It was a great little touch.

  He walked back over to the desk and pulled out a model yacht. This one looked even more like the ship than the one from before. Carter had put together a trophy wall for me the summer before. Like most everything else, the models were lost in the fire.

  As he carried the yacht to the case, Carter made a "glug-glug" sound. I laughed and said, "Is that the sound that yachts make?"

  "The sound that The Flirtatious Captain makes is too obscene for me to repeat." All the crew were in the life and we'd come to realize they were enjoying each other's company much more than most sailors did. He put the yacht on a small stand in the center of the case and walked back to his desk.

  The final trophy was of a DC-7. He made the same buzzing sound and placed it at the opposite end of the case from the Connie. "When are you gonna name this one?"

  I said, "Well, if we ever fly in it, we can pick the name then."

  Carter smiled, closed the lid on the case, and walked over to me. Getting close, he put his hand under my chin and leaned in for a deeply satisfying kiss. As we did this, I said something that vaguely sounded like, "Thank you, Chief."

  His reply was an equally garbled, "You're welcome."

  . . .

  We were both seated at our respective desks, grinning at each other, when the phone rang. I picked up the handset and said, "Yeah?"

  "Nick? This is Velma."

  I sat up. "Aunt Velma. I'm so sorry. How are you?"

  "Like you can imagine. Look, honey, I wanna talk to Carter but first I wanna say something to you."

  I looked up at Carter whose face was full of concern.

  "Is Carter there with you?"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "He made the right decision. I'll be fine. John is here and is helping me with everything. And I've had enough of Louise and her stubborn ways. This is gonna be a tough time for you boys and you need to be together."

  I felt pretty bad. We needed to take care of her and here she was taking care of all of us. Then it occurred to me that maybe this was what she wanted. After all, I knew she never did anything she didn't want to do.

  "Thank you," was all that I could come up with.

  "You're welcome. I hear that your father and Leticia are on their way out."

  "Yes ma'am."

  "Well, I'll be sending Leroy's scrapbook back with them. And a few other things that I know he would want you two to have." She sniffed for a moment. "Damn it!" There was a long pause. I could hear that she had the phone covered with her hand. Finally, she said, "That's all, hon." I heard her blow her nose. "Pass me over to Carter."

  "Love you, Aunt Velma."

  "I love you, too, sweetheart."

  I handed the phone to Carter. He said, "Hi Aunt Velma. How are you?"

  As he listened, I stood up and walked back over to the trophy case. I knew Carter put this together to gently poke fun at me and make sure I didn't get a big head. I'd never told him, but it was one of the sweetest things I'd ever seen. All of his care and concern for me was on full display and I loved it.

  . . .

  After he hung up, Carter walked over and stood next to me. "I don't know how I'm going to get an office building in there, but I will."

  I turned and pulled him in close.

  "What?" he asked.

  "Carter Woodrow Wilson Jones, I love you."

  He squeezed me tight. I could feel his heart beating through his coat. "I love you, too, Nicholas Williams."

  We stood there for a long moment. Finally, I turned my head and looked out the window next to the desks as I asked, "What did she say?"

  "Oh, same thing she said to you, I'm sure."

  "She's an amazing woman."

  "You're right about that. I wish I'd gotten to know my Aunt Maria." Her name was pronounced just as in the song, like the wind.

  "John seems to be a good guy, so she must've been a good gal herself."

  Carter didn't say anything. I pulled back a little so I could look up. There were two tears slowly moving down both sides of his face.

  Chapter 5

  Offices of Consolidated Security

  Thursday, July 8, 1954

  About half past 9 in the morning

  I walked into the office to find Robert sitting in close conversation with Ben. They both looked up as I walked past to hang my hat on the rack.

  "Good morning, Nick." That was Ben. His voice was unusually chipper.

  "Morning, Ben," I said. "How's your first day on duty?"

  "Fine. Robert's showing me the ropes." He looked genuinely eager to be there. Maybe there was hope.

  . . .

  Carter and I were drinking coffee. He was in his new favorite spot, which was planted on the left side of my desk. Looking down at me, he was about to ask a question when Mike, Greg, and Sam came through the office door. Carter stood up and sat back down on the desk facing the other direction. I saw Mike take note of this as a faint smile passed over his lips and then quickly disappeared.

  The intense passion that Carter and I had shared on Monday and Tuesday after being sprung from jail had returned the night before in a big way. Both of us were feeling randy and couldn't quite shake it.

  Sam sat down closest to Carter while Mike leaned against the door fram
e, his usual spot, and motioned for Greg to take the other chair.

  "What do you have?" I asked.

  Mike said, "We have all sorts of good news. First, we've traced down those kids. Or two of them, at least."

  Greg started. "Yesterday, Sam and I drove to Sausalito and canvassed the stores in the vicinity of the assault. After talking it over, we decided not to go over to the spot where the attack took place. If you want us to do that, I'd suggest taking a female operative along."

  I looked at Mike. "Do we have one?"

  He shook his head. "No, but not for lack of trying. I'm looking for one. Or more."

  I nodded and said to Greg, "Go on."

  "The owner of a market recognized them from your description. He said he thought they had walked over from the City. Told us that they'd done some shoplifting on that same day. But it wasn't candy. It was two pints milk, a box of crackers, and a small block of cheese. The owner said he saw them do it and he let 'em skate."

  Sam added, "Obviously they were hungry."

  I nodded.

  Greg continued, "The baseball bat was stolen from a variety store down the block. Lady behind the counter identified the same four, as well."

  He looked at Sam who said, "Then we got a break. While Holland was talking to the dame at the variety store, I was watching the traffic on Bridgeway. You know. The main street."

  I nodded.

  "Well, I noticed there were delivery trucks coming from the City, so I stopped and talked to a couple of the drivers. Turns out one of 'em gave the four kids a lift back into the City."

  "What time was that?" I asked.

  "He thought it was a little before noon. He was delivering vegetables from a place on Front Street in Colombo Market. That's where he dropped them off. Said they were polite and all smiles. He also said he thought he'd seen one of them before, but wasn't sure."

  Right then Dawson walked in the front door. He moved into my office, leaned against the far wall, and nodded at everyone.

  Greg picked up the story. "So, we headed over to Colombo Market and started canvassing there. Found several stories of these kids nicking penny-ante stuff. But then we hit the jackpot. Turns out the oldest one, probably the one who had the knife, is the son of one of the truck drivers who works out of there." Greg pulled out his notebook and flipped a couple of pages. "Name is Kevin Ragusa. Age 21. Lives at 523a Vallejo. Parents are Paul and Anna. Phone number is Excelsior 8232. The other kid." He looked up at me. "That's the one with the bat. His name is Peter Osso. Age 18. Lives at 11 San Antonio. That's an alley that runs off Kearny in the block between Vallejo and Green. Father is John. Mother deceased. Phone number is Yukon 5882."

  "I take it you talked to the parents?"

  Greg said, "I talked to the Ragusa parents. Sam took on John Osso."

  "How'd you handle the Ragusas?"

  "I just said we were trying to track their son down. That there might be a reward for something they saw."

  I smiled. "Not police procedure."

  Greg grinned right back. "Hell, no. That's a trick I read in a book, matter of fact."

  "You mention Sausalito?"

  "Course not. Can't go straight in if I don't have a badge. Have to work the angles, right?" He looked over at Mike and they smiled at each other. It was fireworks. Pure and simple. Mike must have been training Greg off the clock. Probably in bed.

  "What'd they say about the kid?"

  "That he was working that day. Runs messages for the market."

  "You talk to them?"

  "Sure. They say he showed up in the afternoon claiming he'd been sick at home."

  "Anything else from the parents?"

  "Usual stuff. He's a good kid. They wanted to send him to City College, but he's more street smart than book smart. I've heard that a thousand times."

  I looked at Sam. "What about the other kid?"

  "His old man says Pete runs wild most days and that he doesn't have a job. He told me he gives his son a place to stay but no money. Said he was trying to teach Pete to make his own way." He glanced quickly at Greg and said, "You know, the usual hard-ass bastard line." Greg looked down at the floor as he shifted in his chair. I wondered what the problem was.

  "How old's this kid, again?"

  Sam replied, "He's 18. He dropped out of school at 15 after his mother passed away."

  "Any line on the other two kids?"

  Sam said, "No one we talked to knew who they were. I'd guess they were from Dogpatch or Potrero Hill. Kids that run around produce markets don't go hungry."

  Greg moved in his chair again. There was some tension between the two. I'd have to talk to Mike about it.

  "Anything else?"

  Both Sam and Greg shook their heads. I said, "Excellent work guys. Very impressive." Sam beamed at me while Greg looked over at Mike who was nodding.

  I turned to Dawson and asked, "So, what's going on in Sausalito?"

  Dawson smiled and said, "They have a psychiatrist advising them, that's what."

  Mike and Greg both groaned. Having been cops, they knew what this meant. Some quack was coming in and telling them how to deal with prisoners or juvenile delinquents or hobos.

  "Yeah. So, the working theory is that..." Dawson paused. "Lemme make sure I get this right." He looked up at the ceiling for a moment. "Individuals predisposed to lewd acts of vagrancy, as defined by law, are not trustworthy and prone to psychopathic acts of deceit. An interviewing officer should, therefore, rely solely on observed facts and disregard the defendant's rebuttals as they will most likely consist of wild fantasies, concocted prevarication, and delusions. Unquote."

  I looked up at Carter and asked, "I thought we kept the wild fantasies and cockamamie prevarications in the bedroom."

  As everyone laughed, I looked over at Dawson who was smiling but didn't look amused. I asked, "So, O'Connor ignored our answers because he assumed that everything we said was a lie. Is that right?"

  "That's the fact, Jack."

  I nodded and thought for a moment. "Anything else?"

  "Yes. Sausalito has a police chief, Alden Ingalls, who's underpaid and wants a job working for the Marin sheriff's office. There are two sergeants who work for him. There's the one who interviewed you, by the name of Stewart O'Connor. He's 40. Been on the job for a while. Long history going back to the bad old days when the big shipyard was open and the place was jumping. I suppose all y'all know this, but that town was a bootlegger's heaven during Prohibition."

  Mike said, "Legendary. Perfectly placed."

  Dawson's eyes twinkled as he smiled. He continued, "He missed all that. Too young. But, like most of us, he wasn't in the service. He was a little too old for that and the draft board never even considered him. From what I heard, he's a man's man. Doesn't like the new artist types moving into town from North Beach."

  Dawson took a deep breath. "And, in particular, he doesn't like the snot-nosed kid who's the other sergeant, a Greek by the name of Louis Mountanos. He's only 30. And he's a shoe-in for police chief once Ingalls moves to the sheriff's office. Mountanos was in the Navy on Shore Patrol during the war and then, in '46, he moved to the Marine Corps for more of the same. He left in '50 and became a police officer in Sausalito. After a year, he became a deputy sheriff for the county. Two years later, he's back on the police force, now as a sergeant. From what I heard, the dislike between them is mutual. Mountanos is somehow connected politically. I don't know if it's the Greek thing, or what. O'Connor brought himself up by the bootstraps and has a chip on his shoulder at work. Guys out in town, however, prefer him over Mountanos. Like I said, he's a man's man."

  Dawson paused and put his hands in his coat pocket. He looked up at the ceiling. "Everything I just said is shoe leather stuff. I did my 'aw, shucks' routine and drank a lot of warm beer yesterday and last night. But, this next part is just my nose. Call it intuition. Call it fairy dust. I don't care. But this is what I got in my gut." He took another breath. "There is something wrong with O'Connor and the psyc
hiatrist is involved. I don't know what it is. Like I said, I can smell it but I can't touch it or point to it. It's just a few things, here and there, that certain people said or the way they said it that makes me think there is a powder keg under that town that's about to go off. And you and Carter may have lit the fuse without knowing it." He exhaled, pulled out a pack of Paul Mall, and lit up.

  I thought about O'Connor's interview and tried to figure out whether Dawson was onto something or not. "Who's the psychiatrist?"

  "Dr. Gerald R. Wildman, M.D. Age 45. Attended University of California. Then moved to Harvard. Distinguished career. Has published several papers on the problem and treatment of homosexual perversion, with an emphasis on the criminal problem of what California calls vagrancy while lewd or dissolute."

  Greg said, "That just means you're doing something we don't like."

  Dawson nodded. "Dr. Wildman specializes in the male homosexual."

  Carter guffawed. "What does that mean?"

  Dawson grinned. "That means that, upon observation of the good doctor, I'd say he was as queer as a three-dollar bill."

  Everyone in the room groaned. Dawson continued, "I didn't get to meet the man, but I observed him moving down the main street of Sausalito. What kind of street name is Bridgeway, anyway?"

  Mike said, "It was called Water Street until the bridge opened."

  Dawson nodded. "Got it." He reached over and stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray on the bookshelf. "I watched the doctor have lunch and he was, shall we say, very precise in his approach to cutting his meat. All pinkies, if you know what I mean."

  That didn't mean much, in my opinion. But I figured Dawson was still relying on his gut. And, in my experience with the man, he was never wrong.

  . . .

  Once we were done, Mike sent everyone off to type up their reports so that Kenneth would have all the goods P.D.Q. I asked Mike to stay behind as Carter swatted my behind on his way to his office. I motioned to Mike to close the flimsy partition door, which he did.

  I walked over to the window and said, "Look at this."

  Mike came over and stood next to me. "What?"

  I whispered, "What's the beef between Greg and Sam?"