by Brian Meeks
"I can't explain how it works or who is sending me this stuff, but whoever or whatever it is seems to know where we need to look."
Henry grabbed a cup and poured himself some coffee and selected a cookie. Taking a small bite, he added, "I see you did some more baking. It smells great in here."
"Thanks, baking helps me think." She flipped the pages of the pad back to the beginning. "I didn't know what each of these tools were called, so I went down to see if you had a book or something."
"Sorry, I don't, but I can tell you the names of each..."
Luna interrupted him, "You do now. I hope you don't mind, but I just had to take a peek into the closet. There were two books." She paused and pulled them out from under some other sheets of paper and handed them to Henry. "Both books, 'Mastering Hand Tool Techniques' and 'Basic Box Making,' were, er, will be...published in 2007!" She took a deep breath. "It is hard to believe."
Henry flipped them open and, sure enough, Luna was right. "So, it looks like you have been working that pencil pretty hard?"
"I looked up each tool." On the paper was neatly written Try Square, T Bevel, Marking Knife, Marking Gauge, Chisel, Pencil, and a Saw. "The saw is odd, though. It doesn't look like any of the ones in the book."
Henry looked at it, and he agreed. He had never seen anything like it before.
Luna freshened her cup of coffee, then said, "I am afraid I don't know much about figuring out secret codes."
"I have to admit that I am not seeing a pattern either. Up until now, the clues have been pretty subtle, and I didn't understand them at first." Henry's voice sort of trailed off as he popped the last bit of cookie into his mouth.
After a long, comfortable silence, Luna said, "I really hate to impose...I was going to call a cab..."
Henry smiled, “Let's go." He set the book on box making down on top of all of Luna's notes.
Henry and Luna didn't talk much on the ride back to her place. He was going to miss having her around. He wondered if she would miss him, too. When he pulled up to her house, he got the bag out of the back seat and walked her to the door. A stack of newspapers rested against it, and she picked them up before unlocking the door. The house was cold, but she felt good being there. Henry looked around as a precaution. A precaution to what, he wasn't sure. It just felt like the thing to do.
"Do you mind if I use your phone? I want to check on Sylvia and Winston."
Luna smiled and shook her head no. She took her bag upstairs.
The phone rang twice before the familiar and proper voice of Winston answered. Henry asked about Sylvia and told Winston about the two books from the next century. At the mention of the two titles, Winston said, "Hmmm.”
"Hmmm? Do you know what it means?" Henry asked hopefully.
"Have you seen today's paper?" Winston asked.
"Yes, but only briefly. Why?" Henry pulled the top paper off the stack that Luna had set on the table and looked at the date. "Yes, I have it."
Winston explained, "I read the paper every day, and, for as long as I can remember, there has been a tiny little ad for 'Stowe It Forever' gifts. But today, there was a half-page advertisement. It is on page 12."
Henry flipped to the ad, then yelled to Luna who was still upstairs, "Hey, Luna, what was the name of the author of the box book?"
She walked into the kitchen and said, "I think it was Doug Stowe."
Henry turned the paper around so that she could see the advertisement.
Luna's eyes lit up. She clapped her hands together. "That is what we detectives call a clue!"
She was very cute. Henry chuckled, "Winston, you are a genius, my man. Well done."
"Happy to help, sir."
Henry hung up the phone and tore the ad out of the paper. "I will check it out tomorrow."
Luna got a serious look on her face. "We will check it out tomorrow."
"I will pick you up at 8 am."
CHAPTER 39
The DA arrived on time. He was hungry and had no idea what was in store for him. Tommy had invited Sal and the other guys who helped retrieve the journal just to show there weren't any hard feelings. Mark McKinley still had a black eye, and his ribs were pretty tender, but he was in fine spirits.
Tommy passed around some Cuban cigars, and they all talked about family and their jobs. McKinley liked hanging out with Tommy and his ilk. It was exciting. He enjoyed their stories, and they didn't mind sharing the details in front of him. McKinley didn't think of himself as being a crooked DA; quite the opposite. His view was more philosophical. He couldn't stop the mob from running numbers, gambling, selling liquor, and extortion, but he could keep it in check. It worked out well for Tommy, too. He could schedule a time and place for when a bust was going to go down, which cut down on his guys getting killed. They did a few years in prison, some even got off, and they would get their 'time off' bonus as he liked to call it.
The city was big enough that McKinley got plenty of murder convictions without needing to go after Tommy's men. Since it was widely known among the criminal element that Tommy's boys had a fair amount of leeway when it came to torture and killing, it meant that people were more cooperative. Thus, less killing was needed. At least, that was the case until the other families started to make a play for Manhattan.
Tommy raised his glass, "To my friend Mark who has put an end to the bloodshed with his courageous act."
"Salud." They raised their glasses and smiled.
Tommy said, "I just wanted to show my appreciation for helping put an end to all of the fighting. To think, the other families would try to take advantage of rumors of a journal that would show me as criminal...Well, it is disappointing."
They all agreed that Tommy was a fine upstanding citizen who was greatly misunderstood. Tommy smiled and looked at Mark, "Sal tells me you can really take a punch."
"I think your boys eased up a little,” Mark said, trying to be modest. His ribs were killing him.
"I didn't," said one of the thugs at the table. Everyone laughed, and the thug slapped the DA on the back. "You take a punch real good, Mr. District Attorney."
Dinner was served, and the good cheer and laughter continued. When the plates were cleared away, the staff closed the doors. It got very quiet. Mark tried to make a joke, but nobody smiled. Tommy just stared at him.
"What's going on, fellas?" Mark said, his nervousness apparent.
Tommy stood up and walked around the table to the sideboard and removed the journal. "I have a few concerns, Mr. McKinley." He dropped the journal on the table with a thwack. "I think you gave me a fake."
“No, I didn't, swear to God. I took it from Henry's office and straight to your guys. When would I have had time to copy it?"
"I didn't say copy; I said fake."
"I don't understand. What's the difference? It doesn't matter - I gave you the journal I got from the detective."
"Maybe you made this fake ahead of time and kept the real one? Maybe you think you want to renegotiate our terms?"
Mark went white when Tommy pulled the tire iron out of the drawer, "I want you to look at it." Mark did as he was told. He flipped through a couple of pages. The expression on his face changed. He held a page up to the light, then another. He went to the back page and checked it, too. He then stood up and went to the lamp on the credenza and looked again.
Tommy wasn't the smartest guy in the world, but he could tell that it wasn't an act. Sal saw it, too, and asked, "What do you have to say for yourself?"
Mark didn't look as frightened anymore, "You are right. It's a fake. I worked a forgery case when I was the ADA. We had an expert on the stand who testified to being tipped off by the uniformity of each page. The pressure of the numbers and letters is the same throughout the entire journal. No matter how precise a person is, they don't always write exactly the same way over many weeks or months. This was done in a matter of days or hours."
"So who made it?"
"I don't have any idea, but supposedly Wood had it for
a while, so I am thinking he made the copy."
"How do you know it is a copy and not just a bunch of random numbers?"
"I can't say for sure, but it is slower to make up stuff than to simply copy it. My guess is, Wood kept the original."
Tommy put the tire iron back in the drawer. "You are a smart man, too smart to try to pull something like this."
Sal and the others nodded. The color returned to Mark's face, and Sal poured him another drink.
Tommy told everyone to enjoy themselves; he was going to go consider his options.
CHAPTER 40
Francis sat at the restaurant and thought about Mike. He was unable to enjoy the meal despite its pleasing aroma and flavor. It was a rare day when idle thoughts would be able to distract him from eating. He planned on going back to the hospital after he finished the article, but, at the rate he was going, that might be a while.
He opened his notebook and took a bite of the food. It was quite good, not overcooked, and the presentation was nice. The atmosphere was pleasant, though, at this time of day, it was hard to tell. Francis preferred to eat at the height of the dinner rush. He would judge the food by not only using his palate but also by watching the faces of other patrons. In New York, people weren't shy. If they didn't like something, they sent it back. This was his secret to reviewing. Any chef worth his weight in truffles could put together something brilliant for one critic eating alone. Could he do it for all of the people at the restaurant? That was the question he strived to answer.
When Francis gave a restaurant his seal of approval, it would send people flocking to their tables, but, if he were wrong, people would blame him. Francis fooled around with his salad and noticed a very worried chef watching from the back. The chef's name was Rolando. He was 23, and this would be his first major review. Since the restaurant was empty, it being after the lunch rush and before the dinner crowd, Francis decided to give him a break and explain.
He asked the waitress, "Could you please ask Rolando, if he has a minute, to join me?"
"Yes, sir."
Rolando tried to pace his walk, but he looked like he wanted to run. Or maybe it was his legs threatening to give out. Francis wasn't sure. When he arrived at the table, Francis stood and shook his hand.
"I wanted to talk to you."
"Yes, Mr. Le Mange, it is an honor to meet you."
"I assure you the pleasure is mine. Please sit."
Now, most of the staff looked on nervously, too.
"I don't make it a habit of speaking with the chefs and do my best to remain anonymous, but today is not like most days.”
"Oh, how so?" Rolando asked. He could see the pain on the critic’s face.
"My mind isn't on the food. It is elsewhere and I have been sitting here picking at it. I noticed you had observed such, and I wanted to make it clear that it wasn't the food's fault."
“You seem troubled, sir; may I ask what is weighing so heavily on your mind?"
Francis liked him. He spoke well and carried himself with a grace normally reserved for much older men. He was not brash as the young so often were. He was kind. "A dear friend is in the hospital. My thoughts are with him."
"I am sorry to hear your friend is sick."
"Thank you, but he isn't sick. He was beaten by a gang of thugs. He is a policeman."
"Is it the man in the paper?"
"Yes."
They sat in silence for a moment until Francis asked, "When did you first start to cook?"
"I was four years old and helped my mother back in Spain. I would wash the vegetables and get her pots and pans. She called me her little sous chef. I honestly can't remember doing anything else."
Francis found this fascinating. He knew plenty of chefs, but this one had a story and an interesting one at that. "When did you come to America?"
"In 1938 my family moved from Spain. My father smelled the coming trouble and said it was time to go. His brother had come over in 1935 and drove a cab. My uncle loved being a cabbie and convinced my father to buy their own medallion and go into business. They now have 37 cabs and do very well. My uncle and father put up the money and helped me start the restaurant."
Francis sat there and listened as he ate. The food really was special. The waitress brought Rolando a cup of coffee, and the young chef continued to tell his story. They talked for close to an hour. Francis finished his meal and even had some dessert.
Francis thanked Rolando for his company and the fine meal. In the cab ride back to the paper, he realized he felt much better. It took very little time for him to write his review. It wasn't a typical review as he devoted more inches to the man than to the food.
CHAPTER 41
Henry couldn't see the endgame. It ate at him like a parasite. This case, the only one he had been working for weeks, was gnawing at his soul. He felt the end was near, that the final pieces to the puzzle were about to be handed to him. And then what?
Big Mike was recovering but was still in the hospital. Luna and Sylvia had their fathers in the wind, and he knew they would stay there until Tommy and the DA were safely behind bars. Life didn't always deal you a good hand, and Henry thought his cards were dreadful. He did have an ace in the hole. He hoped that would be enough.
He got up from the kitchen table and started to pace. Tomorrow, he would drive over to the Alexander’s and pick up Luna to go poking around 'Stowe It Forever' gifts. It was painfully obvious that every step needed to be clear in his mind. Henry picked up the book 'Basic Box Making' and flipped through the pages for the tenth time. He wasn't sure what the key would be, but it had to be in the book, so he did his best to understand everything he could about box making.
Henry thought, When this is over, I need to make some of these boxes. He shook his head; he was getting distracted. He had compiled a list of steps and was not thrilled that it was a list of one. He was much more comfortable being able to see three, four, or five moves ahead. This wasn't a game of chess, though he liked the metaphor. It was a deadly game, and it was being played with the lives of people with whom he had developed a bond.
Henry chastised himself for caring. The third rule of being a private detective was "don't get too close to the client." Rule one was to not negotiate on fees, and rule two had something to do with domestic abuse cases. He couldn't remember rule two very well. It wasn't his own; it had been passed down to him by his mentor, Mickey. He shook himself again as rule four leapt out and smacked him across the face: "Always stay focused."
Rule four was killing him. Okay, Henry, stop worrying about finding the rest of the code to decipher the journal. It will be there, you will figure it out, no matter how difficult or subtle the clue might be. It wasn't a rule, but Henry believed that self-confidence was important. Perhaps he would make it rule two since he never remembered it anyway. His internal voice continued, Assuming we find the rest of the key or some of it, what is the play?
Rule four continued to take a beating as Henry started to nibble on one of the cookies Luna had left. She really knew her way around the kitchen. He was sure there must be some sort of clause for rule four that allowed for a temporary loss of focus in the event of an emergency snack. Henry paced some more while the cookies continued to disappear along with the milk. He couldn't bring the future into focus no matter how hard he tried. All his thoughts were spinning like a bunch of lights at a carnival.
Outside the wind was up and banging on the neighborhood. It would have sounded worrisome to Henry, but he couldn't hear a thing. His mind was lost in the case. After three cookies and a glass of milk, he had the book back in his hand. What would he need to find, where would the next piece be hidden? He imagined there would be something in a box, but he wondered if that was too simple. Maybe there would be a bookshelf, perhaps made by Stowe, that would have the clue? He stopped pacing and laid down on the couch. He put his arm over his eyes and, while he tried to follow rule four, drifted off to sleep.
CHAPTER 42
The night before
had brought a storm down on the neighborhood with an unforgiving wrath. Trees were down, his power was out, and the phone lines were dead. He took a cold shower. Henry didn't feel much like eating, so he fumbled around in the early morning dark, found his keys, and stood at the door looking out into the bleak winter day.
Luna was expecting him at 8 am. Normally, he wouldn't have left for another hour, but the mayhem of the previous night's storm added some uncertainty to his travel time. He pulled on his overcoat, grabbed his hat and gloves, and opened the front door, hoping this would be the day he could put all the pieces together.
Several downed trees forced a circuitous route out of the neighborhood. Henry wondered what would happen to the trees. He hadn't had much time for woodworking of late, and the fallen lumber reminded him of that fact. He hoped they would be sawed up and turned into something useful. He drove on. Thirty minutes later, the sun decided to join him on the drive. The sky looked to be clearing up, and road crews seemed to have a good handle on clearing up the mess.
He arrived at Luna's place with two minutes to spare. Promptness made Henry happy, especially when he did so under such circumstances, with so many unknown variables. Luna hopped in the car, her hands wrapped around a basket with a gingham cloth draped over it.
"I didn't know if you would bother with breakfast, so I brought these,” Luna said. She lifted the red-checked cloth. A wave of blueberry muffin goodness immediately filled the car. Henry smiled, with his usually calm demeanor, while his stomach gave thanks.
He accepted the proffered muffin, took a bite, chewed it slowly, and took another. He forgot about projecting his normal 'tough guy image' as he made what could only be described as a purring noise.