Henry Wood Detective: Boxed Set (Books 1 - 4)

by Brian Meeks

  "No, you aren't! You are going to stay here and stay out of it. I am going to get Sylvia and put an end to this once and for all,” Henry said in a calm measured tone that was laced with a cold forcefulness. It left no question as to whom was in charge. Luna affixed a look of anger to her face, but her eyes revealed relief. She did, however, make Henry walk around and open the door for her, and she walked with heavy, pouting steps on their way to Mike's front door.

  In Luna's mind, she could see that she was behaving like a small child. She didn't like it, but her emotions were so mixed up that she didn't know what to do. She knew that Henry was about to risk his life for Sylvia and for her father. Sitting in the car sobbing seemed ungrateful. In truth, all she really wanted was to hide, to go back to the way life was, to forget that all of this ever happened.

  Henry knocked on the door. Sally Mae opened it and said in a grown-up voice, "Hello, Henry, good to see you." Her eyes were bright, and she wore a little pink dress and had bows in her hair. She had worried and cared for Mike as much as any doctor or nurse at the hospital. Now it appeared she was helping with the welcome home party.

  "Hello, Sally Mae. You look quite lovely in your pink dress today," Henry said with a smile.

  She beamed. She was a kid again and quickly replied, "It's new, just for today. I helped make the cake, too!" She stepped back and pointed to the table in front of a big sign that read, 'We Love You, Big Mike.' People were everywhere. They had plates of food and were talking and laughing. Sally Mae, back in her grown-up voice, said, "There is food and punch and, of course, cake. May I take your hat and your coats?"

  Luna couldn't help herself; a smile snuck onto her face, and a little bit of joy found its way into her weary heart. "Thank you, Sally Mae." She took off her coat and handed it to her. Henry did the same, then plopped his hat on top of her head. She giggled and ran off to the back bedroom. Henry noticed Mike was across the room. He was talking with Francis.

  Mike saw Henry and gave a nod. He made his way through the people, shook Henry's hand with his left hand, and gave a smile to Luna. She smiled back, feeling suddenly shy. Henry lowered his voice, "Is there someplace we can talk?"

  Mike continued to thank people for the party as he and Henry made their way to his little office in the back of the house. It was cluttered with lots of books, newspapers, magazines, and general guy chaos. Mike leaned against his desk and asked, "What's going on, Henry?"

  Henry closed the door, took a moment to think about what he was going to ask, then started to catch Mike up on what had happened since his beating.

  "It's a mess, Mike. They took Sylvia and gave Winston the same treatment they gave you, but he won't be getting any welcome home parties."

  Mike's face turned to stone. "Go on."

  Henry went back to the day Mike had been beaten up. He went over every detail and explained how they had made a copy of the journal that they gave to the DA, how the DA was in it up to his eyes, and how Henry thought everything would have to play out. Mike listened, getting angrier as each revelation was made.

  Once Henry laid out every detail, he let Mike digest them. He was overwhelmed. He paced back and forth, talking to himself and Henry. "I didn't want to believe that someone on the force could be in cahoots with Tommy 'The Knife,' but if the DA is crooked, we can't trust anybody." Henry had reached the same conclusion and could see the moment of realization in Mike's eyes. There was silence for a long while as they both let the truth of the situation sink in.

  Mike agreed to make a few calls and to watch over Luna while Henry went after Sylvia. A little knock at the door followed by a tiny, ‘grown-up’ voice let them know the meeting was over. Sally Mae asked if Big Mike was getting tired and if he wanted to lie down for a bit of a rest. Mike chuckled and told her he was fine. They were coming back to the party right away.

  Henry talked with Francis for a bit, shook a few hands, and said goodbye to Luna. He found his coat and hat and headed out. He bummed a cigarette from one of the guys smoking outside and slowly walked back to his car. He knew the next call would be the when and the where. There was nothing to do but wait.

  CHAPTER 47

  Sylvia sat tied to a chair in a dark room. She had a bruise on her arm from where one of the thugs had grabbed her. Her mind was all over the place. She worried about Winston. She thought about her father and Luna. Would they try to grab her, too? She didn't think so because Luna was with Henry.

  Fear and worry gave way to anger; anger at her father for his stupid inventions, for changing her life, and for running off. Why did he have to do all of this cloak and dagger stuff? To protect her, huh? It hadn’t worked out too well had it? She struggled against the ropes, and they bit into her wrists. Why didn't they just leave the gangsters alone? It was up to the police to catch the bad guys, not an old inventor and accountant. Exhaustion shoved the other emotions aside, and sadness settled in for the night. Sylvia knew her father loved her, and she loved him for the man he was, for his belief in right and wrong. She could see it was brave, and he did arrange for Henry to help.

  A noise from outside the room brought her back to the present. Sounds of people arriving terrified her. They kept their voices down, and she couldn't tell what was said. There was something about a call that had been made. Obviously, she was the bait to get the journal back. Henry's plan hadn't worked at all. Now she was mad at him, too.

  The door opened. A large man walked in and asked, "How you doing, miss?"

  She wanted to act tough, but it seemed pointless. These guys really were tough, and it would likely just make him laugh. "I am scared and..." She looked at the floor.

  He sort of felt bad for her. She was a good-looking broad. If she started crying, well, he didn't want to think about that. "And what? It's okay, you hungry?"

  She was, "Well, yes, but I need to, um, do you have a bathroom?"

  Shit, he thought, she had been tied up for hours. "Sure, I'll untie you." He considered telling her no funny business, but she seemed too scared to run. He untied her and said, "Follow me."

  They walked into the other room. Some of the guys stood and took off their hats; two of them didn't look at her; and the others just stared blankly. They didn't like doing this to a broad. It wasn't how things were done. None of them were happy about it.

  He pointed to the bathroom door and told one of the guys to run to the deli and get some sandwiches and Cokes. The guy looked relieved to be doing something. One of his buddies volunteered to go with him.

  They heard her wash her hands, then she walked out. This time, they all stood up. She walked back to the room, and he followed her. She sat down and rubbed her wrists. They were red from the ropes. She waited for him to tie her up again, but he didn't.

  "A couple of the boys went out for sandwiches and Cokes. They won't be long. I don't think we need to tie you up again."

  "Thanks. It sort of hurts."

  He just shrugged, not feeling very tough, doing this to a woman and all.

  "Are you going to kill me?"

  He wanted to say no, but he had no idea what Tommy was thinking. He wanted to reassure her, but it was too late. The moment had passed.

  Sylvia looked at the floor, not feeling very hungry anymore. She felt like crying, but she had done plenty of that and wasn't sure there were any tears left.

  There wasn't much in the room. The brick walls had some cobwebs, and the windows were blacked out. The wood floors were covered in a thin layer of dust. It was warm, though.

  The silence was starting to bother Sal. He considered going back into the other room, but that didn't feel right. He wanted to say something to make her feel better but instead said, "You think this Henry guy will come through?"

  "You mean rescue me?"

  "No, I mean bring the journal."

  "Does it really matter if he does?"

  "It might. Tommy can be unpredictable."

  "You mean unpredictable in a good way?" Sylvia asked without really believing it could be tr
ue.

  He let out a heavy sigh, "Not usually, no."

  She smiled. His honesty somehow made her feel better. She thought about truth and why knowing it was important. An answer didn't come to mind, so she told him, "Thanks for not bull-shitting me."

  He looked at her, confused by her smile. He didn't feel like smiling but did anyway.

  She asked, "What's your name?"

  Telling a kidnap victim your name was a bad idea. He knew this and hated it when his men did stupid things like that, and, yet, he found himself saying. "It's Salvatore, miss."

  She couldn't help but be polite, "Well, I am Sylvia. It is..." She paused and added awkwardly, "...much appreciated, your kindness, that is."

  He didn't feel kind. Sal wasn't good at small talk. "You like books? I could get you something to read."

  "Yes, I like books, but I doubt I could start something I wouldn't be able to finish. Thanks, though."

  Sal felt like a complete heel now. What a terrible thing to ask someone in her spot. He wished the food would get here, so he could put something other than his foot in his mouth. The silence was back, and he felt trapped. Sal didn't feel in control even though he was supposed to be. He hadn't felt this way since 'The Kid’s' funeral. She seemed like a really nice lady. He guessed she was smart because of how she talked. He imagined she did like books, maybe some of the same books he liked. He stopped trying to say the right thing.

  "Yeah, I guess that was a stupid thing for me to ask. Sorry."

  The apology from this giant of a man touched Sylvia. She could tell he would let her go if it were up to him. It wasn't, and she understood. "It is okay, you were just being considerate. Do you like to read?"

  The nicer she got, the worse he felt. "Yes," he lowered his voice a bit. "Most of the guys in my line of work aren't really into the classics. I don't know why. We spend a lot of time in cars waiting for things to happen. I usually have a book with me. The guys probably would give me a hard time if I weren't so big."

  She laughed, "Yes, I bet they would. But it is because they don't know how enjoyable a good book can be. I like mysteries and love stories."

  "Did you know that Edgar Allen Poe wrote the first mystery?"

  Her captor was full of surprises. "No, I didn't."

  "I read it a long time ago. I like his stuff, even the poem 'The Raven.'"

  "You like poetry, too?"

  "Not really that much, but 'The Raven' was in a book with his other stuff, so I read it. He makes you feel like you are in the room watching the guy deal with his demons and insecurities.”

  Sylvia's expression was easy to read, so Sal continued, “My day job is being a thug; by night, I am a secret literary critic who saves people from poor prose."

  Sylvia giggled. She hadn't forgotten where they were or why and didn’t know what was next, but it felt right to laugh.

  CHAPTER 48

  Henry slowly walked up the stairs. The weight of this case was nearly unbearable. His head was pounding, but the die was cast, and soon there would be a resolution be it good or bad. Each step rang hollow in the hallway and seemed to echo into eternity. The rest of the world was silent.

  When he neared the door of the strange little man, his landlord Bobby, he found himself trying to quiet his steps. It wasn't intentional nor did it matter. He heard the patter of Bobby's feet, and the door opened, though with less flair than usual.

  "Hey, Henry..." Bobby said, then lowered his voice a bit and slowed his pace, "How you doin’? Anything you need?"

  "No, Bobby, but thanks for asking,” Henry said and smiled. The shortness of the meeting seemed odd, but he was thankful. He didn't feel like getting into one of Bobby's long-winded discussions. Bobby turned and went back into his horribly cluttered office and shut the door gently.

  The Henry Wood Detective Agency seemed cold, but, when he checked the thermostat, it was fine. He took off his hat and coat, put them on the hat tree, and sat down at the desk. He leaned slowly back, keeping his gaze on the phone. He eyed it suspiciously as though it might bite him. He waited.

  The phone rang. It sounded strange somehow. It rang again, and Henry leaned forward and slowly picked up the receiver. He didn't say anything.

  "Mr. Wood, I presume," said the voice on the other end.

  "Yes. Who is this?" Henry said with a sudden confidence and swagger that might have been posturing, but it felt right. The game was on.

  "This is the man whose business you and your little friends have been sticking your noses into."

  "I have a lot of cases. Could you be more specific?" Henry responded as if he didn't have a care in the world.

  Tommy's short fuse had been lit. He roared into the phone, "Listen, you little bastard. I have your broad Sylvia; you have my book. You are going to bring me the book, and I won't burn your world to the ground."

  "You are a scumbag. I doubt Sylvia is still alive. If she is, we can work something out," Henry said. He wondered if he had overplayed his swagger.

  A rustling of chairs, the sound of a slap, and a yelp shot through the phone line and burned itself into Henry's mind. He would never forget that moment. Then Sylvia said, "I am here, Henry."

  Tommy took the phone back and said, "You bring the book to my warehouse on the south side. You bring it at 11:00 tonight, and you come alone.

  "I'll be there,” Henry said and hung up the phone.

  The wheels were turning; the game was, indeed, on. The next move would be to add one more player to the mix. Henry picked the phone back up and soon had the DA on the phone. Henry masked his disgust and tried to sound upbeat.

  "Hey, I have some good news,” Henry started.

  The DA's voice was calm, "Oh, really? What is that?"

  "I know you felt terrible about losing the journal. I am a cautious man and wanted to cover my own ass, so I made a copy before I gave it to you," Henry said. He didn’t want to anger the DA by telling him that he had been given the copy. Henry was sure the DA would consider that a terrible slight.

  "You did?! Well, that is fortunate. You must bring it to me immediately," he said, trying not to sound too eager. Henry imagined sweat forming on the DA's brow.

  "It is even better. I am meeting Tommy at 11:00 tonight at his warehouse. You can catch him with the goods."

  There was a heavy breath, then the DA said, "Yes, that is good. We will get him this time. You have done a great job, Henry. I won't forget this. I'll see you there."

  The phone line clicked as the DA hung up. Henry thought to himself, You will certainly remember this night, and that I promise you.

  Henry looked at his watch. It was going to be a long wait. He leaned back in his chair and thought about getting a bite to eat. The plan was in motion, but it could go wrong a thousand different ways. Even a convicted scum bag on death row gets a last meal.

  CHAPTER 49

  The apartment was sparsely decorated but not because he needed it to be so. It was a choice. The single chair discouraged the rare visitor from lingering. His kitchen consisted of a table, plate, bowl, one set of silverware and two glasses. The second glass he had been given for opening a bank account. It seemed a waste to throw it out; plus, he liked the logo design.

  Joseph had spent much of his working life traveling the world. His particular skill set took him to every imaginable exotic spot on the globe at the expense of people who wished to remain anonymous. His extraordinary memory allowed him to sit in his apartment, to close his eyes, and to walk the streets of all the places his life had taken him. Joseph liked to take walks.

  If asked, or just if he wanted to, he could describe in detail every hotel room in which he had ever stayed. They were much different than his apartment. When on the client's dime, he went first class. Joseph couldn't say if he preferred a five star hotel to his tiny apartment as he was content in either. It was the feeling of contentment for which he strived each day. Most days he succeeded. If pressed, though, he would probably say he preferred to have only what he needed to live.


  This was how he viewed his life, as an existence. Joseph didn't feel he was part of the human race but was a small part of something much bigger. It was his privilege to observe the beauty of the world. And to often copy it for great reward. Owning a tiny piece of it seemed completely unnecessary. Joseph didn't drink unless it would be impolite to not do so. Though he didn't care for drink, he loved fine food. His palate was refined. He could discuss flavor and texture with the best chefs in the world and feel right at home.

  His phone rang, “Yes, this is me.”

  “I need you to write a letter. We have samples of the handwriting and what we want it to say.”

  “When do you need it?”

  “I need it now. I realize this isn't how you work, but it is short and not by a famous hand.”

  “Send a car to the usual spot. I will be there in 20 minutes.”

  The apartment was quiet again. Resting in the window was a pleasant little plant. It was quiet, too. Joseph didn't know what type it was nor did he especially care. Joseph and the plant seemed to be in agreement about the amount of water and sunlight required, and the plant thrived. He didn't talk to it but liked having the plant in the window. When he was out of town, Mrs. Brumfield would take the plant in. She did talk to it.

  He grabbed his set of pens and inks and put them in his case and gave the plant some water before taking the short walk to the meeting place. Normally, he would draw each day using either pencil or ink. He would sit in the park and render the fountain or building in exacting detail. His deep focus blocked out the sounds of the frolicking children, but he couldn't keep them from pestering him. Children seemed to be drawn to him or maybe it was just idle curiosity, but they always asked to see the picture. He would politely show them the drawing. The children would usually say something cute and run off laughing. To say he didn't care for children would be accurate, but he still felt it was important to be kind.