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

by Brian Meeks

  “I got some good news. It seems Jack was right. The FBI friend was a bluff.”

  “You want to tell him?” Dewey smiled.

  “We could let him sweat for a while.”

  “Yes, we could, but we need him focused.”

  “Are you going to keep him on dame duty?”

  Dewey thought about it for a minute. “It might be a good idea. This Henry Wood guy seems to be pushing pretty hard. I still think it's the right play. What about you?”

  “Don’t tell him I said so, but he is probably the best man to find Oleg.”

  Dewey considered his point. It was a good one. It was times like these where success or failure of a mission balanced on the razor-thin edge of a single decision. Dewey didn’t need to tell Gilbert he wanted to be alone. Gilbert closed the door on his way out of the office.

  Dewey poured himself a drink while playing all the moves in his head. Like a chess grand master, he was usually half a dozen moves ahead, and, if he missed something, it might mean checkmate. He wondered where Oleg was and if Pytor was here, too. Unlike chess, the spy game often required making decisions based on unclear facts but reasonable assumptions. He preferred hard facts, though, they were often a luxury.

  He looked out his window and scanned the crowd below for a Russian man carrying a bag of groceries while thinking about Jack’s reaction to the news. It was nothing more than a slight look that seemed out of place. It wasn’t even the look so much as how quickly Jack had changed back to normal. That was part of any good spy's training, but why did he need it then, at that moment? It bothered Dewey. He decided to keep Jack assigned to the secretary until he could figure it out.

  Dewey took a sip of his drink and considered his own judgment. Was he becoming too cautious? Had he started to see conspiracies where none existed? Had he wasted everyone’s time with this mission? He returned to his desk and went back to work. There just wasn’t any time for doubt.

  CHAPTER 39

  Oleg slept for exactly sixty minutes. He was getting into his field routine. He got on the floor, did two hundred push-ups, and three hundred sit-ups before taking a shower. He shaved with a straight edge razor, combed his hair, chose a dark suit, and laid it on the bed. He put on a tee shirt and shorts.

  The suitcase was sitting on the bed. It contained the tools of the trade. He selected a hex bolt from the group of twelve. The hex part screwed off revealing the interior compartment. The Markarov PM 9mm pistol was kept in perfect working condition; still, he grabbed the cleaning kit, too. Oleg took these and a pen and some paper out to the kitchen table.

  Opening the refrigerator door he reached past the vodka and took out a carton of orange juice. This wasn’t the time for a drink. Duty always came first. He made a sandwich, took the juice, and sat at the table. He chewed methodically while listening to the city. Through the open window he could hear some light traffic and people walking along the street, some laughing, others arguing. He heard footsteps in the hall. Heavy steps went past and entered another apartment. He guessed the person must have been at least 200 pounds. Learning who the neighbors were was important.

  He thought about that night in ‘47 at the boarding house in Prague. Oleg had been there a week getting dead-drop messages and decoding them. He hadn’t done it intentionally but noticed that everyone in the building seemed to be old and single. He was feeling a bit lonely himself, and each set of steps from the hallway, lumbering to their rooms made it worse. He would walk past their rooms, listening. He rarely heard talking. It was a building of single souls.

  On the eighth night, he heard three faint sets of footsteps walk past his door...then nothing. When they stopped and a door didn’t open, he reacted. He shot two of them through the wall. After exchanging gunfire for a few seconds, he got the third.

  The sandwich was good. He finished his juice. The plate and glass were cleaned, dried, and put away. Oleg returned to the table and took apart the Markarov PM and cleaned it, too. He loaded the weapon and looked down the barrel. The specs said it was accurate to fifty meters, which was farther than he ever needed. More than any other agent, he excelled at getting close to his targets. They never saw it coming. Tonight, though, he wouldn’t need it as he was making a simple drop.

  The hex bolt came off, and he set the top next to the shaft. The pen was special; it would write in ink, which deteriorated after twenty-four to forty-eight hours. He could write a coded message, put it in the bolt, and leave the bolt at the drop spot. If the message wasn’t found, it would destroy itself. He wrote a simple message, XERTNVAX 009, then rolled the paper up and put it in the bolt and added the cap. The first part of the message didn’t mean anything. The last digit being a nine told the reader Oleg was there, and the operation was moving forward and to look for forthcoming instructions.

  Oleg put on his suit and grabbed a hat. His shoes had soft soles, so that he could walk without making a sound. He left his building, turned right and walked two blocks, then left and stopped at the door of a restaurant. He pretended to read the menu in the window while using the glass to see if anyone was following. Oleg stood there for a while. When he was sure no one was behind him, he actually read the menu. He believed he should know the neighborhood. Plus it looked good, so he decided to give them a try for lunch. Oleg noticed the smells of the city. The evening was warm, almost the perfect temperature. He looked up and couldn’t see any stars; there was too much city light. His senses were on high alert and they took everything in.

  The alley was empty, save for a few garbage cans. He stopped in the middle, lit a cigarette, and, putting his hand into his pants pocket, pulled out the bolt. He kneeled to tie his shoe and placed the bolt next to the wall. Oleg strolled to the end of the alley and crossed the street. He stopped to smoke. It was a weak American brand, which he hated. When he didn’t see anyone else enter the alley, he knew the drop had gone unnoticed.

  He took another lap around the neighborhood and he found a bar. It was time for that drink but not vodka. He ordered a Budweiser. Oleg loved being in the field. It had been a long trip and getting settled into a routine was comforting. He listened to the New Yorkers talk and struck up a conversation with the bartender. A nice looking woman, who had obviously been there a while, gave him a glassy-eyed stare. She smiled. He bought her a beer. They talked for a while, and, when she had excused herself to go to the ladies room, he bought her another beer and left the bar.

  Tomorrow, he would return to the bar and check on the drop. If the bolt was gone, the next drop would move to the second spot. For now, dead-drops would be the only method of communication, but eventually he would meet the man who had been monitoring their progress. If anything went wrong, it would be his responsibility to clean up the mess.

  He went home and replayed every move in his head: the streets he walked down, the name of the restaurant he stopped at, and the exact time he made the drop. He wouldn’t write anything down, not at first, not until he was sure it was safe. At 4:00 a.m., Oleg went to bed.

  * * *

  At 4:21 a.m., a man tied his shoe in the alley and slipped the bolt into his pocket.

  CHAPTER 40

  Celine had just left the office with Buttons. Henry was considering heading out himself, but Mike called and asked if he could come over for a talk. Bobby stopped in while Henry was waiting.

  Bobby asked, “Hey, Henry, how's the case going?”

  “I can’t say for sure, but it seems to be heating up. I had a couple of CIA spooks tailing me this morning. They wanted to know about the Kupton case. How do you suppose they knew about that?”

  “Maybe the place is bugged?” He started to look around, peeked under the desk lamp, and lifted up a chair.

  “I had a friend sweep the place. It was clean.”

  “Aren’t the CIA supposed to stay out of domestic stuff?”

  “Yes, they are, which begs the question, what are they doing?”

  Bobby started to pace back and forth, his stubby legs waddling to and fro.
Henry watched him, curious if his head might produce steam. It didn’t.

  Bobby said, “If they are interested in Kupton, and he was doing something illegal with a foreign country...maybe that's why they are here?”

  It was a good point. Henry said, “You might be right.” Bobby glowed at the acknowledgment. Henry added, “You know anyone over at the FBI?”

  Bobby laughed, “Of course, I know people everywhere. You want me to introduce you?”

  “I might, especially if they keep giving me a hard time. Let me think about it for a day or two.”

  “Sure thing, I'll see you tomorrow. I gotta run.” Bobby zipped out of the office, and Henry was left with his thoughts.

  Henry took out his notebook and made a list: 1) Ask Amy if Kupton Manufacturing did business overseas. 2) Ask Lawrence to keep his ears open for anything about foreign orders. It wasn't much of a list.

  He closed the notebook and started to think about Bobby’s theory. He recalled getting that phone conversation a few days ago about the case. He hadn’t thought about it, but wondered if it was Jack and his buddy John. He could remember there were two voices. One of them might have been Jack, but he didn’t think the other was John. Henry decided he needed to make some more notes. He jotted down his impressions from the meeting, how it seemed to press one of Jack’s buttons when he had suggested Daniel Kupton was thrown out of the building. Henry didn’t like the idea of going up against the agency if they were responsible for Daniel’s death. Maybe it was too many spy novels, but he feared them more than he had feared the late Tommy "The Knife".

  Mike knocked and came in. “Hey, Celine’s already gone?”

  “Yes, Buttons demands he be taken home at five o’clock sharp for dinner. It is non-negotiable. I must admit he is doing a good job as the new boss. Of course, it means I'm now further down the totem pole, but at least she can’t make me work until all hours of the night."

  “Look how far the Henry Wood Detective Agency has come since your old place burned up. You miss being across from Francis?”

  “I do, but he stops in occasionally. We had lunch a few weeks back.”

  “He’s a good man.”

  Henry smiled. He liked that his two best friends got along now. It hadn’t always been that way. “So what have you been up to? Any leads?”

  “I’ve been focusing on the Cynthia Pollard murder since there isn’t anything new on the Kupton case. I'm afraid it isn’t going very well. The lab dusted for finger prints.”

  “Did they find any good ones?”

  “They didn’t find any prints.”

  “You mean other than hers?”

  “Nope, not a one, and the lab guys said they had never heard of a place wiped down so well.”

  Henry opened his notebook and started writing. Mike was used to this. He gave Henry a minute to catch up, then continued, “She was wearing perfume, so we checked the bottle at her dressing table. Nothing. There were cleaning supplies under the sink, probably used by the maid, but completely wiped down. The guys estimate it would have taken at least two hours to do such a thorough job or several people.”

  “Could the killer or killers have done it after she was dead?”

  Mike hadn’t thought about it from that angle. “I don’t think so. What are you saying?”

  “While we were at dinner, there was someone cleaning her apartment because the murder was planned.”

  As Henry said it aloud, his stomach lurched, and his head started to spin. They were there, in her apartment, plotting while he was eating, listening to her ramble on, and judging her. He should have walked her to her room. He might have been able to have stopped them.

  “Henry, I’m going to go. We asked about people coming in after her but not before. You may be onto something. Thanks, buddy.”

  Henry stood and showed his friend out. He called Luna and told her about his conversation and his new theory of Cynthia’s murder. He canceled their dinner plans. She made some comment about standing her up, but Henry was barely listening. Henry hung up and sat alone...thinking about Cynthia’s last meal.

  CHAPTER 41

  Celine giggled with Carol. They tried on clothes, did her make-up, and talked about Celine's first date with Jack. Carol asked, "Are you going to play hard to get?"

  Celine said, "I think that boat has sailed. When he called, I practically said yes before he even asked me out."

  "Maybe he didn't notice?"

  "Maybe he has a friend?"

  Carol clapped. "That would be wonderful. He seemed so nice, and I'm sure any friend of his would be nice, too. I so want to meet a nice boy."

  "I'm sure you will. You're much less shy than you were last year. Boys don't like a girl who is too shy."

  "You think so? I do feel a little braver than before. I have you to thank for that."

  "What about that sailor you were kissing at the bar last week?"

  Carol blushed and said, "I have beer to thank for that night. He was a good kisser. You think he'll call?" Carol asked, knowing that Celine would always be honest.

  "I do! He was different than that accountant or the college boy – what was his name?"

  "Brad. He was cute, but I wasn't surprised he didn't call. I didn't like him much anyway. I hope my sailor calls, though. He is dreamy."

  They both giggled some more and went to wait for Jack's arrival. Carol made martinis while Celine sat. It wasn't like her to be nervous. Most of the men who asked her out were much more intimidated by her, then she them, but Jack was different. Maybe it was his confidence, or strong jaw, or just those amazing eyes; she didn't know.

  Carol handed her a glass and asked, "Do you know where he is taking you?"

  "I don't, but the other night I did mention my love of Chinese food. We will see if he was listening."

  "How did you know he would ask you out?"

  "I didn't, but if he did, then I would know something about him."

  "You're so clever. You're going to find the best husband ever."

  Celine shrugged her shoulders. She wasn't really looking for a husband, but she never brought it up with Carol who desperately wanted to get married and have kids. Celine thought that winning over Buttons was quite enough parenting for her and that had been a lengthy battle. She couldn't imagine a toddler.

  The knocking at the door startled Celine, but Carol was ready. She hopped up and, with martini in hand, greeted Celine's date. They chatted for a few minutes with Jack. He was especially friendly with Carol. This guy knows what he is doing, Celine thought. It made her a little weary. Could it be he was just a bit too polished?

  As they left, Carol told him to have her in by 10:00 p.m. sharp. He saluted, and they were off. Buttons said, "Meow," and Carol turned on the radio. Buttons climbed onto her lap, and she brushed his fur. A half pitcher of martinis remained. She would enjoy them while having some quality time with the cat.

  * * *

  Pytor had resisted buying the new Corvette as it would be too noticeable, but he test drove the car just for fun. He had to give the Americans credit. They sure could make a nice car. He went with a used sedan, paid cash, and drove it off the lot.

  Pytor tried several radio stations and settled on one that played rock -n- roll. He laughed when he imagined what his wife would think, him driving this big car, listening to the music their kids enjoyed. Even in Russia, Elvis was starting to find his way onto the stations. He turned it off. He missed her and the kids.

  He drove to Brighton Beach. At the gas station on the edge of town he filled up and handed the clerk a twenty folded into thirds. The clerk lifted the cash register drawer, took a small piece of paper out, and included it with his change. The address on the paper would take him to a man who had lined up six countrymen, with New York accents to work the night shift at Long Island Iron Works. Pytor would choose three to start right away and three to stay at the safe house with him as reserves. The reserves would also keep their eyes on the three working, just to make sure they didn't try anyt
hing. He didn't know these men, and they would have to earn his trust. It was the KGB way.

  CHAPTER 42

  William Darby left the brokerage firm around 8:00 p.m. The markets had been good, and he had made a few shekels. As he often did, he drove past the finest homes on the island and dreamed of buying one. As the light of the day faded, he made his way out of the city towards Kupton Manufacturing.

  The drive was pleasant enough, though he didn’t see why they couldn’t have met in their usual place. It was much closer to his office. It was closer to everyone’s office, except Matthew Kerwin’s. When the traffic slowed to a crawl, he didn’t get upset, but started counting the money he would have once the whole deal was done. It was such a brilliant plan that they would not only make it on the front end, but, if the guys were smart, they would ride the stock all the way to a Park Place penthouse.

  He thought about Daniel Kupton. He didn’t understand how he could make it through all the rough times, then, when everything was great, take a leap. It must have been the pressure. Still, when the stock was in the toilet, and everyone was blasting him for running the company into the ground, he had come up with a plan and sold all the guys on his dream. There was some luck, of course, but sometimes a man needed a bit of good fortune.

  William passed a stopped car with its hood up, steam pouring from the radiator. Once past it, the traffic picked up again. It was dark as he pulled into the parking lot. Cars were still in the parking lot but not near the main building, so he figured he wasn’t the last to arrive. Those were reserved for senior management, and they had all gone home.

  He had been to Daniel’s office before, so he knew where to find Matthew. The office looked the same; he hadn’t added much in the way of personal effects. He was probably too busy. Matthew said, “Welcome, William, good to see you. Cigar?”