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

by Brian Meeks

  “Not in the way you think,” Henry said, taking out his own notebook and writing a number down. “Give this a call and ask for Mike. He is the detective in charge of the other two murders. There were a couple of strange things left at the scene. Down by the wall you will find a field manual, which I think was placed there as a message to me.”

  “What sort of message?”

  “I haven’t worked that out yet. But I was in the bar when the officer was stabbed, the bullet that killed the waitress flew right past me, and I was standing right next to Dwight when he was shot.”

  “You think that you were the target?”

  “No...if he had wanted to hit me, why didn’t he shoot again after missing?”

  “Mr. Wood, I’m going to need to call this in. I’ll talk to the detective. I’ll get the rest of your statement later.”

  The local police force arrived en masse and set up a road block. There were considerable arguments over jurisdiction as the murder was going to be a high profile case, and the serial killer angle had both sides salivating. The bickering didn’t stop until an officer ran in and exclaimed, “We’ve got him!”

  CHAPTER 48

  The questioning had gone on for hours. When it was done, they both changed back into the clothes they had arrived in; the fairy tale was shattered. As they drove back into Manhattan, Henry tried to reassure Celine that everything would be okay. Celine's mountain of silence said otherwise. It was approaching 4 am when Henry walked Celine to her door back in the city.

  The sound of the locks opening brought Buttons to the door. He greeted them both with a weary meow. Celine picked him up and nuzzled her face in his fur. Buttons was not the sort of cat who tolerated affection unless it was on his terms, but he sensed that this wasn't the time for complaining and purred.

  Henry said, "I'll call you tomorrow...later today." He turned to leave, but she grabbed his arm.

  She looked into his eyes, a tear rolling down her cheek, and said, "You call Luna when you get home. Tell her you miss her. I mean it! I'm going to check."

  The door closed, and Henry stood in the hallway. He didn't know what to think of her condition. He knew she wasn't bluffing and guessed she might be right. If it would make Celine happy, he would do it. He did miss Luna.

  Henry decided to head to his house in Brooklyn. It was further away than the apartment, but he needed the time to think about what he would say to Luna. She would be awake getting ready to head into the bakery and probably wouldn't have much time to talk. Did she work on Sundays? He should know that but didn't.

  Henry tried a few opening lines, but they all ended up in a fight. The problem was that he hadn’t done anything wrong. He was just working a case. It wasn't his fault the woman who had been killed was a beautiful blonde. She would point out that he had solved the case he was being paid for, and he had. But the death of Daniel Kupton's mistress Cynthia haunted him because he had been the last person to see her alive. He was sure that her death had to be a part of the Kupton murder, but there wasn't a single thread of evidence tying it back to the original case. The only logical conclusion was that it was unrelated. He mentioned this to Luna several times, and she would get mad and leave. Henry never knew how to answer her question, "Why is it your job to find her killer? Let the police handle it."

  The key turning in the lock signaled he was home. It was an oddly reassuring sound. He walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. The tiny light didn't shine on anything he wanted. He knew he was just procrastinating. Henry picked up the phone and slowly rotated the dial. The clicking as it spun back seemed to take both forever and not long enough. He still didn't know what he would say. Soon there weren't any more numbers to dial, and the call went through. Luna picked up on the first ring. "Hello?"

  "Luna, it's Henry," he said unable to hide the tiredness in his voice. "I'm sorry."

  She was silent for a little longer than was comfortable and said, "Mike's looking for you...I miss you, Henry."

  Henry apologized for the early call, for not calling before, and for being a general jerk. She let him. Then he started in on the story. It was how they always talked, him giving her every detail of his case, and her listening and asking questions. When he got to the killing of Mr. Palmeroy, she immediately asked about Celine. Then he let her talk. It was her woman's perspective that amazed and befuddled Henry. No matter how hard he tried he couldn't truly understand what was going on in their heads. Luna was good about explaining her gender’s emotions in a way that, though it didn't make any sense, he understood.

  Finally Luna said it was time for Henry to get some sleep. She would come by later and cook something wonderful. Henry said he was feeling better and, if she wanted, she could come by now. Luna's silence sounded like blushing. She said, "I'll see you this afternoon."

  * * *

  Bobby had not slept since he spoke with Mike. A few calls had put him on a path that seemed unlikely and hopeless. Still, he had to prove the outlandish rumors were false, or he might never sleep again. When he met with his acquaintances who preferred to dwell in the places hidden in the bowels of the city, he would hear all sorts of fantastic stories. He would tell a few himself. In this world, Bobby was a bit of a legend and, more often than not, was the one helping out.

  These people had names like ”Ice,” “The Mole,” “Rat King,” and Bobby’s personal favorite, the blind guy who went by “The Seer.” In the shadows of New York City, the currency was information, and Bobby held a lot of I.O.Us. When he first entered the subterranean bar called Alighieri’s Pub, he was looking for rumors about the two killings. Nobody had heard anything useful. Bobby bought a round and still got nothing but thanks and promises to keep ears open until a tall man with brooding eyes slid into the booth across from Bobby. They had never met.

  He looked around in a nervous manner that was expected in such places and said, “You may call me ‘The Scribe’.”

  Bobby was impressed. He had heard of the legendary forger who had produced counterfeit plates so remarkable that he’d been wanted by the FBI for over 10 years. The Scribe had created a set of plates and printed a single hundred dollar bill with only one flaw, the date, January 1, 1492. He mailed them, postage due, to the master engraver who worked for the U.S. Treasury. The Feds had never found another note of his though he had produced plates that went to England, France, and Japan. “I’m Bobby. It’s nice to meet you.”

  “I’ve heard a lot about you, Bobby, but until today I’d never had a reason to introduce myself.”

  “May I get you another beer?”

  “Thanks.”

  They sat in silence until a haggard woman brought the next round. The Scribe took a sip and started, “I don’t get up to street level very often, but the other day I made my annual pilgrimage to my brother’s place for his daughter’s birthday party. I even shaved. It was awful. Since I was looking presentable and not at all like my wanted posters, I visited a few of my old haunts. A friend and I got to talking, and the subject of the ‘Enclave’ came up.”

  This got Bobby’s attention as the “Enclave” was a favorite bedtime story of the subterranean set. If you believed in conspiracies and shadow governments, they were your boogiemen. “What did you hear?”

  “He had lots of stories, but one in particular was, how do they say, fresh off the press. It seems your friend Henry Wood has gotten their attention and been deemed a problem.”

  Bobby didn’t say anything. He looked deep into the Scribe’s eyes and saw only truth. Bobby got up and shook the man’s hand. He removed his wallet from his inside jacket pocket, pulled out a crisp clean 100 dollar bill, and laid it on the table in front of his new friend. The man picked it up and held it to the light. He smiled. “One of my best. Thanks.”

  Bobby had pored through every book he had on secret societies, scanned every newspaper looking for messages, and finally called in favors he never thought he would need. The letter slid under his door confirmed his worst fear: “Two-man team.
Kill order for Henry Wood. Palmeroy favor gone wrong. Clean up.”

  CHAPTER 49

  Henry slept for four hours and was violently awoken by a dream. It disappeared as soon as his surroundings came into focus. Like a mist it was gone, yet he had a sensation of having heard someone yelling for him or calling to him. Try as he might, nothing more came back to him. He crawled out of bed and into the shower.

  Routine dialed in the perfect temperature, but he found himself turning off the warm water. The icy water rolling down his body got him thinking. Next he shaved quickly and then got dressed. He would need to call Mike and Celine and go see Bobby. Henry left his bedroom, walked down the hall, turned left, reached for the front door handle, and stopped. He turned and ran down into the basement and pulled open the closet door. It was empty; no, it wasn’t. He reached down and picked up the single pearl earring. It matched the one he had seen in Catherine’s room.

  The time between when Henry left his home in Brooklyn and arrived at his office seemed non-existent. Henry stopped at Bobby’s door and knocked. The door flew open.

  Bobby looked pretty rough. “Thank God you are all right. You’ve been off everyone’s radar for a couple of days, and I feared the worst. Okay, I need to tell you something. I have been doing some research, well some digging around, but I know people, and they have been helpful. I’m so glad you are okay...”

  Henry was used to his rapid-fire speech and said, “Slow down, Bobby, let’s go talk in my office.”

  “No,” he said forcefully, “let’s talk in mine.”

  It wasn’t like Bobby to be assertive, so Henry knew it must be important. Bobby held the door, then checked the hallway after Henry was inside. When he closed the door, he said, “It’s all clear. Follow me.”

  They wove their way past the stacks of books, magazines, and newspapers that filled the outer office. Bobby opened the door at the back and Henry walked through. There was a desk, two filing cabinets, a couch, and a plant. It was neat and tidy. The blinds were closed. Bobby waved Henry to follow and dashed behind his desk. He pushed on the panel, and it swung open. Henry walked through to an identical office with only one difference: there weren’t any windows.

  Bobby pointed to the desk chair and Henry sat down. Bobby took the seat on the other side, as that’s how it always was when they talked in Henry’s office. “Okay, Henry, this is what I have learned. I’m not going to sugar coat it because I know you don’t like that, so here it goes. The Enclave is after you.”

  Henry had no idea what the Enclave was, and it showed on his face.

  Bobby could tell some explanation was required, so he shared every bit of history, fact, or speculation about the secret organization. Henry listened for an hour. When it seemed that Bobby had run out of steam, Henry said, “It looks like I’m up against it this time.”

  “We.”

  “What?”

  “It looks like we’re up against it this time.”

  Henry smiled and said, “Well, then we best marshal the troops.”

  Henry got up and walked briskly to his office. His first call was to Mike. Mike was glad to hear from him and said a lot had happened since last night, not the least of which was the man they had apprehended. The suspect was now being held in Bellevue.

  Henry agreed to meet Mike at the precinct so that he could give a report that might get the captain off Mike’s back. Before he could get out of the office, a courier dropped off an envelope. Henry signed for it, pulled the letter out, and read:

  Dear Mr. Wood,

  You are not as clever as you think. The game has just begun.

  Sincerely,

  GM

  CHAPTER 50

  The letter bothered Henry on two levels. It seemed that the serial killer who was stalking him had not been caught, and he couldn’t recall thinking he was particularly clever. In fact, he leaned more towards average than anything else. Sure he had picked up some observation skills from his mentor Mickey, but he certainly didn’t think he was smarter than any other Joe on the street.

  Henry tucked the letter back into the envelope and put them both in a manila folder. It seemed unlikely that there would be prints, but one never knew. Henry started down the stairs and realized he was on edge. A door opening in the hall behind him had caused him to flinch.

  Henry flagged down a taxi and passed on the first one to stop. The second cab took him to the precinct where Mike happened to be outside talking with a couple of beat cops. “Mike, you waiting up for me?”

  “You did sort of disappear for a couple of days.”

  “I left a message.”

  “It wasn’t very helpful.”

  “Let’s get some coffee,” Henry said, “I’m buying.”

  The diner was only half full. They found a booth in the corner and Henry ordered a BLT, coffee, and a piece of banana bread with powdered sugar on top. Mike just got coffee. While they waited for the order, Henry showed Mike the letter.

  Mike looked up and asked, “You think the guy lying in the psych ward at Bellevue could have sent it before he killed Mr. Palmeroy?”

  “It was delivered by a courier, so I suppose we could ask the service when they got the job, but my gut tells me it wasn’t him.”

  “This guy they caught refuses to give his name or anything. He keeps laughing and saying stuff like, ‘Name, rank and serial number...but I’m not saying a word.’ With the stuff he left at the previous murders, we assumed he was military, but he seems to be out of his mind, too. What we don’t know is why he is focused on you. Any ideas?”

  “None.”

  “I know you don’t like to talk about the war, but I need to know if there is anything that might help us. Right now they got him for the Palmeroy murder, but we can’t prove he was involved in the other ones. And, if you are right, and he didn’t send this letter, then there is still someone out there.”

  “You got a picture of this guy?”

  “I don’t think the DA would want you to visit him in person, but I’ll ask the crime scene boys to go snap a picture. If you know this guy, it might help us figure out who else is involved.”

  “I think it may be bigger than just some sort of beef with me.”

  Mike thanked the waitress for the coffee and waited until she was gone. “Bigger how?”

  “You ever heard of ‘The Enclave’?”

  “No, what is it?”

  “Bobby did some digging, and it seems they have put out a contract on yours truly.”

  There were obvious questions, but Mike didn’t ask them. He sat, stirred his coffee, and tried to work though the puzzle. Henry ate and did the same. Finally Mike said, “Contract killers don’t play with their victims, send them love notes, or pretend to be serial killers. It doesn’t add up.”

  “No, it doesn’t, but you can bet I’m going to figure it out...or die trying.”

  Mike didn’t think the joke was funny.

  Henry got up to use the pay phone. He told Luna he had some things to work out and he would meet her for dinner. She protested, saying she would rather cook for him. Henry insisted, and she let him win this one.

  “Mike, I should probably go and check on Celine.”

  “I’ll tag along if you don’t mind.”

  CHAPTER 51

  The major generally preferred to dine alone at home most evenings. Tonight, he dined alone but among the denizens of Manhattan. The letter, having passed through several sets of hands, had been delivered, and he felt like celebrating. The steak soup arrived. He took a taste. It was delicious as were the rolls and Caesar’s salad. It was said revenge was a dish best served cold, but the major felt like it was more of a five-course meal.

  His eyes on the street had reported that Henry had, upon receiving the letter, run off to his friend Mike. A predictable move. Even more predictable was that they wouldn’t want to discuss it at the precinct. He had stationed people at the three closest diners. The report had been so expected that it almost disappointed him.

 
; The 11 ounce New York strip steak arrived. The major checked to see if it was truly cooked medium. It was.

  The next move would be key though he was starting to doubt the worthiness of his opponent. He needed to remind himself that the years of planning were undertaken because of this one opponent, not as an exercise to prove his superiority, which was never in doubt.

  The waitress, shapely and dark-haired, stopped and smiled. “Is everything okay this evening?”

  “Everything is as I expected, which is perfect. Could I trouble you to ask the bartender to find me a scotch, something older than you, my dear?”

  “And how old do you think I am?” she said playfully.

  “I would wager you are 28, probably born in March or April, are fighting with your boyfriend or just dumped him...and your father was a scotch drinker as well.”

  The look on her face said he had her thinking about how he knew so much. Her grin said she didn’t care how and that, at the very least, the boyfriend part was right. “I’ll see if we have any 29-year-old scotch.”

  When she returned, he learned her name was Brenda. She had been born March 31, 1927, and, yes, her father liked scotch, too. She didn’t ask how he knew. Some people didn’t care where the rabbit was hidden. The restaurant was busy, and she had little time for chit chat, but she did seem to make an effort to check on him more often than the other patrons.

  The major finished his meal and enjoyed a cigar and another scotch. Tomorrow he would make a decision about the lieutenant. Sometimes there were casualties of war.

  * * *

  The lieutenant sat on the floor of his padded cell.

  He had been patched up. When he came to, he realized he was in custody. The cuffs holding his right arm to the bed rail were a dead giveaway. He and the major had discussed the importance of keeping quiet in the event he was captured by the enemy. He didn’t like the idea of spending the rest of his life behind bars, but it was a sacrifice he was willing to make. Sometime after coming to, he realized he wasn’t at a normal hospital.