NO SAFE PLACE

by Steven M. Roth

  Although I ordinarily would not have driven several hours to meet with a potential new client on a speculative case without first knowing more about it, these days, with the economy still soft and our PI business down, my partner — Ralph Harte — and I could use the work. So I drove the ninety-plus miles from Washington to Richmond, and entered the director’s office at the appointed hour.

  The director met me in the Museum’s vestibule. As I stepped inside the large entryway, he pushed the heavy iron door closed behind me and locked it.

  I looked around for typical museum indicia, but didn’t see any. No visitors’ help desk or informational posters or marketing display posters reflecting past or upcoming exhibits, not even a coat room such as most museums provide. In fact, I didn’t see any indication to suggest the public would be welcome in this building.

  The director smiled at me with what looked like a well-practiced impersonation of humility. He abruptly poked out his arm in what seemed to be an afterthought and perfunctorily shook my hand without any warmth in his grip or facial expression.

  I followed the director through several dimly-lighted hallways until we arrived at an office I assumed was his. He instructed me to step inside and pointed me to a chair in front of the desk across the room. He closed the door behind us and engaged the door’s lock.

  He was younger than the mid-fifties his telephone voice had suggested to me, probably about thirty-five or so, but because of his broad mid-girth and his gin-reddened, desiccated skin and bulbous nose, he could easily have passed for sixty-five or more. He clearly liked his booze.

  The first thing the director did was hand me a legal document to sign. I recognized it as a routine confidentiality agreement, the kind of document signed every day in business transactions. When I signed it, as I inevitably would just to hear what he would have to say about the Museum’s problem, I’d be promising to keep confidential everything I learned in the course of our conversation and, if I accepted the case, learned in pursuing the investigation.

  I skimmed the document to make sure it held no surprises, signed it, then slid it back across the desk. The director, in turn, put the document in a drawer and replaced it with a thumb drive he set on the desk midway between us.

  “Everything you need to know to get started, Mr. Cheng, can be found in the files on that memory drive,” he said, tilting his head toward the tiny object sitting between us. He spread his hands, palms up, in what seemed to be a well-rehearsed gesture of resignation.

  I nodded, and said, “Call me Socrates.”

  “Yes, Suh, Mr. Cheng.”

  I watched as he took a deep breath and held it briefly. He seemed to be performing an imitation of indignity as he decided what to say next. He sighed softly as if embarrassed by what he was about to tell me.

  “There was a burglary here at the Museum, Mr. Cheng, the night before last.”

  “I hadn’t heard that,” I said, trying to make polite conversation.

  His face darkened. “Of course you haven’t,” he said, his tone suddenly truculent. His eyes narrowed. “We haven’t reported it to the authorities, Suh, and we don’t intend to. We’re not looking for publicity.” He paused and looked away as if attempting to regain control of his emotions before he spoke again.

  I was duly chastened.

  He put both hands on his desk and made a tepee with his fingers. He looked hard into my eyes and maintained contact.

  “The thieves, Mr. Cheng, stole dozens of documents from our restricted, closed archival holdings. Among all those artifacts taken — and there were many — they stole a journal written in the 1870s by a former negro slave, as well as several letters from two very important — one distinguished and one scurrilous — late-eighteenth and mid-nineteenth century Virginia women.”

  I continued listening without comment or question in my chastened state.

  The director leaned forward as if to make sure I knew he was confiding in me. He dropped his voice to a lower, almost conspiratorial level, and proceeded to take a long time to tell me very little.

  “It is essential, Mr. Cheng, that you find the stolen documents and return them to the Museum before the information in the journal and letters becomes public knowledge. Understand?”

  I nodded, and continued to hold my tongue.

  The director continued, still sotto voce, “I cannot stress this point more than to say that the revelation of the information contained in those documents would be catastrophic to the Museum and to many lives were it to become public knowledge.” He nodded sharply once as if to underscore his point.

  I decided to ask some basic questions at this point to see how forthright he would be with me. This was one measure Harte and I often used to gauge if a prospective client was one we would want to represent.

  “This is awkward,” I said, “but I need to ask a question and get it out of the way.” I paused to compose my thoughts. “Since you suggested the contents of the documents are so inflammatory, why didn’t you just destroy them when you still had them?”

  I watched as the top of the director’s head strained to come to a point. You might have thought that I’d just revealed to him that I was having a love affair with his mother.

  “We don’t do that, Mr. Cheng,” he said, using a condescending tone that should have put me in my place, but did not. “We are archivists. We protect and preserve historic artifacts, not destroy them, no matter how odious their content.” He shook his head as if to banish the question, and sighed.

  I nodded again and asked an innocuous question. “Are you positive the documents are genuine?”

  So much for innocuous. The director looked stunned by the implication of my question, indeed, almost angry.

  “Of course I am, Suh. There’s no doubt in my mind. None at all. You can drop that line of inquiry and put that empty notion to rest.”

  “Okay, but I had to ask,” I said. I paused to give him time to cool down. I changed direction again, wondering if I could come up with even one routine question that wouldn’t offend him.

  “I’ll want to talk with the guard on duty at the time of the burglary. When can I do that?”

  “There was no guard. We never needed one before.”

  “What about the alarm system? Did it go off? Who was alerted by it?”

  “There was no alarm. We just now are in the process of installing a system.” He looked uncomfortable as he made this admission. “It will be operative later today.”

  This next question should be a waste of time, I thought. “Were there cameras? I’ll want to see the footage for the night of the break-in and possibly for some days before that night, too.”

  He shook his head as if to say, Why are you wasting time with these questions?

  “No cameras either, Mr. Cheng. Not then there weren’t.” He looked away from me as if embarrassed by the Museum’s naivety.

  I dropped the topic of pre-theft security, and decided to throw him a question that had concerned me since he phone call to me.

  “Why are you hiring me?” I asked. It made no sense to me. “There must be dozens of competent private investigators here in Richmond? It’s not practical or efficient to use a PI based ninety miles away. Besides,” I added as an afterthought, “in addition to paying me for my investigative time, you’ll be paying me for travel time you could avoid by hiring someone local.”

  “Confidentiality, Suh. Confidentiality, is why. You come highly recommended by our colleagues in Washington at the Smithsonian Institution. They said you not only are a skilled private investigator, but are also absolutely discreet, a quality that is of the utmost importance to us.

  “The fewer people in Richmond who know what is going on, the better for everyone involved. That’s why we looked for help outside Richmond, and here we are with you.” He nodded again once, sharply this time, as if adding a final punctuation mark to his statement.

  Better for everyone involved or better for you? I wondered.

  “What specific
ally needs to be kept confidential,” I asked, “the fact there was a theft at all, knowledge about which documents were stolen, or information disclosing the contents of the stolen documents?”

  “All, Mr. Cheng, all. Everything you said. But of the three, most important of all, critical in fact, you must recover the documents before the thieves learn the content of what they have taken, and before the information becomes public.”

  He paused, looked down at his desk, then said in a voice I had to strain to hear, “My job, Suh, my entire career as the director of this museum, is also at stake if any of this gets out. Any of it at all.” He looked away from me as he said this, as if embarrassed to admit it.

  “Tell me specifically what it is you don’t want the thieves to learn, what it is the documents contain that’s so incendiary. What’s their secret?” He had whet my curiosity beyond easy retreat.

  Again, the director’s face darkened. He clearly was losing patience with me, but I didn’t care. I wouldn’t work for a client I didn’t feel was fully on board with us, was candid and truthful with me. He was slipping below the waves as we talked, going down for the final time.

  “I just told you, Mr. Cheng, everything you need to know is on that thumb drive you’re going to take with you.” He tilted his head toward the memory stick still sitting on the desk. “I don’t need to tell you right now, Suh.”

  He paused a beat, then added, “You are wasting valuable time by asking questions, time you could be using to locate the stolen documents.”

  So now you’re going to tell me how to run my cases?

  It was time for a showdown. “Actually you do need to tell me, and you need to tell me right now if you want me to handle this for you. I might have questions for you based on what you say or don’t say.” I paused to let that sink in, then added, “I don’t work for clients who won’t cooperate with me.”

  I wanted to hear his version of the facts so I could compare my initial reaction to them with my reaction later when I would read the documents on the thumb drive. I also needed a sense of how well he would work with me if we accepted the case. His candor now, or his lack of it, would help me judge that. This could be useful over the next few days when Harte and I discussed the case to decide if we would represent the Museum.

  I crossed my legs, folded my hands on my lap and waited while I watched the director silently struggle with my demand.

  After a few seconds he shook his head, apparently resolved to humor me. “All right, Suh, have it your way. It will be wasting time telling you what you can read for yourself, and it won’t help you find the stolen artifacts, but all right.” His eyes had narrowed and his face had become blotchy.

  He looked beseechingly at me, as if silently pleading with me one last time to change my mind. When I failed to take his bait, he shivered once. After a few more seconds he apparently accepted that he could not talk me out of my position.

  “There are reputations at stake here, Mr. Cheng, not only at the Museum, but historically, too, affecting some of Virginia’s finest and most venerable old families who are the very backbone of our historic culture. That’s why haste and discretion in resolving this unfortunate incident are so important.”

  I made a show of looking at my wrist watch. “Tell me your version of events and your summary of the information in the files on the thumb drive. Specifically, what it is you don’t want made public?”

  “As I said, Suh, I would rather you read the files yourself in the privacy of your office. Then I will be happy to answer your questions. I implore you, will that be satisfactory?” He looked at me over the top of his half-lens eyeglasses and raised his eyebrows.

  You’re not getting off the hook that easily.

  “No, Sir, it won’t do,” I said. I stared into his eyes and held his gaze until he broke it off and turned his head away. Then I said, “Look, I signed your confidentiality agreement. So now you have to decide if you trust me. Meanwhile, I’ll decide if I’ll take your case. If you don’t tell me about your version of the documents right now, then we’re done. We won’t be working together. It’s up to you.”

  That was when he told me General Lee’s secret.

  Coming soon.

  The second Trace Austin suspense novel.

  NO PLACE TO HIDE

  Turn the page to read preview chapters.

  SAMPLE CHAPTER:

  NO PLACE TO HIDE

  A Trace Austin novel of suspense

  CHAPTER 1

  “Cuff the son-of-a-bitch.”

  That was the last thing I heard before my face slammed against the hardwood floor breaking my nose, concussing my forehead, and unleashing a torrent of blood.

  I had answered the doorbell at my wife’s request — she was somewhere in the back part of our brownstone — and immediately sized up the man and woman standing on our porch as plainclothes cops.

  “You Trace Austin?” the man asked.

  When I said yes, the man shoved me back into the foyer, stepped in, and threw me to the floor.

  I started to get up, slowly pushing myself off the floor using one arm and my knee, when the man hooked his foot under my wrist and yanked my arm out from under me. I dropped down again, hard.

  “Stay on your stomach and put your arms behind your back,” the man said. He turned to the woman who had entered the foyer with him, and said, “I told you to cuff him. Do it.”

  He spoke to me again as the woman restrained my wrists behind my back. “Anyone else here?”

  I nodded. “My wife.”

  Once my arms were secured, the man said, “On your feet, Austin.”

  “What the hell’s going on?” I said, looking first at the man and then at the woman. “You can’t just barge in here without a warrant and—”

  “We can and we did,” the man said. “Now shut up unless I ask you something.”

  The woman said nothing. She reached into her pocket and retrieved a tissue, then stepped forward and blotted the blood that had pooled under my nose and on my chin.

  “You’re under arrest,” the man said.

  “For what?”

  “Murder. Three murders. Calvin Johnson, his wife, and their two year old daughter.”

  The man turned to the woman. “Read him his rights while I look around.” He turned and started to walk toward the living room.

  “That’s crazy,” I said. “You made a mistake. I don’t even know those people.”

  The man stopped walking and turned back to face me. “We made a mistake?” He chuckled and shook his head. “In your dreams. Now shut your hole ‘til we tell you to talk.”

  Before I could say anything else, my wife, Isabella, rushed into the foyer. She looked at me, then at the detectives.

  “What’s going on?” she said. “Who are you?” she said to the detectives. Without waiting for an answer she turned to face me. “Trace—”

  The man reached into his jacket and pulled out his billfold. He flipped it open to show a gold shield. “Detectives, Ma’am. MPDC. I’m Detective Thigpen. This is my partner.” He nodded at the woman.

  Isabella looked at me. Her eyes were open wide. “What’s going on, Trace? Tell me.” She stepped over to me.

  “I don’t know, Bella, except what they told me. These detectives think I murdered three people.”

  “That’s absurd,” Bella said. She faced the detectives. “My husband wouldn’t—”

  Detective Thigpen raised his palm to quiet her. “Stand back, Lady. Let us do our job. You can protest all you want once your husband’s been booked downtown. Is there anyone else here besides you and him?” he said, nodding toward me.

  Isabella shook her head and stepped away. “You’ve got the wrong man. My husband wouldn’t kill anybody, let alone three people.”

  “You obviously don’t know your husband, Lady, else why was his DNA all over the victims?” He paused long enough to squirt out a tiny smile, then said, “DNA don’t lie.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Monk Walker de
cided it was time once again to prove to himself how tough he was.

  He hadn’t put himself through this test for several months because he hadn’t felt the need. Tonight, however, for reasons he would not have been able to explain had he been pressed to do so, Monk felt the need calling him.

  He sat down at his kitchen table, lit a match and fired up the candle he’d placed within easy reach. He set the timer on his cell phone to ring after 45 seconds.

  Monk took a deep breath, slowly let it out, and as he pressed the phone’s icon to start the timer, placed his other hand, palm down, one inch above the candle’s flame. He held it there, quivering with increasing pain as the timer ticked down.

  When the alarm sounded, Monk quickly plunged his blistered palm into the bowl of tepid water he’d set on the table, and basked in the glory of his reaffirmed, self-defined toughness.

  CHAPTER 3

  When the president of the United States secretly authorized a bioweapon attack against Fort Lauderdale, Florida as a homeland security measure, he also decided that before he left office at the end of his second term he would use all of his remaining power as president to see to it that his secret remained hidden forever. There would be no loose ends to come back to haunt him after he left office.

  The president’s second term was due to expire in eight months.

  Four people knew the president’s secret — two who were federal government insiders; two who were not. Three other people, who also worked for the government, knew of the Pentagon’s role in the bioweapon attack, but likely did not know that the president had approved the measure. They, too, would have to be considered loose ends to be dealt with.