Firebird_A Spy Story of the 1960's

by Noel Hynd

  He felt the weapon kick softly and exude a dull phrump sound with each shot. Through the sight, he could see the bucket, about two hundred yards in the distance, fly up in the air with the impact of the first shot. Then it tumbled several yards down the beach. Misha closed the door and shrouded his weapon.

  The morning television stations were calling for sun early in the day, with clouds coming in later. The forecast proved accurate and affected Misha's routine.

  When Mrs. Hubbell arrived that morning, the beach was crowded. Despite the fact that Misha was confident that he could have successfully lined her up and hit her, his instructions were clear: the possibility of witnesses was to be kept to an absolute minimum.

  He didn't take his shot. Instead, he disassembled his weapon and locked it away. He spent the afternoon sightseeing in Fort Myers. He didn't get the shot he wanted that evening, either. Nor did he have it the next morning. The toy bucket on the beach lay undisturbed by scavengers. But Misha patiently waited, knowing that the meeting with his client was inevitable.

  Chapter 52

  The administrative headquarters for Baltimore municipal police department was on 33rd Street, two blocks from Memorial Stadium. In one wing, archival records were kept. Those in the department, with good reason, called it the Haunted House. Old log books, files, case reports, budgets, minutes of investigations, and accounting ledgers were sent there not so much to die, but to rest in administrative purgatory. A place for ghosts.

  Lauren dropped Cooper there at four p.m., then returned to the central library to run David Charles’ name through any suburban newspapers that they had so far missed. She said she would return for him in an hour.

  Cooper went to the basement of the House. He passed through a door that led to a damp, musty-smelling room occupied by a gray-haired man. A counter separated Cooper from the archives. The man sat behind the counter watching a small portable television. The old man wore the three-striped chevron of a police sergeant on his sleeve. But he wore street slacks and no sidearm: a police retiree augmenting a pension. A name tag gave his name as Jenkins.

  “Help ya?” Jenkins asked, looking up. His drawl sounded southern.

  “Yes.” Cooper told Jenkins he was a writer, working on the life of a man who had died in Baltimore county two years earlier. Car wreck, Cooper explained. “What I'm wondering,” Cooper said, “is whether I could locate the police officers who attended the wreck.”

  “So what do you need?” Jenkins asked. The television continued in the background with a rerun of I Love Lucy. Cooper produced his map and showed the location of the accident.

  “That's third district,” the man drawled.

  “Who would have been the district commander in 1966?” Cooper asked. Jenkins ran his hand through his hair.

  “That, I'll mosey back and look up,” he offered.

  Jenkins trudged through an aisle of open stacks that stood behind his desk. He unfolded a pair of glasses and consulted a pair of volumes which were the size of city telephone directories. Jenkins put the books away and padded back to the counter. He took off his glasses and folded them into a shirt pocket.

  “Captain John Elijah,” Jenkins said. “He was district commander.”

  “Know where I might be able to find him?”

  “Yup. St. Michael's Cemetery on the Fredericktown Road.”

  “Captain Elijah's deceased, huh?”

  “Day after Easter, this year.” Jenkins paused for a moment. “Good man, Jack Elijah. I knew him well.”

  Cooper reached to his file case and located the printed article he had from the Pikesville Sun. He placed it on the counter. “I wonder about these two police officers,” Cooper said. “A. Grady. And M. McCray.” Jenkins read the article and then looked up.

  “They're both retired,” said Jenkins. “I remember them. They created a little stir. Worked together quite a bit. Maybe too much.”

  “In what way?”

  “Well, Grady was one of the best men on the force. Good, honest, thorough, a big, good-looking guy. Officer M. McCray. That's Margaret McCray. Female. One of the first girls on the force. Pretty lady. Don't know why a nice-looking girl would want to be a cop. See?”

  He paused.

  “Man, woman. Bad idea in the workplace, see?” Jenkins continued. He made a semi-lewd gesture with his hands, joining them together. “Not good as a cop team,” Jenkins said. “Being a cop is a man's job. These women are just on the force to find husbands.”

  “Do they still live in the area?” Cooper asked, glancing down at the names. He read from his clipping to get the names right. “Grady and McCray?”

  The clerk shook his head. “Don't think so. Moved out of here. Different directions. Good idea for both, particularly the girl.” He paused. “You working on something important?”

  “Rather,” Cooper said.

  “Not supposed to give out any information,” the clerk said. There followed a suggestive pause. “’Course, we have got an address here in this building somewhere. They both draw pension checks.” Jenkins smiled. “Same as me.” He paused. “Hard to live on a pension check.”

  Jenkins waited. Cooper reached to his wallet. He put a twenty-dollar bill on the counter.

  “I'm most grateful, sir,” the clerk said, picking up the money.

  Cooper nodded. There was nothing as cost effective as flagrant, petty, Mid-Atlantic graft. The clerk disappeared into the maze of shelves and volumes behind him. So did the twenty dollars. In three minutes Jenkins returned and presented Cooper with a piece of paper. On it were two addresses, one for former Baltimore police officer Albert Grady, the other for Margaret McCray. Both now lived outside of Maryland. Margaret had re-married, Jenkins explained.

  “These addresses are current as of two weeks ago, sir,” said Jenkins softly. “That's when the most recent pension checks went out.” Cooper reached for the sheet of paper. Jenkins drew it back from him. “Copy it,” Jenkins said. “I can't let this go in my own handwriting. And as far as I'm concerned, I never gave it to you.”

  “Uh huh,” Cooper said. He entered the addresses in his notebook.

  Momentarily, Cooper was back on the street waiting for Lauren with a half hour to spare. He felt a surge of pleasure and excitement when he saw her car turn the corner.

  “How's our gasoline supply?” he asked, getting into the car.

  “I just bought some.”

  “Good,” he said. “We'll need it.”

  He gave her an address in Delaware. They drove north.

  Chapter 53

  Lauren had found a ‘Folk Rock’ station on the car radio. Cooper started to like it. Or did he like it, he wondered, because so often now he was noticing new details about Lauren, a little detail like a bracelet or the way she would slide in and out of her shoes, or the way her skirts rode above her knees in the car? But he was quiet as they drove. His thoughts alternated between David Charles and Lauren. Occasionally, Sam Rothman came into his mind's eye, said hello, told a joke, and departed. Sam was still in critical care.

  Soon they were in Delaware. It was past seven in the evening when their car rolled to a halt at the home of Mike Grady, former police officer for the city of Baltimore.

  Grady's home was a single-family ranch house on a neat suburban street. They stepped out of the car. Cooper's eyes rose toward Grady's home. There was a flutter of a curtain before a large window on the first floor. Cooper scanned the other windows. Every shade was drawn.

  “This guy doesn't like visitors and he knows when he's got some,” Cooper said to Lauren. “See how much we know already? And we haven't even spoken to him.”

  They walked up a front path which led to three stone steps which rose to Grady's front door. Cooper carried a compact tape recorder in his pocket and his notebook in his left hand.

  “Act friendly,” Cooper said softly. “Keep your hands visible so he doesn't think we're up to something. I'll do the talking.”

  “It's your show,” Lauren said.


  “Sometimes it’s a piece of cake if you do it right,” he said. “You’ll see.”

  They went to the door. Cooper rang once. Then he rang a second time. No response. Cooper knocked. When there was no reply to the knock, he rapped harder and longer.

  Several seconds elapsed. Then a collection of latches unclicked on the other side. The door opened slowly. A large imposing man, thick through the arms, shoulders, and midsection, filled the doorframe. He held the door at a three-quarters point, concealing his left hand and hip. Cooper assumed the man was armed. It was impossible to see past him.

  “Yeah?” the man asked. His thick eyes darted from Cooper to Lauren, then back again.

  “I'm looking for Mike Grady,” Cooper said.

  “You found him. What do you want?”

  “My name is Frank Cooper. This is my associate Lauren Richie.”

  “Hi,” she said sweetly.

  The presence of a woman did nothing to soften Grady. He glowered. “So what?”

  “We're writers for the New York Eagle. I wonder if we could talk to you.”

  “About what?”

  “An incident that took place on one of your shifts two years ago when you worked for Baltimore County,” Cooper said. “A one-car motor vehicle accident on—”

  Grady attempted to close the door. Cooper placed his foot in it. When the door failed to close, Grady looked down. His eyes filled with anger.

  “You want me to break your leg?” Grady asked.

  “February 8, 1966,” Cooper said. “What is it about that incident, Mr. Grady? It’s important. We can talk in confidence. I'm not going to quote you.”

  Grady grunted. The door stayed open. Cooper read the body language.

  “What is it about that crash on Arlington Boulevard?” Cooper asked. “Everyone treats it like poison. What gives?”

  “Get out of here,” Grady said. His breath smelled of booze.

  Cooper sighed. “All right, then,” Cooper said at length. “What about the other officer on the case?” He consulted his notepad. “Margaret McCray?”

  “What about her?” Brady snarled. “Got married. Left the force. Moved away. Leave her alone.” Grady's face was turning crimson. Very slowly, he reached to a shirt pocket and withdrew a pack of Big Red chewing gum. He yanked out two pieces and stuffed the gum into his mouth. The air in front of Cooper was redolent of cinnamon. “Now get your ass on the move before I kick it down the street.”

  “All right. But it seems to me since you don't want to talk to us,” Cooper said. “And all I want to know is—”

  The door flew open. The ex-cop grabbed Cooper. He hoisted Cooper off his feet and flung him backward down the front steps. The reporter's notebook flew into the shrubbery, as did the tape recorder from Cooper's pocket. Cooper landed hard on the grass.

  Grady followed Cooper, leaned down, and grabbed him again. Cooper threw a punch to deter him, but Grady blocked it easily. Grady hauled the reporter to his feet as a stream of violent profanities cascaded out of the former cop's mouth.

  Lauren rushed to Cooper's defense. She deflected Grady's arm just enough to lessen a blow to the side of Cooper's head. Grady threw her aside like a doll.

  “You goddamned fucking…! I told you! Get out of here! Both of you!” Grady raged. “You, too, bitch!” he raged, seeing Lauren. “Just stay away!”

  There was police revolver on Grady's left hip. Grady stood above Cooper and glared down at him. Cooper knew that he was lined up for a perfunctory kick in the crotch. He hustled to his feet and kept his distance.

  “Assholes!” Grady barked. “You turn up here again and I'll break your heads on sight.”

  Cooper and Richie retreated toward their car, watching Grady the entire way. Slowly, the retired cop lumbered back up his front steps and toward his house. But he didn't enter. He stood on the front landing and waited. He drew his pistol as a warning and held it to his side.

  Cooper and Richie climbed into the car. She started the engine.

  “’Piece of cake,’” she said. “Right?”

  “Sometimes I'm wrong,” Cooper said.

  The right side of his head started to throb. It occurred to Cooper that the deflected punch had landed solidly. Cooper was grateful that it hadn't been in the nose or teeth.

  Lauren threw the car into gear. She pulled away from Grady's home.

  “So what do we have now?” Lauren asked after several minutes. “Another dead end?”

  “No. Just another obstacle,” he said. “This guy knows a lot and he's not telling us. See how defensive he got when I brought up his former partner's name?”

  “I couldn't quite miss it.”

  “It was all over his face even before he decided to work me over,” Cooper said. He flipped his notebook open again, found the most recent pages, and began to read.

  “Captain Elijah is dead. The official record of David Charles’ death has been purged. One of the two cops involved won't talk. That leaves us with the last known whereabouts of the other cop.” He glanced at Lauren.

  “Margaret McCray,” Cooper said aloud. “’Quit the force. Married. Moved away,’” he added, mocking Grady. “Seems a little abrupt, doesn't it?” Cooper asked.

  Then he read to her the most recent address for Grady's former partner. According to Jenkins, Margaret McCray had married a Florida man named Hubbell and had bought a home with him in Fort Myers. She had dropped the nickname of Peggy and had replaced it with Peggy, which is what her new husband preferred to call her.

  Cooper had an address for her that was as current as her most recent check. He had no phone number, however. Nor did directory assistance have one.

  “That's our next stop, Lauren,” Cooper said. “It's our only fresh lead. If we I don't get lucky in Florida we might be at a dead end.”

  “Let me get this straight,” Lauren asked. “We’re driving to Florida. Just like that? Right now?”

  “You wanted to be a reporter, right?” he asked.

  Chapter 54

  Peggy Hubbell was on guard. As the sun set across the Gulf of Mexico, she walked by herself along the tidal line, the waves from the water occasionally lapping at her bare feet. As she walked, she studied faces.

  She watched people when they drew near. She watched them when they were approaching from far away. This stretch of beach in Fort Myers was quiet. But there was a smattering of other people—evening bathers, other mothers with children, couples in their late teens or early twenties. No else one seemed to have a care. Yet Peggy felt like she had the weight of the century upon her shoulders. Well, no one looked like a threat. Not tonight at least.

  Over the last few weeks, Peggy had turned inward. There was no one she could tell her terrible secrets. No one she could tell, and yet this was the one thing in the world that others might wish to know. It was the one thing that she had been witness to that could actually change lives—even rough up accepted history a little bit—and she couldn't even whisper the truth to anyone.

  She sighed. Wouldn't it be nice if, in every woman's life, one fantasy could come true? She would have liked to have been twenty years old all over again. A second chance at life! Was that such a sinful thing to ask for?

  She walked by herself, her arms folded. Peggy worried about Jenny, her step-daughter. Over the last few days it almost seemed like Jenny knew something. But how could that possibly be? She strolled with her car keys in her right hand and scanned every face ahead of her. Occasionally, she would look defensively over her shoulder.

  She asked herself: Why had God chosen her to hold such a terrible secret about a dead man? Americans. Soviets. It all seemed so unreal, what she had known, and what she further had figured out.

  Peggy kept her car keys ready. Even her car was a problem of logistics now. Peggy's revolver was under the front seat, loaded, where she could grab it in a hurry. She knew that she wouldn't hesitate to use that weapon if it meant defending herself. Life was so complicated. The only thing uncomplicated, it seemed to her,
were her walks by the shore. Each day, the walks allowed her to beat the tension of hanging around the house all day, wondering when and if a volley of bullets was going to come through the window.

  Peggy was alone again. It was her husband's day to stop at the supermarket after work. Jenny was with him. Peggy would just have time for her evening stroll, her chance to unwind, before returning home to make dinner for her family.

  The evening was partially overcast. There were fewer people than normal on the beach. She went to the strip of sand along the shore. She took off her sneakers and held them in her hand, appreciating the warm sand against the soles of her bare feet.

  Near the spot where she normally began her walk there was a plastic bucket—a child's beach toy decorated with yellow and blue stars. It lay in shreds, torn apart. She supposed that it had been attacked by some small-time malevolent force like an obstreperous child or a dog. Or maybe the bucket had become lodged in the blades of an outboard motor. If the bucket had been in better condition, she would have taken it home for her daughters.

  Peggy looked at it and smiled. How malevolent a force, she mused, could there be in such a beautiful strip of beach? She nudged the bucket with her toe. Rocks weighted it. She stood for a moment, then began to walk south. Part of the overcast parted and the evening turned bright. She stopped again a few feet beyond the bucket and put on her sunglasses.

  Not too far away, there were some children playing and a teenage couple strolling. Peggy Hubbell never heard a sound. Instead, she felt the sudden impact of something of tremendous force striking her through the left breast. She convulsed with the impact and staggered. In the moment or two of consciousness that remained for her, she clutched the area of pain. She looked all around her to see who might have bumped her or who might have thrown something.

  But then she was aghast to feel blood, soaking through her blouse in a torrent.

  “My God!” she started to think. “I've been…”