Henry Wood: Time and Again: (5 page)

“That is correct...” Henry started to say, but was interrupted by the man in brown.

“I do not know why I was summoned, but my time is valuable, and if you know what the meaning of this is, do, please, get on with it.”

It was obvious by his tone that the man was not aware of what had happened, so Henry decided to see if he could get anything useful out of him.

“Mickey is not available at the moment. I don’t work for him, but I used to. I'm filling in for him and just started to try to get a handle on his cases. I apologize for this horrible inconvenience, but his inability to be here was unavoidable. May I ask what business you're in?”

“I'm a man of considerable means. I have many real estate holdings here in the city, and I’m a collector of art.” He paused, sensing that his tone had been rather abrupt before, and he appreciated how polite Henry had been. “I'm sorry, if I was short with you. I’ve had several meetings today and was hoping to quickly take care of this ‘supposedly’ urgent business.”

Henry didn’t have much to go on, so he just went with his gut.

“Again, I must apologize. Mickey has several cases at the moment. If I may have your card, I’ll call you later, but only if it ‘s necessary. I can assure you, Mickey is not the sort of person to waste the time of an important man, such as yourself.”

This courtesy seemed to please the man in the brown suit. He handed Henry his card, placed his hat on his head, and smiled before he walked out the door. Henry tucked the card into Mickey’s notebook and, after looking around a bit more, left too.

Chapter Nine

Henry locked up the office he once loved. Now, it seemed lonely. If he hung out there much longer, the memories of Mickey would likely wring out the last ounce of energy he could marshal.

This wouldn’t do at all. He needed to get home, take a shower, and make it to his office. Henry was sure he would be able to clear his head sitting at his own desk.

The walk home was chilly and wet. He climbed the stairs and remembered he hadn’t locked the door this morning . This worried him a little…but not a lot. Henry’s mind wasn’t firing on all cylinders. The thought that his door was unlocked was so unimportant as to be laughable, yet, as he trudged up the stairs, he worried.

Pausing before the door, he took a breath and opened it.

The door swung closed behind him.

Everything was fine.

Henry took a shower. He put on one of his nicer suits – not his nicest, as he would need that for the funeral.

Mickey didn’t have any family. Henry once asked him if he ever thought about marriage. Mickey had answered, “Yes, but I can usually get over it with a good stiff drink.”

Mickey’s parents had lived their entire lives in Kenmare County, Kerry, Ireland. They had met when his mother’s parents moved to town. She was six and he was nine. They lived next door to each other, and she loved nothing more than to follow him around. He was her first friend, and she eventually became his first and only love. (One night, back in 1948, Mickey had been drinking just enough to be nostalgic. Henry, “Big” Mike, and Francis had just finished a nice dinner with him and enjoyed hearing about the greatest love ever.) They had raised three kids, the two younger ones both died heroes during the winter months of ‘44, at the Battle of the Bulge. Mickey was devastated by their death, but proud as hell at how they fought tooth and nail with the Nazis. That was it for the Moores, as far as Henry knew.

He picked up the phone and called “Big” Mike at work. “I assume you heard.”

“I got a call. You alright?”

“I will be after I find out who killed him but not before.”

“You think it was intentional? Some of the guys say it looks like a text book hit and run,” Mike said, trying to be as delicate as he could.

It wasn’t his strong suit. He did tough really well. He did loyal better than anyone. Sensitivity was a little foreign to Mike.

Henry knew this about him and appreciated his effort.

“It may sound a little thin, but it appears someone had been parked behind Mickey’s car long enough to smoke almost a pack of cigarettes. They closed off the area within minutes, so I know the car didn’t leave after the accident. I don’t know if it left before…but, as Mickey used to say, ‘There are no coincidences.’”

“You may be right. I’ll head over to the 9th and check with the lads and see if they’ve found anything else out.”

“Thanks, Mike. I appreciate the help…Mickey would've too.”

“Mickey may not have been a cop, but everyone loved him. He was one of our own, and if you’re right, and there is someone out there who waited for him, like a coward, and ran him down…we’ll find the bastard.” His voice had risen to a measured rage. Then he lowered it. “I’ll help you with the arrangements. I’ll call Francis and we can put together a wake that won’t soon be forgotten.”

“You're the best, Mike.”

After he hung up the phone, Henry started to pace around the apartment. He thought about the man who had visited him.

“What was his name?” he said aloud.

The business card was still in his trousers. When Henry read the name “William H. Brown,” it made him laugh. It was a short burst, and seemed out of place, but it happened. Henry didn’t dwell on it.

The phone rang. “Hello?” he said.

“It’s Luna, I just heard about your old friend, Mickey. I’m so sorry.”

Hearing her voice through the line was a pleasant twist to his miserable day.

“You're very kind, Luna.”

What he didn’t add was that he missed her. It wasn’t the sort of thing Henry would say, but he knew he did. Having her around for those few weeks, back in January, had been comfortable in a way he had never imagined.

“Mike told me he was going to talk to you about handling the wake. Though I didn’t know Mickey, I want to help. I'll call Sylvia, too. I hope it isn’t too presumptuous, but we can handle the food. Is that okay, Henry?”

He could see the expression on her face in his mind. It was good to have friends.

“Mickey would've liked you. Give my thanks to Sylvia.”

Henry continued pacing. His addled brain was starting to clear a bit. Having the wake handled was one less thing to worry about, and it seemed those gray cells had turned their attention to the notebook.

There was one note, “fishing anti Katherine,” that seemed less confusing than the others. Henry remembered every time Mickey wanted to use the word “real” he substituted “fishing,” as in a fishing reel. So he had actually written, ”The real anti Katherine.”

The most famous Katherine whom Henry could think of, was Catherine the Great. Could this be a reference to her? It was possible, as he was sure Mickey wasn’t above misspelling her name. But what was the opposite of Catherine? Henry didn’t have any idea, but he did have resources. Over the years, he had developed an encyclopedic knowledge of the references made available at the public library.

Henry grabbed his hat and coat, locked his door, and headed to the office. He was getting his second wind.

Chapter Ten

The Flatiron building on 23rd had housed his office since Tommy “The Knife” burned Henry out of the old place. It was a little bit bigger, had a better view, a few plants, and some filing cabinets. Henry had settled in and sat behind his desk. A pot of coffee was brewing, and the air was filled with the aroma of thinking.

Henry had gotten tired of flipping through to the back of Mickey’s notebook. He carefully copied each of the three pages into his own notes. Next, he numbered them and turned his attention to page two. With his head clear from the shower, he started to consider the scribbling. There were the numbers one through six written down the side with each one having two words – which didn’t make sense – and then squares or tiny stick figures. He took a deep breath and asked himself the question, “What is the first thing to come to mind?”

Before he could answer himself, he heard some short, stubby, and highly excitable steps coming down the hall. Henry knew the little patter of annoying feet.

He got up and went to meet Bobby at the door.

He waited for the knock, and then opened it.

“Hello, Bobby.”

“Hello, Henry. I heard about your friend. I'm sorry.” He took a heavy breath.

This was strange for Bobby. Henry was used to his frantic ramblings and his nauseating happiness, but to see him in such a solemn state was unsettling. Henry had grown to tolerate Bobby, and, seeing him now, he felt the slightest bit of fondness for the strange little man.

“Thanks...buddy.”

Bobby flashed a brief smile.

“His death was not as it should have been. A man like that, after a life of helping people, didn’t deserve for his days to end. But, sometimes the hands of time cannot be slowed or altered, even if we think we can change what might have been. Is there anything I can do to help? I'm at your service.”

Bobby never ceased to amaze Henry. In a flash, the tiny, annoying man had touched Henry. Then, a scant moment later, his mouth had spewed forth something philosophical and elegant. It didn’t even sound like Bobby; the manner, tone, and vocabulary were all wrong. Words of condolence seldom had an effect on Henry, but this was different. It was, as if, it had come from someone else, perhaps someone from a different age entirely.

Henry didn’t have time to add “The Mystery of Bobby” to his list of things to unravel, but maybe after Mickey’s killer was found, he would give it some thought.

There was a silence as Henry considered Bobby’s offer to help. It couldn’t hurt, he thought. “Come on back…I want to show you something.”

Bobby followed Henry into his office. Henry handed his notebook to him and said, “Mickey tended to write in code. I hadn’t talked to him in a few years, and he always changed the way he took his notes. Back in the day, we used to have breakfast, and he would explain his latest method for encryption. I guess what I'm asking is, what is the first thing that comes to mind when you see this?”

Bobby, excited again, said, “Oh, I love a puzzle! This page looks like a list. Not just a list. It looks like a list of names. Those two people with the stick figures have something in common, as do the three people with the picture frames.”

“Picture frames...” Henry said aloud, then continued, “Those are not just squares…they are thicker. They do look like picture frames. Bobby, that is a good find!”

Bobby was nearly bursting with excitement. “What do you think the picture frames mean?”

“I think they represent art. Maybe those names are a list of painters?”

Bobby, almost hyperventilating, said, “Then the stick figures are statues. Those other people must be sculptors.”

Henry smiled. “This is a good lead. I need to make some calls. Thanks for your help, buddy.”

Bobby did a little leap, spun around, and bolted out of the office. He yelled as he exited the waiting room, “Any time, buddy!”

Henry had to smile. He took a dirty coffee mug, grabbed an even dirtier towel, and made a half-hearted attempt at wiping it out. After pouring a cup, he added some sugar and stirred it while he returned to his desk. In his left hand he held the coffee cup, and on the desk, the open notebook. The coffee tasted good, but the idea about painters and sculptors seemed a touch sour.

Why would Mickey get bumped off because he was looking into a bunch of artists?

Henry didn’t think artists were the murdering type, but he couldn’t be sure. Katarina knew much more about the art scene, so he jotted down a note to ask her what she thought about it.

Henry picked up the phone and called the public library. He asked the head librarian, Marian, if she had any books about Catherine the Great, especially ones that might have portraits that had been painted during her lifetime. She promised to find some and leave them behind the counter for him to pick up.

Henry flipped forward to page three and said aloud, “Anti Catherine.”

Bobby’s sense that the list had something to do with art, plus Mr. Brown being an art collector, seemed to be pointing in the same direction. Henry mulled this over for a few minutes and then he said to the walls, “Not artists, collectors!”

He flipped back to the list, grabbed a yellow pad, and counted the letters next to each number.

The sixth number had seven letters, followed by five letters. If this was “W-i-l-l-i-a-m B-r-o-w-n,” then Henry would have a great start at cracking the code.

Chapter Eleven

November 10, 1902 was a date Henry knew well. It had very little significance, besides being on the cornerstone of his favorite building in New York.

Henry walked towards 5th and 42nd street. If New York was a jungle, then the kings of the jungle could be found guarding the Stephen A. Schwarzman Building. South of the main steps, surveying those who passed by seeking knowledge, was Patience. Always vigilant, Fortitude kept an eye open for trouble. They were originally called “Leo Astor” and “Leo Lenox,” named for the founders of the New York Public Library, but Mayor LaGuardia renamed them in the 1930s, and it stuck.