SILENT GUNS (41 page)

Frances shivered, but ignored the chill in his body.
“It seems we started all this dialog with a ‘Why?’ We still don’t
have an answer to ‘Why?’ If it is Kindler, why did he go to all
this trouble? For a man in his position, the risks were
enormous.”

“
Keep peeling off the layers and
we’ll find something.”

“
Every jawbreaker has a
core.”

“
Every gumball has a hollow
center.”

“
Jawbreakers and gumballs!!”
Gleese said teasingly. “Good grief! Is that what we are down to?
You two make me feel like a two year old.”

Simons offered, “Wingate tracked down Kindler. We
know he lives out on Dungeness Spit; where’s Farr?”

“
Retired. Lives down in San
Diego.”

Simons mulled over the situation then said, “Jim,
get back to that small college and turn over stones.” Frances
nodded.

“
Annette, get to Admiral Farr.
Burns is mine. We’re still on short notice, not much time. We need
a break, and fast, something to forestall Trent. He still intends
to fire. Anything else?”

Silence drifted between them

“
O.K. Now beat it.”

Simons relaxed, impressed by their work. They had
bulldozed their way through a minefield of facts, small details,
and the irrelevant in remarkable haste. Police work was boring,
tiring, and lacked glamour. The exhilaration came when discovering
a gold nugget lying in the gravel. Simons capped the bottle and put
it back in his desk drawer.

Outside the sky was suddenly dark, but sparkles of
light burst forth about the tall buildings and city streets. Simons
scratched a match along a matchbook cover and touched it to a
cigar. He set back and half asked himself, “Can I smell a dead fish
a mile away or can’t I? And, this dead fish has been laying around
for at least seven years.” His logical mind kept circling like a
faulty torpedo. Simply put, Burn’s had to be shielding someone.
But, he lacked hard evidence to substantiate that conclusion. He
needed reasons. The fact that a retired Admiral was involved, added
a sinister twist. That other high-ranking Naval officers could be
involved borders on the incredible. A giant conspiracy? Or,
something gone badly wrong? And why would Burns want to kill Trent?
Or, did Kindler, from behind the scenes, in retirement, issue the
order?” Why was Burns so eager to get in deeper? Was he so
desperate as to involve a troublemaker like Scarese? Why would
anyone take the trouble to take out Wingate? His mind churned
desperately trying to arrange the puzzle pieces; but there were too
many pieces, so he got nowhere. Everything was exploding off in a
thousand different directions. He was deadly tired, just to close
his eyes for a moment, but the race against the clock was on and
his mind, unrelenting, pounded on.

* * *

Charlie Wingate grumbled under his breath. His
temporary habitat frustrated him in its closeness, distinctly a
prison cell. He fretted as he lay on his back, his head constantly
throbbing. The crack across the skull had not only kept him awake,
but also worried him. It unnerved him that someone had thrashed his
body. Who was after him? Was he getting too close to the truth? It
was late Monday afternoon when the phone rang. Carefully, he pushed
himself off the sofa and grabbed it.

“
Conover here. We just got Scarese
back in a plastic bag.”

Wingate asked, “Where are you?”

“
Down at the dock.”

“
How did he get out to the
Missouri
?”

“
Wilson took him out. Admiral’s
orders, he said.”

“
Was Scarese alone?”

“
Yep! A one man
brigade.”

“
He didn’t swim out?”

“
How could he? He was too loaded
with hardware.”

“
Where did he get the
stuff?”

“
I don’t know,” Conover said.
“I’ll follow up.”

“
I’d like to hear Burns’
explanation.”

“
No fear, it’ll be air-tight.
Tronquet and Hartwell will back him up, you can lay money on that.
And, with Scarese’s demise any story the bastard wants to tell is
impregnable.”

“
Where’s Burns?”

“
He’s still in his office. By the
way, Scarese’s body was peppered with grenade shrapnel.”

“
What was Scarese supposed to
accomplish?”

“
Blow up the turret so the gun
couldn’t be fired.”

“
Did he succeed?”

“
Nobody knows.”

“
Hold on. I have another
call.”

“
Charlie, this is Noonan. Burns
just called for his car.”

“
Thanks.” Wingate pressed the
button.

“
I gotta go, Conover. Check back.”
Charlie Wingate hung up, but he had already started to change into
his black leather jacket and jeans, his headache all but forgotten.
He zipped up and grabbed his headgear, dashed out and mounted an
unmarked police motorcycle, a loaner from the Bremerton Police
Department. He fired it up. “Toby, I’m on my way,” he said into the
bike radio as he accelerated. “Has Burns come out yet?”

Toby replied, “No, not yet.”

“
How about the State Avenue
gate?”

“
I can’t cover them both,”
Detective Toby Wheeler replied.

“
I’ll cover it.”

Wingate had just pulled up outside the State Avenue
gate when a dark, blue sedan passed through, careened sharply and
headed north. The Admiral was driving and he was alone. Wingate
cinched his helmet tight and set off in distant pursuit. The blue
sedan followed highway 3 north, then to 104 until it joined 101
three miles south of Discovery Bay. It lumbered on at a high speed,
not slowing down until Sequim where it turned sharply north.
Wingate knew Dungeness lay ahead, a tree-covered point of land that
jutted into the Strait of Juan de Fuca. The sedan’s taillights grew
dimmer in the dusk. Turning off his headlights, Wingate closed the
distance accepting the risk of an unfamiliar, winding, well-oiled
road. The road soon turned into hard-packed sand and ran parallel
to the water’s edge, overlooking the Strait. Closing up, as the
road turned rugged, he sensed Burns’ destination had to be close
by. The sedan abruptly turned down a side road. A single story, old
weather-beaten house with chipping white paint sat by itself. He
pulled up short and switched off the motor as a porch light came to
life. A tall, spare man with white hair emerged and walked Burns
inside. He turned off the porch light. The mailbox read H.T.
Kindler.

Wingate steeled himself and moved slowly to minimize
any slight noise he might make. Working his way along a wooden
fence, he stayed low until he reached the front porch. No sign of a
security system, nothing to warn of potential intruders. He ducked
under the front porch rail and tread lightly along the wooden deck.
The night was still: no dog barked. The front door was solid, but
there was a window next to it. He put his ear to a door, warily
listening for sounds, anything to indicate movement. Light at the
window cast a rectangular pattern on the porch deck. He crept up to
the window and peered over the sill. Burns and Kindler sat shoulder
to shoulder before a large fireplace. His heart pounded with
certainty, an explanation for their meeting. Burns extracted a
piece of paper from his coat pocket and laid it before the Admiral.
As Kindler pored over the paper, he argued animatedly. Wingate put
his ear closer, but could not make out the argument. Kindler waved
off a pen tendered by Burns who rose abruptly and shook his fist
angrily. Burns picked up the paper, crumpled it and stuffed it into
his pocket. He paced and followed the Admiral back and forth across
the room. Kindler, disconsolate, angrily led his guest to the front
door. Burns refused to leave, still arguing. As the porch light
flicked on, Wingate scampered off the deck and into the nearby
bushes. Burns stomped out in a huff and was gone. Wingate saw no
need to follow. He waited then returned to the window. The Admiral
sat before the fireplace, his head hung between his hands. Slowly,
he rose and went to his desk and sat down. He opened the desk
drawer and extracted a small handgun. He placed the gun to his
temple. Wingate heard his own feet pounding on the wooden deck as
he dashed at the front door. He hammered it with his shoulder until
it flew open. He ran to the desk.

“
Admiral,” he shouted. “Don’t!
Damn it! Don’t!”

The Admiral fired.

Kindler’s body slumped over. Wingate pressed for a
pulse, a sign of life. There was none. Kindler was dead. His body
lay sprawled across his desk, an outstretched arm, palm up, as if
begging for coin. The gun lay on the floor where it had fallen.
Kindler’s head lay to one side, his eyes stared blankly, his mouth
oddly twisted. A light red stain oozed from a small hole in the
side of his head and ran down his cheek to puddle on a green desk
blotter. Wingate drew away, his fingers sticky with blood. He wiped
away the wetness and reached for the telephone; but withdrew his
hand. His thoughts were angry: he had lost his man. He hesitated:
should he clear out since he was out of his jurisdiction? or,
should he call in the local police, but he didn’t have time to
explain; or should he go after Burns? Nothing to be gained in that
direction, he thought. He cleaned up the scene and departed. He
would call Sam Simons.

~ * * * ~

CHAPTER 28

Two days had passed since the Navy recovered Mate
Scarese’s shredded body from the dank waters of Sinclair Inlet. A
brief report of Admiral Harley T. Kindler’s suicide appeared in the
Tuesday morning newspapers. Sam Simons sought an audience with
Admiral Brian Burns and was ushered into his office that
afternoon.

“
Just you and me, Admiral.” Simons
articulated. He kept his voice free of emotion. “We have lots to
talk about.”

“
Do we?” snapped Burns. He came
out from behind his desk, but held back his hand. His eyes burned
with hostility. “I could be sociable and offer you a drink,” Burns
said, his face crinkled into a forced smile, “But this is not a
social visit, is it, Chief.” “No, it is not,” Simons sat down
without being offered a chair and withdrew a cigar from his inside
vest pocket. He crossed his legs, “Mind if I smoke?”

“
Not at all.” Burns gestured by
inclining his head slightly.

“
Mind if I imbibe?” Without
waiting, the Admiral stepped behind his desk, pulled a glass and
bottle from his bottom desk draw and poured himself a drink. “Are
you sure you won’t join me?” he said, holding the bottle up in the
air. “I don’t like to drink alone.” He did not wait for an answer
but carefully poured something into the glass, a clear
liquid.

“
I’ll bear that in mind on my next
visit.”

“
Well, then.” Burns looked at him
icily. “What can I do for you?”

“
As I said, we have lots to talk
about.”

“
No doubt you have already been
plied with rumor by Wingate and Conover.”

“
Mate Scarese. What was his
mission on the
Missouri
?”

Burns, who had his glass raised halfway to his lips,
set it down abruptly. A faint smile crossed his lips. “He was to
blow up the turret, of course. You convinced me, we had no proof of
his claimed success. The City was still at risk. We know Scarese
did get aboard once, so why not try again? He was willing.
Grenades. Just grenades, one or two in through the turret hatch,
and the damage would be enough. You see, I had to be certain the
gun couldn’t be fired. I am grateful for your counsel. Yes. I
ordered Scarese, er, he volunteered, I should correct myself. You
need not take my word for it. Captain Tronquet and Major Hartwell
heartily concurred in my decision. And, I am certain if Mayor
Grille had been made aware of my intentions, he, too, would have
concurred. Was he informed?”

Sam Simons studied his cigar, turning it over slowly
in his fingers. The instant he formed his answer Burns began
talking again. “What does it matter,” Burns snorted, as he brushed
aside his own question. “The poor fellow is dead. He is a hero.
And, we still do not know whether he succeeded. If Scarese
succeeded, the City is spared. It was a gamble, true; but, one
worth taking, don’t you agree?”

Good work, Burns, take the initiative to set me off
balance. Then Simons slipped in the needle. “Scarese’s real mission
was to kill Trent, wasn’t it?” Simons asked coldly.

“
I don’t know what you are talking
about.” Burns’ tongue moved slowly over his lips, wetting them, an
edge of angst in his voice. “You are maligning the memory of a
brave sailor. Trent murdered Scarese - that’s the only
truth.”

“
What did Proust have on
Kindler?”

Burns shifted uncomfortably, every bone protesting
violently. His eyes flashed. “You are out of your depth,
Simons.”

Simons replied evenly, “Why did you lie on the
witness stand? I have incontrovertible evidence you did. Kindler
was protecting Proust, wasn’t he? Why? And your startling success,
after a badly stalled career, is noted in Navy annals as quite
remarkable. You lied for Kindler. Why?”

Burns’ jaw dropped, a horrified look on his
face.

“
Don’t answer yet, Admiral. So
far, you are only guilty of perjury. I want to know what Proust had
on Kindler. You know, don’t you?”