Wading Into War: A Benjamin Wade Mystery (2 page)

Police
Captain Oscar Burman glared down at me.
Flanking him were two of the largest policemen I’d ever seen. Their bulk was
barely contained inside their uniforms. If they were meant to intimidate me,
they were earning their paycheck.

I sat at the little table in the interrogation room in the downtown
station. My wrists were still held by the handcuffs, and I was working my
fingers to try to keep the blood flowing.

“Tell me again, Wade, what the hell you were doing at the crime scene.”

I took in a deep breath. My ribs still ached from when the arresting cops
had thrown me down on the floor and cuffed me. It made deep breathing painful,
but I needed that pain to keep me sharp and get me extricated from this little
predicament.

“Captain,” I began, putting as much calmness in my voice as possible, “as
I’ve already told you…”

“Don’t condescend to me again.” Burman’s voice was filled with warning.

“Understood, sir. I was hired by my client to locate Wendell Rosenblatt,
who...”

“Who’s your client?”

“I can’t reveal that information.”

“Yes, you can. It’s now a murder investigation and you’re the prime
suspect.”

Anger flashed in me. “Why? Just because I was there?” One of the officers
actually cracked a smile at that.

“Yeah,” Burman said, a hint of obviousness in his voice. “That’s enough,
ain’t it?”

New beads of sweat formed over the old ones on the back of my neck. I was
in deep and I knew it. “What about the partial plate number I gave you? The one
on the getaway car?”

“Oh, you mean the phantom car you claim you saw the shooter leave in? The
one we have no evidence for?”

“Just look it up. I gave y’all three numbers of the plate and the make
and model.”

Burman considered me for a moment. Despite his bluster, he was a decent
cop and would follow leads wherever they pointed. Or so his reputation would
have one believe. But he also liked a high clearance rate and, as much as I
hated to admit it, he had me dead to rights.

“We’re working that. Don’t fret your little brain about it. You just need
to tell me again how you came to be at
my
crime scene.”

Personification of a crime scene, something Burman trained me to do when
I was a cop and interrogated my share of crooks. Never a good thing if you’re
on the opposite side.

“My client hired me to find Wendell Rosenblatt. He was supposed to arrive
in Houston last week from Europe.”

“Know what he was doing in Europe?”

“My client didn’t give me particulars. Rosenblatt was a journalist so he
was probably covering the war overseas. Here’s the odd thing: he never arrived
by ship in Houston. He actually made port in Galveston.”

“Why’s that odd?” Burman asked. I could tell a sliver of curiosity had
punctured the captain’s brain.

“Because he told my client he’d disembark in Houston with a bombshell of
a news story. He was to meet my client in Houston straight from the boat. But
the boat made an unscheduled stop in Galveston and somehow, Mr. Rosenblatt
disembarked.”

“Then how’d he get up here?”

I mentally culled through the notes and leads I’d learned the past few
days. “My client knew he’d gotten off the boat in Galveston because Rosenblatt
sent my client a telegram. It was written in some kind of code, but my client
translated it for me. Rosenblatt was fearful that if the information he
possessed got out, it might change everything.”

Despite himself, Burman stepped closer to the table. “What do you mean
‘everything’?”

I gazed straight up at him. “I mean the war.”

“We’re not in it.”

“Not yet.”

Burman raised an eyebrow. “Are you telling me that whatever Rosenblatt
had would be enough to get America in the war?”

I nodded. “That’s what my client claimed.”

We continued to talk over the case. I knew the captain was interested
because he actually sat down across from me. He even leaned in at certain
points. From my time in the department, I knew the man loved puzzles. He
devoured all the word games in the paper every day and usually had a book of
crosswords on his desk.

However, despite all the talking and the obvious interest he showed for
the case, Burman still hadn’t removed the cuffs. It wasn’t until there was a
tap on the door that we were interrupted. Burman got up and conferred with
someone. The captain frowned, glanced back at me, then left the room, leaving
the two hulks to glower at me.

I rattled the bracelets. “Any chance you guys have the keys?”

They stared straight ahead and remained mute.

A
few minutes later, Burman returned. He wore
a quizzical expression on his face. I’m pretty decent at reading faces, but his
face was noncommital. Without a word, he walked over to me and unlocked the
cuffs.

My hands tingled as hot blood rushed back into my fingers. I massaged my
hands as he spoke.

“Well, Mr. Wade, you just caught a break. We have multiple witnesses who
corroborate your statements. One in particular noted she saw you cower like a
baby when the shooting started. You just sat there for a bit.” He leaned in
close to my ear and half-whispered, “You know, if you can’t handle it, you
might use that brain of yours for something else.”

Anger seared through me. A thousand retorts came to mind, but it looked
like I was on the way out, so I played it cool. “I was surprised, that’s all. I
froze.”

Burman sneered. “Real cops don’t freeze. They act.”

Despite myself, I blurted, “Hey, I fought the shooter.”

“And got hit once and landed on your ass. Same witness told us that.” His
head nodded at the door. “Get out of here. But watch yourself. Something tells
me your new career as a P.I. might be a short one. And you won’t be welcomed
back here, either.”

I stood, walking around the table. I stared into Burman’s eyes but they
revealed nothing. I don’t always mind what people think of me, but, for some
strange reason, I liked Burman and sought his approval. That would have to wait
for another day.

Leaving the interrogation room, I walked down the hallway toward the
front of the station. I heard a strange commotion up ahead. When I rounded the
corner, a gaggle of reporters flanked the exit. Flash bulbs went off, blinding
me. I held up my hand, shielding my eyes and turned away. One of the hulking
officers was right behind me and I thudded into his massive frame. More flash
bulbs and the first questions were shouted.

Burman strolled in from behind his two giants and grinned at me. I just
about slugged him right then and there. He had set me up, making sure all the
reporters saw me.

He stood in front of the small railing, relishing the attention. “Thank
you for coming today. I want to make a brief statement about the murder of
Wendell Rosenblatt. That’s why y’all are here, right?”

Mild chuckles from the gallery. More flash bulbs in the room.

“Rest assured Mr. Rosenblatt’s killer will be brought to justice.
Houston’s finest are on the case and we have substantial leads that we are in
the process of following up on.  We believe this is an isolated incident and
there is no cause for continued alarm.”

One of the reporters called out a question. “What about Wade? How does he
fit into all this? Why’d you arrest him?”

Burman turned to me and gave his front-page smile. I dreaded what he’d
say next. I was completely in his power and he knew it. “Mr. Wade was present
at the scene. In his role as a private investigator, he was working a case. But
with the murder, Mr. Wade’s involvement is at an end. He was just filling in
some details we needed. Now, my professional detectives will be taking the case
from here.” He nodded at me and then indicated the door.

I was dismissed. In front of all the reporters. Damn. The distinct
feeling the captain had just killed my career coursed through me.

I waded through the throng, most of them giving me a pathway. I could see
in their eyes what they thought of me. When I got to the front door, my
reflection in the glass stared back at me. I saw what they saw: a humiliated
P.I. who just might need to find a new job tomorrow. I figured all the other
cases I was working would have their clients calling my office to tell me they
were taking their business elsewhere. I threw open the door and stormed out.

Outside
the station, I walked just fast enough
to leave the reporters behind without making it look like I was running with my
tail between my legs. Burman made better visuals than I did anyway.

Someone sidled up beside me. “You know, you could get a reputation.”

I knew the voice of Gordon Gardner, reporter for the
Houston
Post-Dispatch
. He wore his typical reporter uniform: brown suit, scuffed
shoes, shirt in need of ironing, and a tie slightly askew. He and I were
friends, but at that moment, I only saw a reporter.

“What do you want?” I growled.

“The real story.”

I brushed past him, wanting to get as much distance from Burman as
possible. I wouldn’t put it past him to make a show of asking just one more
question, especially with the photographers at the ready. Gardner strolled
along behind me.

It wasn’t too long before I realized an obvious fact: I didn’t have a
ride. I stopped and Gardner caught up to me. “Need a lift?”

My mouth twitched in what could only be described as an involuntary
smile. “Yeah.”

“Tell me everything?”

I pursed my lips. A realization dawned on me: I needed a way to get my
own story out to oppose Burman’s. And now, I had the perfect way. “Yup.” I
glanced at my watch. Too late to make the evening edition. “Where’s your car?
I’ll tell you on the road. I want to get away from here.”

Gardner nodded and spun his keys around his finger. “This way. I just
need a story I can deliver by midnight for the morning edition.”

Minutes later, we were driving out of downtown and back to the
neighborhood. I spilled almost everything I knew which, when laid out in some
sort of order, didn’t amount to much. I held back on my client’s name. Gardner
had his ear to the beat of our town and I didn’t want to chance that he’d know
her.

Gardner listened and didn’t interrupt. When I was done, he asked, “So,
how do you know the stop in Galveston was unscheduled?”

“Because I spoke with the harbor master. According to his logs, he was to
let the ship pass on through to the ship channel. When they got the request to
dock, they had to make special accommodations.”

He glanced over at me from behind the wheel of his Ford Lincoln-Zephyr.
“You think Rosenblatt had anything to do with the ship?”

“I don’t know. It was one of the things I was going to ask him when I
found him.”

Gardner whistled softly. “Man, what kind of clout do you have to have to
get a liner to make an unscheduled stop?”

“A lot.” I glanced out the window and peered through the side mirror. I
wondered which set of headlights was the tail car Burman had put on me.

“What are you going to do now?”

“I need to talk to my client and see if she has any...”

“She!” Gardner snapped his fingers. “I knew it. This involves a girl,
right? Who is she?”

“Can’t say right now.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

I considered. “Won’t. For now. I have a couple of things to work out
before I tell you everything.”

“Think we can have a story by morning?”

“Pretty sure, at least an initial one to counter Burman’s. Tell you what.
Drop me off at my car and then get busy on your story. Write it up based on the
facts I’ve given you, but let me proof it before you send it in. I’ll probably
have some more info once I meet with her.”

Gardner nodded and pulled away.

Oak Street at night was bright with street lights. Warm, yellow light
emerged from the windows of homes where families were together. I had a pang of
regret. I’d had chances to have an easier life, but things hadn’t worked out
that way. So far.

I looked at the darkened windows of the house where I had found
Rosenblatt. I seriously considered going back in. Despite the police tape, I
glanced up and down the street. Cars were parked in driveways and along the
curbs. I couldn’t be sure which contained the cops. Surely one would. It’d be
the thing I’d have done in Burman’s shoes. So, I climbed into my Pontiac Deluxe
convertible and started the engine. I leaned over and opened the glove
compartment. My revolver was still there. Good.

I considered lowering the roof. Instead just rolled down the windows. I
sped off to see my client and deliver the bad news that the man she hired me to
find was dead.

Lillian
Saxton listed her address at the Rice
Hotel, a large building in the heart of downtown that, if you looked at it from
an airplane, resembled a capital E. She never told me where she was from, but
her accent pegged her somewhere along the East Coast. Plus, with the Rice’s
price tag, I knew she was rich enough to afford it. Her room was on the tenth
floor of the seventeen-story building. I rapped a knuckle on the door.

“Hello, Mr. Wade.” She held open the door to let me in and closed it
behind us. She wore a swanky dress, belted at the waist and hitting just
mid-shin. The pearls around her neck matched the earrings dangling from her
ears. Her red hair was bundled behind her head with two locks flowing down onto
her shoulders. In a word, she was stunning.

“Going somewhere, Miss Saxton?” I asked.

“I was about to head downstairs to the Empire Room and have dinner. Care
to join me?”

“It’s a little too rich for my blood.”

“Then I’ll add it to your expense account. And, please, call me Lillian.”

She glided across the carpeted floor. The only sound was the swish of her
dress as it moved across her long legs. I gulped and sat in one of the
cushioned chairs.

She picked up a cocktail shaker sweating with condensation and gave it a
few jerks. The sound of the clanking ice was jarring in the silent room. She
poured out two martinis and returned, handing me one. Ice crystals floated in
the clear liquid.

She sipped her drink. “What did you want to talk about?”

I downed half the drink in one gulp, letting the gin’s vapor wash away
the bad taste in my mouth. “I found Rosenblatt.”

Her eyes widened with expectation. “Where?”

“My leads took me to a house on Oak Street. It was a strange place to
find a man who doesn’t live in Houston. But, it turns out that Rosenblatt had
an old college buddy who lives here in town. That buddy’s away on vacation
right now so Rosenblatt used the house as a place to hide.”

“Did you find anything?” She sipped her drink, her ruby lips pursing over
the rim of the glass.

Odd that she didn’t ask about Rosenblatt himself. “I didn’t have time to
look because someone was already there.”

Her eyes widened.

“Yeah, and then the cops showed up.”

“So, he’s...where? At the station?”

I looked at her flatly. “The morgue.”

She gasped, losing her confidence for the moment. She put her glass down
and collapsed onto the sofa. Trembling fingers reached out and withdrew a
cigarette from her silver case. Seeing her distress, I provided the flame from
my lighter, then lit one for myself.

“How...” she started but then faltered.

“Some lug shot him,” I said, pausing for effect, “just before he tried to
do the same to me.”

She whirled toward me. “Are you okay?”

I gave her a lopsided grin. “I still have the same number of holes in me
that I had this morning. But having someone shoot at you clears the mind, you
know. And it got me to thinking. Who else might want Rosenblatt and the
information he has?”

I let the question linger in the silence.

“Which leads me to another question: what exactly does he have?”

She inhaled deeply and slowly blew out the smoke. Holding the cigarette
near her ear, she studied me. Having been in staring contests with defense
attorneys in courtroom settings, I could hold my own in that regard. Lillian
Saxton could easily have won that battle as well, so I did my best to remain
stoic. I almost failed.

“I hired him.”

“To do what?”

Another inhale and exhale. “To find my brother, Samuel.”

I raised an eyebrow. “And where is your brother?”

“If I knew that,” she snapped, “I wouldn’t have hired Wendell.”

The use of Rosenblatt’s first name gave me some new context. “You know
what I mean. The manifest listed Barcelona as the ship’s departure port. Your
brother is missing in Europe?” The image of the war over there sent my
imagination racing.

“Yes. Wendell sent me a wire saying he had found out new information on
Samuel’s whereabouts. He told me it was unsafe to let me know, even over the
phone, so he was going to deliver the information personally.”

I sat up. “And what were you planning on doing with the information?”

She looked at me as if I were from Mars. “Get him out.”

“Of?”

“Germany.”

Whole realms of possibilities opened up in my mind. I had the distinct
feeling you get when you jump off a high dive and plunge into twelve feet of
water. What had I gotten myself into?

A knock sounded at the door.

Our eyes met. Hers filled with concern, mine probably showed defense.

“Expecting anyone?” I whispered.

She shook her head.

The knock sounded again, louder and more insistent.