Authors: Philip Chen
The quiet refinement of the Brentwood home contrasted sharply with the sprawling urban decay occurring just outside her white-enameled door.
Over the mantel hung a Gainsborough print in a heavy gilt frame. Various color photographs in gold metal frames sat on the mantle, detailing a rich and happy life with plenty of children and grandchildren. On one side of the mantle sat a larger black and white photograph of an attractive brunette woman in a long white wedding gown and a ramrod straight young Navy ensign in white summer dress uniform. From the cut of the wedding gown, Mike guessed that the photograph was probably taken in the forties. A finely crafted wooden model of a square-rigged sailing ship sat on a heavily varnished stand.
Mrs. Brentwood noticed Mike's interest in the model ship. "My dear departed Clarence made that model."
"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have been staring," said Mike. "It's quite nice. You sure don't find that kind of craftsmanship anymore."
"Clarence would have been happy to hear you say that, Mr. Liu. Clarence served in the Navy, you know."
"Really, where?" said Mike.
"Mostly in the Pacific during World War Two. He commanded several destroyer escorts. Retired right after the war and went into the retailing business. He's been gone more than ten years. Would you two like some tea?"
"Please don't make a fuss over us," said Mike.
"Oh, it's no fuss. I seldom get two handsome gentlemen callers these days."
Mrs. Brentwood came back and poured tea from a bone china tea pot into equally delicate bone china cups and saucers. Then she sat down demurely in the wing chair.
"Now, Mr. Adams. How can I help you?" she said in a soft voice, as her light gray-blue eyes focused on Adams.
"We're investigating a matter that may involve one of your house guests, John Trent. Does he live here?"
"Why, yes. That nice Mr. Trent stays in Clarence's old study, which I remodeled into a bedroom. After Clarence died, I felt like a marble rolling around in an empty box. The kids suggested that I take in boarders and I usually have two. A nice young lady lives upstairs in one of the spare bedrooms. Are you married, Mr. Liu?" inquired Mrs. Brentwood as she noticed Mike's bare ring finger.
"No, I'm not, Mrs. Brentwood. Is Mr. Trent here?"
"That's the funny thing. He left for work several days ago and hasn't returned. He sometimes leaves for short trips. This is the first time he hasn't let me know when he planned to return."
"Can we see his room?"
"I suppose it's okay, as long as you don't touch anything."
Except for the high quality furniture in the small room, the room was devoid of personality. There were no photographs, books, or other artifacts of human existence. The closet contained one suit, several shirts and two pants -- but nothing else. The bed was neatly made, but both Mike and Adams assumed that the efficient Mrs. Brentwood had probably taken care of that. The room looked as if Trent were camping out.
"Mrs. Brentwood, does Mr. Trent have any friends?" said Adams.
"Not that I know of."
"How did he happen to come to you?"
"He answered an advertisement in our local community shopping newspaper. He said he was from Canada. He's such a nice, quiet gentleman."
"Thank you, Mrs. Brentwood. If you happen to hear from Mr. Trent, could you give me a call?" said Adams. He handed her a calling card.
Mike and Adams bade farewell to Mrs. Brentwood and got into Adams' sedan. As they drove away, Adams asked Mike, "You were real quiet, what are you thinking?"
"I was thinking how sad that such a classy lady has to take in boarders like Trent. Damn Navy pensions are for shit."
"That guy Trent sure travels light."
"Yeah."
1993: Des Moines
1000 Hours: Monday, June 14, 1993: Des Moines, Iowa
"Excuse me, Mr. Clark, but there's a lady out here who wants to see you about Julie Davenport."
"I'll be right there, Mandy. Please have her wait."
Steve Clark, manager of Reedy Securities' branch office in Des Moines, was beginning to feel overburdened by the commotion caused by Davenport's death. Julie Davenport had been hired about two years ago to fill a vacancy left by Clark's long-time records clerk. Her credentials seemed to be good. She graduated from Grinnell College with excellent marks, after going back to school at a late age.
Although Julie never discussed her background and kept pretty much to herself, she had been highly regarded by her fellow workers. As usual, he had submitted her personal information to National Association of Securities Dealers prior to offering her a permanent position. Julie had just taken her Series 7 examination, which qualified her to be a stockbroker, and Clark had been training her to take over some accounts.
The entire office was upset about Julie's untimely death, but was puzzled why she had been in Washington, D.C. Clark had received an early morning telephone call from Julie saying that a personal problem had come up and could she have a couple of days off. The next thing Clark knew he was being interviewed by federal agents concerning Julie's tragic death.
Clark put on his suit jacket and walked out to the reception area. As he approached the area, he saw the pleasant looking, older lady in the summer silk dress and blue linen blazer. She wore white cotton gloves and sat on the reception area sofa, reading a copy of Newsweek.
He let himself through the low wooden gate. "Hello, I'm Steven Clark, the branch manager. Can I help you?"
"You must be that nice Mr. Clark that Julie wrote about in her letters to her Uncle Lars and me. I'm Julie's aunt, Mildred Lutsen, from Milwaukee, Wisconsin," said Mildred, looking up at Clark and extending her hand. Mildred often used her maiden name as an alias.
"I'm glad to meet you, Mrs. Lutsen. Please excuse my surprise; it's just that Julie never mentioned she had any relatives. But then she was very quiet and kept to herself. How can I help you?"
"Lars and I wanted to retrieve Julie's personal things, if it's okay with you," said Mildred, tears glistening in the corners of her eyes. "We were all she had after her mother and father died in that tragic snowmobile accident. She grew up with us, then went to Waterville, Iowa, as a secretary to an insurance agency and then went to school at Grinnell College. She was such a pretty girl with those beautiful blue eyes."
"Mrs. Lutsen, I'm so sorry about what happened to Julie. All of us were dumb-struck by her death, it was such a waste."
Mildred took out a handkerchief and started to cry softly. After a moment, she regained her composure and dried her eyes. In a soft voice Mildred asked if it would be okay to see Julie's personal belongings.
Clark said, "Sure."
Clark showed Mildred to the back of the building where a cardboard carton marked with Julie Davenport's name sat in an empty office.
"I'm afraid that the federal agents went through this stuff pretty thoroughly. But you're welcome to take whatever you want," said a sympathetic Clark.
"Thank you ever so much," responded Mildred. "Now I understand why Julie thought so highly of you."
Going through the odds and ends in the moving box; Mildred was impressed by the lack of any trail left by Julie Davenport. Nothing. No spoors; a vacuum. How unusual.
The box contained ordinary things like lipstick, a compact, some Band-Aids, birthday cards from her co-workers, matches from local restaurants, some business cards, hairpins, a little fuzzy white stuffed bear, Lipton tea bags, nail files, a set of NASD papers on taking the Series 7 tests, a Webster's Collegiate Dictionary, and a brown leatherette address book.
Why didn't the feds get this, thought Mildred, picking up the book.
Leafing through the address book, Mildred was again struck by the paucity of information. The book had mostly what seemed to be local telephone numbers. One number, however, seemed out of place. That number was for Walsh Auto Repair, a 612 area code telephone number. Mildred thought, why would Davenport have this number in Minnesota? Mildred quietly slipped the small brown leatherette address book into the pocket of her blue blazer.
Mildred softly knocked on the doorsill of Clark's office.
Clark looked up. "Is there anything else we can help you with, Mrs. Lutsen?"
"No, Mr. Clark. I just wanted to thank you for your kindness and for your kindness to our niece, Julie."
"Again, Mrs. Lutsen, I can't begin to express the sorrow that my staff and I have for your tragic loss."
Clark escorted Mildred to the reception area. As they went up the aisle of desks, several people got up to express their sympathy to Mildred, who thanked them. At the door, Clark watched Mildred slowly walk to the parking garage, thinking what a lucky person Julie Davenport was to have had such a caring aunt.
After leaving the Reedy Securities branch office, Mildred drove straight to the Normadie Arms Apartments, a small garden apartment complex on the outskirts of Des Moines. She parked her car and went up to the superintendent's apartment and rang the bell.
"Who's there?" demanded a gruff voice.
"This is Mildred Lutsen. I called this morning about my niece, Julie Davenport. I'd like to gather her belongings if it's convenient," said Mildred Swensen in her soft, grandmotherly voice.
The door to the apartment opened to reveal a portly lady in her late forties wearing a worn house dress and apron. The lady's stringy hair was pulled back into a bun. Her ruddy complexion interlaced with a spidery network of tiny blood vessels was evidence of a hard life spent on liquor.
"I'm the superintendent."
"Can I see my niece's apartment?"
"Not 'til someone pays her last month's rent," grumbled the portly woman.
"How much does she owe?" said Mildred. "I have some money."
"Deducting her security deposit, I reckon she owed me about one hundred fifty dollars."
Mildred took out her billfold and counted out $150 and handed over the amount. The disheveled woman took the money, went to a desk, and returned with some keys which she handed to Mildred.
"The apartment was rented furnished so don't take no furniture."
"Thank you," said Mildred as she turned to head toward Apartment Number 16A.
Approaching Apartment 16A, Mildred had an ominous feeling that something was not right. Her right hand slipped into her straw bag and grasped the small, seven-round Beretta Model 950 BS-4 given her by the CSAC Weapons Officer.
She unlocked the door with the key supplied by the superintendent. Mildred slowly opened the door to the darkened room. Hearing no sound, she entered and switched on the light to the small efficiency apartment.
The room was in disarray with a jumble of drawers thrown haphazardly about. The door to the closet was wide open. The few clothes that Julie Davenport had were strewn on the floor. Kitchen cabinets had been thoroughly searched. Davenport's toiletries were in a heap in the middle of the bathroom floor. Despite the jumbled mess, the apartment smelled distinctly of lavender.
Uffda, thought Mildred, after satisfying herself that whoever had wreaked havoc on Davenport's apartment was long gone.
Mildred went through the few possessions of Julie Davenport. She was amazed at the lack of personality in the room. It was almost as if Davenport had been camping out.
Maybe, thought Mildred, that is exactly what Julie Davenport was doing.
Gathering up a few dresses to lend credence to her cover, Mildred picked up the small apartment and returned the drawers to their rightful places. Mildred then returned the apartment key to the superintendent. Mildred told the woman that she could help herself to anything left in the room. Mildred walked slowly away from the office door.
The portly woman stood in the doorway and watched Mildred through beady eyes.
Mildred drove to the Des Moines Airport and boarded Northwest Flight 1092 to Minneapolis. Arriving at Minneapolis St. Paul Airport shortly after 5 p.m., Mildred went downstairs to the luggage area and headed to the Avis Rental Car counter. Using her maiden name of Lutsen, Mildred rented a Ford Taurus. She then went out the door, across the traffic lanes into the parking garage where she boarded the white trailer to the rental car dispatching area.
After finding her car, Mildred drove out of the parking garage and exited the airport going west on Route 5 toward Interstate 494. On Interstate 494, Mildred drove west until she saw the Thunderbird Hotel. The Thunderbird, with its Indian motif, was Mildred's favorite hotel in the Twin Cities. She always stayed there while in Minneapolis.
Once she was settled in her room at the Thunderbird, Mildred checked the Minneapolis and the St. Paul yellow pages on the chance that Walsh Auto Repair was in the metropolitan area. There it was, Walsh Auto Repair on Lake Street in Minneapolis.
"This is getting too easy," Mildred muttered to herself.
She would check out Walsh Auto Repair in the morning.
1930 Hours: Monday, June 14, 1993: Des Moines, Iowa
Steve Clark was working late at the branch office of Reedy Securities going over Julie Davenport's call records, trying to sort out what commitments needed to be attended to and which clients needed to be called about her death. Luckily, Julie had kept meticulous records, which facilitated Clark's task immensely. Like the others in the Reedy Securities office, Clark had come to appreciate the efficient but quiet Julie Davenport. Clark remembered that she was also quite attractive with the most beautiful blue eyes.
It was a thankless job, going through the calling cards and order tickets, but it had to be done. Clark had been at this task since mid-afternoon. One by one, his staff had poked their heads in his doorway to say good night. Soon Clark was by himself. He normally enjoyed evenings like this because he could take care of those tasks that always seemed to elude him during the work day.
This evening was different. The work was tedious and his mood was somber. The attractive Julie Davenport had caught his fancy. He had imagined that she was favorably impressed with him as well. After all, her aunt, Mrs. Lutsen, did say that Julie had written about him.