He felt energized despite the hour. There were more songs repeated than not, so he made a list of the unique songs and decided to listen to them each again. By 5:00 a.m, he had pages and pages of notes but no pattern. He played ‘Miami 2017’ one more time.
Henry went to bed and slept restlessly. He wasn’t any closer to solving either murder. It would be a short night.
CHAPTER FORTY FIVE
The phone was deafening. Henry had been asleep for two hours; it was 7:00 a.m.; and he had planned on getting at least another hour even if it meant a dirty look from Celine and Buttons when he was late. Henry got out of bed and lumbered towards the phone. He fumbled for the receiver and put it to his ear as his eyes tried to go back to sleep. He grunted something unintelligible.
“Henry, this is Mike. I was rolling into work and heard something interesting on the radio. I think you might want to come down and check it out.”
“What is it?”
“A body, but that isn’t the interesting part. It isn’t my case, but I know the guy in charge. I'm sure he'll let you take a look.”
“Let me get something to write with.” Henry opened a drawer and dug out a pencil and flipped over an envelope. “Go ahead.”
Mike gave him the address and told him to hurry. Henry begrudgingly said he would and hung up. He found some trousers, put them on, then stood in the bathroom and splashed some water on his face. He was in a foul mood. Immediately the song “Angry Young Man” started playing in his head. He wasn’t sure, but it might have been playing in his dreams, too.
The morning light smacked him in the face as he left the house. His body ached with fatigue. It occurred to Henry that he was doing pretty well financially and didn’t need the money from this case. He fired the engine up and pulled away from the curb. He thought about his late mentor Mickey and how he had dreamed about sailing off to islands and drinks with umbrellas. Maybe it was a case like this one that had planted the seed to get out. He wasn’t sure. He missed Mickey.
The cars were filled with people who looked no more excited to start their day than Henry. He thought he knew the address Mike had given him but wasn’t sure of the best way to get there. The route he chose turned out to be fine, and he made reasonable time. The radio tried playing some music, but he turned it off. He wanted to let the songs from the future continue to bang around his mind.
When he got to the crime scene, he parked, got out of his car, and stepped in a puddle. The streets were wet and now his left foot made a sloshing sound when he walked. Damn, I need some coffee, he thought. At least Mike was easy to spot.
“Henry, you look, well, like crap.” Mike took a sip from a cup of coffee. The comment made Henry want to sock him, but he didn’t.
“What’s going on, Mike?”
“Henry, this is Detective Jim Finch.”
Jim had a cup of coffee, too. He put it in his other hand to shake Henry’s. “I heard about the job you did finding Mickey’s killer. You're alright in my book.”
“Thanks.” Henry said, trying to muster a smile. The aroma from their cups was painful.
“This guy was found about two hours ago. The people who tried to dispose of the body got unlucky. They tried to put the car in drive so that it would roll into the river. The problem is that this spot has had its fair share of crap dumped here, and there is quite a pile, about four feet down. The car didn’t sink all the way.”
“Who found it?”
“A guy trying to dump his garbage. He saw the car and the body and decided to do the right thing and call. No small miracle if you ask me. So we towed the car out just as Mike showed up.”
Henry was trying to be polite, but he really wanted him to get to the punch line. “So what’s so interesting that you called Mike?”
Jim replied with a question. “Hey, you want a cup of coffee?”
Henry didn’t have time to answer. Jim was yelling for a rookie to go get one. Jim had a new friend. Henry just said, “Thanks. I need one.”
“No problem; if we don’t give the rookies something to do, they become unbearable.”
Mike said, “They took the guy out of the car; he had been shot in the back of the head. It looks like an execution.” He took a sip of coffee.
“Who is he?”
Jim continued, “The car is registered to a guy named John Fleming, but we don’t know if that is him or not. The wallet was gone and there wasn’t anything in the glove box or trunk.”
Mike explained, “But we did find this under the seat. The guys who pushed him in the river must not have noticed it.” He handed a leather notebook to Henry. It was still very wet.
“It’s some sort of appointment book. It’s evidence, so I need it back, but you're welcome to look through it. Mike says that you're looking into the Daniel Kupton suicide?” Jim asked.
Henry nodded, “Yep, there are some things that don’t add up.”
Jim said, “It looks fairly new as the appointments only go back about six weeks, but his name is in there quite a few times.”
Henry opened the book and set it on the hood of a patrol car. He took out his notebook and started to write down names, dates, and times. On the third page was the name Martin Van Sythe. This, combined with the cup of coffee he had been handed, made him feel better. It didn’t take more than five minutes to get the important details, then he gave the book back to Jim. “May I see the body?”
The coroner was just about to slide it into his car. He unzipped the bag. It wasn’t pretty. “What do you think, doc?”
“It looks like he was shot from behind at very close range. I would guess the gun was only a couple of inches from his skull.”
“Any idea what type of gun?”
“I would guess a smaller caliber based on the damage, but it’s really hard to say. We don’t have a shell casing or bullet, so I can’t say definitively.” He zipped the bag closed.
Henry handed his card to Jim and asked, “You do me a favor?”
“Sure, what is it?”
“If any Feds start snooping around this case, you’ll give me a call?”
“Feds, really? You know who is behind this?”
“Not a clue, but my gut tells me that there is something going on, and I think this guy was in the middle of it. There is one name in that book that might be worth starting with. I talked to him yesterday, and he seemed dirty to me.”
“Which name?” Jim now had his notebook out.
“Martin Van Sythe.”
Jim wrote it down, shook Henry’s hand, and handed Henry his card.
“Listen, Jim, I appreciate you letting me take a look at your crime scene. If I get anything, I’ll give you a ring.”
Henry thanked Mike and Jim and went back to his car. The coffee wasn’t as good as the stuff Celine made at the office, but it was passable. He was less angry now, and the song in his head had changed to ‘Captain Jack,’ which seemed odd as he hadn’t especially cared for that one.
CHAPTER FORTY SIX
Henry made it to the office and paused outside the door. He looked at his watch. It was well past nine. He had one cup of coffee in him but needed another desperately. He took a deep breath, hoping to smell a pot brewing, then turned the handle. It was locked.
Henry got his key out and went inside. Celine wasn’t there nor was Buttons. If she had run an errand, she would have left the cat there and work would be on her desk. Every night, the desk was cleaned and, as soon as she arrived, she arranged her work files neatly and made coffee. She was, at her core, efficient. She was also punctual. He checked his watch again, but it was right.
Henry walked down to Bobby’s office and knocked. Bobby was always around. It was strange, too, how he seemed to know when Henry was coming. He knocked again. Nothing. No running little feet, no strange shuffling sounds, just silence. Henry went back to the office, took off his hat, and started a pot of coffee.
Once it was going, he picked up the phone receiver. His finger hovered over the dial. What is her number? Damn. She was always here first. Henry went out to look in the files. She had organized them in a manner that would make a librarian jealous. She had cobbled together files of Henry’s old cases as the original files had been mostly destroyed in the fire in January. There were also files from his days with Mickey. If Henry wanted something, she could put her fingers on it in an instant. Henry, however, could not.
After opening a few drawers, he realized her system was alphabetical. Would she really have a personal file for herself? He went to the “S” drawer and opened it. There it was, Celine Spinoza, in red letters at the top of the file while all the other words were in blue. Inside the folder was her number and address. Henry went to her desk and dialed.
It rang four times, then a weary voice said, “Hello...”
“Celine, are you okay?”
“Henry, is that you?”
“Yes, where are you?”
Even tired she had her wits about her. “Where are you?”
“I’m at the office.” Henry said, almost annoyed.
“I have one more question then.”
“Okay, what’s that?”
“What day of the week do you think it is?”
“It’s…” Henry was quiet for a while. The Dodger’s game was on Wednesday, which was yesterday. No, that wasn’t right. It was... “…sorry to have disturbed you. See you Monday.”
Still groggy, but having fun, she asked, “And when would Monday be?”
Henry sighed in defeat. “The day after tomorrow. Say ‘Hi’ to Buttons for me.”
“I will but not right now; he is still sleeping.”
“Sorry I woke you.”
“Don’t you worry about it, boss. Try not to mess up my files this weekend.” She hung up the phone.
Henry went and poured himself a cup of coffee. Where had the week gone? As he drank it, he thought about the Dodgers and realized he hadn’t picked up a paper. He set the half-full cup down and went down to the newsstand a few blocks away. The air was cool; he felt awake.
Why had John Fleming, if that was him, been killed? He took out his notebook and added to his list: Follow up and find out if it really was John Fleming’s body. He assumed it was. If so, who had killed him? Was it the same people who had killed Daniel? His gut told him that Jack Abrahms knew how Daniel had died, maybe had something to do with it. He didn’t know where he was and wasn’t sure how to look into someone who was keeping an eye on him. Bobby might be able to find something out.
On the walk back, with the folded paper under his arm, he wondered about all the people in the appointment book. That was where he would start today. He needed to figure out who they were, how they knew Daniel, and where he could find each of them. Again, this seemed like a job for Bobby, but he wasn’t around.
Henry walked back into the office and sat down at his desk. First things first, he checked the box score. Loes pitched a complete game, gave up six hits, allowed three runs, walked four, and struck out two. Duke Snider had three RBIs, Gil Hodges had one, and Furillo had two. They beat the NY Giants 6-3. Henry spent a few more minutes reading the sports, then took out a legal pad and started to copy the names from his notebook to the pad.
Henry looked them up in the phone book, starting with John Fleming. There was one, but the address didn’t seem right. The car had been too nice for that neighborhood. Henry called it anyway and found that John Fleming was home and didn’t own a car. None of the other names could be found. The cup of coffee was gone now. He considered another but decided to turn off the coffee pot and head down to the library. He needed to see the latest copy of Who’s Who.
Henry knew it would be a good place to start; Who’s Who, founded in 1899 by Albert Nelson Marquis, contained informative biographies of important people. He was sure Daniel would be listed and perhaps his associates also. If not, at least he would get to see his favorite librarian.
CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN
Dewey and Gilbert walked along 5th Avenue. Dewey had a newspaper under his arm while Gilbert carried a copy of Fathers and Sons by Turgenev. They weren’t talking.
Thirty minutes earlier his office had been a symphony of yelling with Jack berating the team who had tailed John Fleming the night before. The night had been a disaster. The team had learned that their subjects were to meet somewhere. All the intelligence pointed to it being something big, but the theories about what ‘it’ might be were all over the map. The team had followed him before and knew his driving patterns. Tailing him should have been easy, but what they didn’t know were the driving patterns of the Armenian taxi driver who broadsided them. Both agents were in the hospital. None of the other analysts or agents was at fault, and Jack knew it, but he railed on them nonetheless.
Both Gilbert and Dewey had been unable to do any serious planning back at the office and decided to take one of their famous walks. The secretaries knew that when they said they were going to the park they would be gone for hours and unavailable. They didn’t always go to the park, but today they ended up at a park bench. They each read for fifteen minutes or so. Dewey, still reading, said, “Jack was really letting them have it.”
“He is a menace. I don’t know what you see in him. You know why he is really mad?”