The Shut Mouth Society (5 page)

“
It means nothing to those who use the epithet politically, and it means everything to real racists.”

After a moment she asked, “How is Douglass received in Santa Barbara?”

Evarts laughed. “Just fine. In the insular Santa Barbara social circles, his enormous wealth counts for more than his black skin.”

Chapter 4

Most tourists can’t find the Southern California the movies promise. Luckily, they don’t venture as far north as Santa Barbara, or Evarts’s favorite coastal town would be polluted with checkered shorts and black socks. Sandwiched between the Pacific Ocean and the Santa Ynez Mountains, a twenty-five-mile stretch of relatively unspoiled California coastline separated Santa Barbara from Ventura, the largest town to the south, and no big city loomed from the north for nearly a hundred miles. Less than a two-hour drive from Los Angeles, Santa Barbara’s geography and no-growth temperament protected it from the kind of sprawl that cluttered the coastline between San Diego and Los Angeles.

Evarts had grown up in Santa Barbara, but he didn’t live there now. The city had become too expensive. Real estate in the city that old-timers called the American Riviera had always been outrageous, but recently prices had gone beyond absurd. The median home price had escalated to over a million dollars, with even small California bungalows a mile from the ocean going for seven figures.

He had dropped Baldwin off at the UCSB Guest House to get situated. Douglass had promised to send his driver to pick her up for dinner at his home later that evening. Evarts decided to drive directly there so he could talk to Douglass before her arrival.

He knew he ought to stop at the police station, but he picked up his cell phone instead. His department consisted of eighteen detectives under the direction of himself and a lieutenant. In short order, Evarts found out that nothing significant had happened that day.

Property crimes demanded most of his resources, and catching the Rock Burglar presented his biggest challenge. The nickname was a misnomer because his department felt confident that a gang committed these crimes, not an individual. The criminals carefully cased a neighborhood, learned the routine of the residents, and then threw a rock through a window when the owners were away. In less than five minutes, the gang swooped up everything of value and disappeared before the police responded to the alarm. Worse, they would commit a couple of burglaries and then move to another prosperous city, only to return to Santa Barbara after the residents had again become complacent. This had been going on for nearly eight years, and despite cooperative investigations between various police forces, the gang had not only eluded capture, but had left no forensic evidence that pointed in a consistent direction.

By the time Evarts got off the phone, he had approached the busy commercial district. Santa Barbara advertised Old Town as the most beautiful downtown in America, but Evarts thought Carmel and a few other cities might challenge that claim. Despite the exaggeration, Old Town, with its Spanish architecture, abundant sidewalk cafés, curio shops, fine restaurants, and countless coffeehouses, exuded the charm and relaxed atmosphere of a Mediterranean coastal village.

Like all the truly wealthy in town, Douglass lived high up a secluded canyon in the foothills of the Santa Ynez Mountains. Evarts drove the serpentine road carefully and then pulled onto a gravel path facing a wrought-iron gate. He pushed the call button on the security box, and the gate opened without an inquiring voice over the squawk box. Evarts had examined the Douglass security system and knew that a camera showed his face on a monitor inside the house. After passing through the gate, he drove along a private road that followed a ridgeline until he reached the house that had been built on the apex of an outcropping.

Although the white stucco house had a red tile roof, it veered from the contemporary architecture that realtors called the Santa Barbara style. The flat facade, crushed rock driveway, and minimalist landscaping gave the impression of an ordinary house, but this unpretentious entrance disguised an exquisitely decorated, rambling single-story home of over eight thousand square feet. From the driveway, the house also blocked the panoramic view of the California coastline that could be seen from the patio on the far side of the traditional Spanish hacienda.

Douglass’s manservant opened the door before Evarts rang the chimes. Evarts nodded to the familiar face. “Hi, Pete.”

Without preamble, Peter said, “Mr. Douglass is on the back patio.”

“
Thank you.” Evarts walked about twenty feet through the antique furnished foyer and out a set of double doors. The hacienda was built in a square around a huge tiled courtyard. Mexican-style furniture had been arranged into four sitting areas that surrounded a bubbling fountain in the center. He had attended charity functions where over a hundred people had comfortably sipped cocktails in this central square, but it wasn’t his destination today. He traversed the length of the courtyard and entered the house again through an identical set of double doors. They led to an enormous common room that could hold another hundred people for Douglass charity events. As he walked through the great hall, Evarts saw that all of the atrium doors lining the back of the house stood open, making the room feel more like an extension of the rear patio than part of the house.

Evarts picked one of the twelve doors and stepped out onto the patio. For first-time visitors, the grandeur of the view came as a surprise and a treat. Douglass had had the patio designed so that the ground seemed to disappear at the edge of the tiled surface. A person walking through one of these doors had the impression of being cantilevered over some of the most beautiful coastline in California. This was Abraham Douglass’s favorite spot in the world, and the two of them often spent the evening sipping scotch whiskey and watching the sun slowly sink into the Pacific Ocean.

“
Good evening, Mr. Douglass,” Evarts said to the man’s back.

Douglass turned with his evening scotch already in hand. “Mr. Douglass? What’s got your dander up?”

“
I think you know.” Evarts took his usual seat in the chair on the opposite side of a glass-top table. He noticed the backgammon game was nowhere in sight.

“
Peter, can you get
Mr.
Evarts the usual?”

Douglass, of course, meant a glass of Macallan’s, neat. “No thank you, Pete. Not just yet. I have official business first.”

Douglass turned toward the sunset and took a shallow sip of his scotch. Abraham Douglass kept his craggy face clean-shaven and his gray hair cropped so close that his black skull showed through. Evarts knew Douglass was seventy-three, because he attended his gala birthday parties each year. An exceptionally handsome man, Douglass wore Hollywood-style attire from the forties, which made him look like a gracefully aging movie star.

In truth, he had made his fortune in Southern California’s other great industry. When John F. Kennedy set the country’s sights on the moon, the Los Angeles area had already become the aerospace center of the country. Northrop, North American, Douglas Aircraft, Lockheed, TRW, Hughes, and others had bustling factories that contributed far more to the local economy than the entertainment industry. Douglass had had the foresight to understand that these factories would need millions upon millions of fasteners certified to stringent government specifications. His Aerospace Supply Company provided all these companies with explosive bolts, rivets, screws, and esoteric single-use fasteners that cost more than the outrageously priced hammer of Apollo fame. Douglass built a highly profitable business, but his huge wealth came from selling his company at the height of the eighties acquisition and merger craze.

“
I presume you have questions,” Douglass said.

“
A few. Where did you get the Lincoln document? Who’d you buy it from, and how did they make contact with you? Why did you have Baldwin hide the copy from me? How can this document endanger her? Why did you include that page of code? And finally, has there actually been a crime committed, or are you using me to run errands?” Evarts paused. “You may answer in any sequence you choose.” He said this last with a bit of an edge.

Douglass seemed amused. “Is this the way you normally grill suspects?”

“
Damn it. Is everyone going to answer my questions with questions today?” Evarts turned toward the rear door. “Pete, on second thought, I’ll take that scotch now.” Evarts’s irritation grew because Douglass wore an enigmatic smile that said he found his friend’s annoyance amusing.

Douglass waited until Evarts had been served. “You called it the Lincoln document. I take it you believe it genuine.”

“
Abe, you’re too damn smart to get scammed, and fake documents don’t raise a warning to third parties. My bet is that Baldwin will prove this document real.”

“
Probably not, but she won’t prove it fake. Harder to prove the positive.”

“
Did you use me just to get her up here?”

Douglass took a deep breath. “Yes. But it’s bigger than that. Much bigger. I’ll explain everything when she gets here.”

“
I can wait a few minutes, but tell me now why you had her hide the document from me.”

“
Greg, I couldn’t trust your chivalrous nature. If someone threatened Professor Baldwin in your presence, you would disclose the location of the document in a heartbeat. Now the decision will be hers alone.”

“
What about the encrypted page? I’d like to take a crack at that code.”

“
Use your own copy.”

Evarts stopped. “How do you know I have one?”

“
You might not care about the Cooper Union notes, but you could never resist that encryption.” Douglass chuckled. “I knew you’d make a copy for yourself before you drove down to UCLA.”

“
You used a priceless Lincoln document as bait? For what?” Evarts took a sip of his drink and set the heavy crystal glass down hard enough that the glass tabletop rattled. “Abe, why? You’ve never been devious with me before.”

“
Ah, but I wish that were true.” Douglass held up the flat of his hand to signal that he wouldn’t explain. “Please be kind enough to wait until Professor Baldwin arrives.”

Evarts took a deep breath and picked up his drink. “Are you getting me involved in something illegal?”

“
An outrage, yes, but illegal … no, I don’t think so.”

“
That doesn’t sound reassuring.” Evarts thought about leaving but decided against it. He knew and trusted Douglass, so he would wait to hear the explanation. “No backgammon this evening?”

“
I thought you’d be more interested in spending the evening with an attractive woman.”

“
Professor Baldwin doesn’t like me, and I think she hates you.”

Douglass laughed. “That ought to make for an interesting evening.”

Evarts remembered the notation he made during Baldwin’s lecture. “Abe, are you a descendant of Frederick Douglass?”

“
Yes, I’m a direct descendant. That’s why I donated some of his papers to UCSB.” Douglass took on that enigmatic smile again. “I’m surprised you haven’t asked that question before now.”

“
Never occurred to me. I don’t care about people’s ancestry.”

“
Ah, but you should. Family’s important. You ought to look into your own genealogy.”

Evarts finished his drink. “What the hell for? I know my parents. They’re good people. Anything beyond that is useless trivia.”

Chapter 5

Professor Baldwin arrived in less than an hour. She had on the same casual slacks, but now she wore a green raw-silk blouse that accented her eyes. She also wore a frosty demeanor that made their little social gathering a bit scratchy.

The first words out of her mouth set the tone. “Good evening, Abe. Can I look at the originals of that document?”

“
Patricia, my dear, relax a moment first. I’ve taken the liberty of ordering you a nice port.”

“
I didn’t come here to socialize.” She didn’t take a seat or acknowledge Evarts’s presence.

“
But it would be polite. Please, humor an old man. After all, you’re about to examine a singular piece of antebellum history. One worthy of a learned dissertation by a preeminent Lincoln scholar.”

“
Flattery? I thought that beneath you.”

Douglass chortled, as if privy to an inside joke. “In truth, very little is beneath me.”

“
If you think I’m a preeminent Lincoln scholar, why did you ravage my last book?”

“
Because your premise was wrong, my dear,” Douglass said with a cheery lilt.

Exasperated, Baldwin slipped into the open chair. She picked up the glass of port and sniffed without tasting. “My, you pulled out one of your best bottles.”

“
A celebration. It’s not every day that a new Lincoln document surfaces.”