Wading Into War: A Benjamin Wade Mystery Read online

  Wading Into War

  A Benjamin Wade Mystery

  By

  Scott Dennis Parker

  Quadrant Fiction Studio

  Houston

  2015

  Wading Into War

  A Benjamin Wade Mystery

  By Scott Dennis Parker

  Copyright © 2015 by Scott Dennis Parker

  A Quadrant Fiction Studio Book

  (QFS-001)

  Cover Design by

  Scott Dennis Parker and Ike Eichenlaub

  www.quadrantfictionstudio.com

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the Publisher or Author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  To God who gave me the talent,

  My parents who always believe in me,

  And my wife and son who always encourage me.

  Table of Contents

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Acknowledgements

  Other Books by Scott Dennis Parker

  Coming Soon: Lillian Saxton #1

  Triple Action Western

  Anthologies

  Reader Response

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Monday, April 22, 1940

  Even though I was new to this private eye gig, I knew something wasn’t right when I walked up the sidewalk to the front door of 518 Oak Street. It was definitely the house I wanted. The case had taken me that far.

  What worried me was the silence.

  It was the day after San Jacinto Day here in Houston. It was funny celebrating the anniversary of the victory that won Texas its independence while the Nazis were invading Norway. Everyone thought France might be next. We weren’t at war yet, jobs had returned to the city and lots of guys were working. That included me after my stint with the police and my subsequent enforced vacation.

  No, what bothered me was the quiet. This was a neighborhood of bungalow houses. Families lived here, families with the husband off working and the mothers staying home with the children. The Depression might have subdued the job market, but it didn’t subdue the baby making market. I stood there, sun blazing through my hat, and looked up and down the street. Nothing. No one was out playing in the yard, walking the dog, or planting daffodils in the front flower beds. That’s what people did when they weren’t working. But that wasn’t happening on Oak Street.

  Strange. As I looked up at the house, a nice bungalow with tan bricks and a small porch, something in my gut turned over. That kind of feeling had served me well back when I wore a badge, so I listened to it. Still, the leads I had uncovered pointed in this direction. It’s what Lillian Saxton had hired me to do: find Wendell Rosenblatt. He was a journalist who had gone missing a few days after he arrived here in Houston following a stint in Europe covering the war.

  This was the kind of job I did: find people. I did the same thing when I wore the badge. I just found it easier with the power of the people behind me. Flying solo as a gumshoe brought with it an uncertainty, one that kept me on edge most of the time. It made me wary, more wary than when I wore the blue uniform.

  I stepped up on the porch and listened. Still that strange quiet. Nothing, not even from inside the house. It needed a paint job. Houston’s heat and humidity can do a number on exteriors. Mine needed more than just paint.

  I rapped my knuckles on the door. Instead of hearing footsteps, I heard something I didn’t really expect: gunfire. Bullets slammed the door with dull thuds that splintered the wood. The thick door saved me. Had it been a thin one, like the ones on my house, I would have been thrown back onto the lawn with new holes letting the sun shine into my guts. As it happened, I had time to duck and roll forward. I thought I had done alright, until the bullets smashed the windows right above me and shards of glass rained down. Keeping my head down, I scooted forward to the edge of the porch. Thankfully, the little white railing that fronted the porch didn’t extend to the side or else I’d have been trapped.

  I slid off the porch and down the short cement steps, landing on the broken driveway. I won’t kid you: I was scared to death. My heart was pounding in my chest and I had to use the house as support while I tried to catch my breath. There wasn’t a car under the carport and the side-sliding garage doors were closed.

  My ears still rang from the gunshots. It took me a moment to realize the shooting had stopped. Glancing down the street, I still expected to see people coming out of front doors or peering out from behind curtains. No one emerged from any house, but I saw some blinds open. Good. There were witnesses. Always good to have witnesses when the cops show up and start asking the gumshoe pointed questions.

  As a rule, I don’t pack my gun when I’m doing footwork. I find it best to talk first, let the fists fly second, and lastly, bring out the iron if all else fails. My revolver was in the glove compartment of my car, but I was damn sure not going to run across the open lawn to try to get it. Doing so would put me in the firing sights of the shooter. It might even let him get away.

  There was a part of me that just wanted to hunker down where I was, let the shooter retreat and leave me alone. I’d tell Miss Saxton “No, I couldn’t find Mr. Rosenblatt at the address given to me by the snitch, thank you very much.” I’d just been shot at, so I considered adding to the list of expenses I’d provide her at the end of the case.

  But the itch inside my head turned me around. I wasn’t yellow, that was for damn sure. I preferred my fights to be as even as possible. I’d lost my share to my cocky mouth, so I had learned to tone it down a bit. Best practices and all. Getting shot at, however, did something to a man, showed his true character. And, there I was, trembling like a little girl while the sounds of footsteps in the house moved to the back.

  From across the street, the blinds moved again and I caught a glimpse of white skin against a green dress. I couldn’t see the face, but the head was cocked in a way that told me the woman was on the phone. Damn. The police would be coming, sooner than I wanted them to. But I was sure not going to be the shrinking violet Mrs. Green Dress was most likely describing me as right now.

  Steeling myself, I got up on my haunches and scooted near the back door. Without my gun, I resorted to clutching the only thing I could find on short notice: the broom leaning against the side of the house. It was so light I knew it’d be nearly useless. You never bring a knife to a gun fight and you sure as hell don’t bring a broomstick. Unless you’re the Wicked Witch of the West and, well, we know how that one turned out.

  I peered around the back of the house. As with the front porch, there were three cement steps leading up to the back door. There were two large windows presumably from a breakfast room facing the back. I couldn’t risk moving under them for fear the shooter would spot me and have a clear shot. Above me was a small window, probably the one above the kitchen sink, judging by t
he sponge resting on the window sill. That left me in a quandary: where would the shooter exit the house? Out the front door risking the eyes of witnesses or out the back? A chain link fence enclosed the entire yard and the detached garage. In the driveway of the backdoor neighbor’s house I saw a black sedan. It faced the street, ready to drive away fast. My intuitive gut told me this was the shooter’s car.

  I needed to end the stand-off. Picking up a few pebbles from the ground, I threw them at the front porch. They rattled around, sounding like boulders in the tense quiet.

  The footsteps in the house moved quickly toward my position. The back door flew open and the shooter emerged. With the broomstick, I did the only thing possible: I stuck it out and tripped him.

  He flew through the air, arms flailing. Truth be told, he looked pretty funny. He landed face first on the gravel. The impact knocked his hat askew but, surprisingly, he kept a grip on the gun. I sobered up when sunlight glinted off the polished metal of his gun, the barrel aimed directly at my heart.

  Chapter Two

  With reflexes that surprised us both, I kicked his hand and the gun skittered across the driveway. Grinning, I brandished the broom for another thrust.

  But the shooter scissor-kicked and knocked my legs out from under me. I landed on my backside. A small sliver of pain seared through my body. My grip on the broom was lost.

  He stood and looked at me. There was a scrape across his left cheek, a strawberry-looking wound that was seeping blood. He smiled at me with only half his mouth. The other half remained a grim line. He reached down and pulled his fedora across his forehead, putting his dark eyes in shadow. He gave me a half-cocked smirk.

  I knew exactly what was coming, but the shock of the fall on my ass had stymied me. The punch didn’t come, however. Instead, the shooter just turned, picked up his gun, and ran. He vaulted the fence with the grace of Jesse Owens. Sure enough, he plunged into the sedan and fired up the engine. He didn’t peel out, but he didn’t drive slow either. In the distance, I heard the sirens. I didn’t have much time.

  I got my legs under me, weak as they were, and staggered to the back steps. I dragged myself up the stairs and burst into the house. I cursed the shooter for having been here first since I wouldn’t have a chance to search the house before the cops came and locked me out.

  The interior of the home was tossed. The kitchen was mostly spared, but not the breakfast room or the living room. Papers were strewn everywhere. Drawers were out of cabinets and cushions were piled haphazardly across the floor.

  With the adrenaline rapidly evaporating, my legs nearly gave out on me. I reached out to steady myself on one of the kitchen counters. My hand struck a small wooden box. Stamps, a letter opener, various receipts, and other paraphernalia rained to the floor. I shook my head to clear it and moved farther into the house.

  The more I noticed the condition of the house, the more I came to understand that whoever the shooter was, he was looking for the same thing I was: Wendell Rosenblatt and the material he had brought back with him—allegedly—from Europe. Miss Saxton had told me it was an urgent but personal matter when I inquired why she hadn’t contacted the FBI to find Rosenblatt. I had shrugged and taken her money. It was a job, and a lucrative one if Miss Saxton’s ease with money and the upfront payment was any indication.

  The smell of gunpowder filled the house, the air thick with its scent. Making my way to the front room, I froze. On the floor was a body, slumped and crumpled. The blood was oozing into a growing puddle, the red staining one of the divan cushions.

  I stepped over the body and knelt down. I put my fingers on the neck to check for a pulse. Nothing. Turning the head, I got a good look. Sure enough, the face matched the photograph Miss Saxton had given me. It was Wendell Rosenblatt.

  “Freeze, mister!”

  I moved nary a muscle. I cursed myself for forgetting the police, but the sight of a dead body did something to me. I raised my hands but stayed crouched over the body despite the ache in my legs and backside.

  Angling my head, I saw a uniformed cop who had entered through the back door. His gun was trained on my back, his hands steady. Mine were not. Out the front windows, two squad cars rolled to a halt, more officers pouring out with their hands on their guns.

  I closed my eyes in grim expectation. As I was forced to the floor and handcuffed, I knew this wasn’t going to be easy.

  Chapter Three

  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 ‘eve
rything’?”

  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.

  Chapter Four

  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.”